The Gospel You Cannot Revise

Childlike Reception and the Refusal to Please: A Reflection on Galatians 1:3-10 and Luke 10:19-21

Paul’s warning is stark: If any one is preaching to you a gospel contrary to that which you received, let him be accursed. Not “mistaken,” not “misguided”—accursed. And he doesn’t stop there: Even if we, or an angel from heaven, should preach to you a gospel contrary to that which we preached to you, let him be accursed. This isn’t the language of someone offering an opinion up for debate. This is someone insisting that reality has a structure you cannot revise to suit your preferences.

The Galatians are being pulled toward a “different gospel”—one that adds requirements, conditions, performances to the grace freely given in Christ. They’re being told that what they received wasn’t quite enough, that they need something more to be acceptable. And Paul’s response isn’t to offer a gentler version or find common ground. His response is to say: what you’re being offered isn’t another gospel; it’s no gospel at all. It’s a perversion, and those teaching it stand under divine judgment.

Meanwhile, in Luke’s passage, Christ tells His disciples something equally unsettling: Do not rejoice in this, that the spirits are subject to you; but rejoice that your names are written in heaven. The disciples have just returned from their mission, exhilarated that demons submitted to them in Christ’s name. They’ve experienced genuine spiritual authority—Christ confirms it by saying I have given you authority to tread upon serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy. This isn’t metaphor; this is real power over real evil. And yet Christ immediately redirects their joy. The power isn’t the point. Being known by God is the point.

What You’re Tempted to Add

Here’s the inner work these passages demand: What are you adding to the gospel because you’re afraid grace alone isn’t enough? And what power are you celebrating that distracts you from the simpler, deeper truth that you’re known and loved by God?

The “different gospel” the Galatians were hearing wasn’t obviously false. It didn’t deny Christ. It just added requirements—circumcision, dietary laws, calendar observances. It said: “Yes, Christ is necessary, but you also need to do these things to truly belong.” This is the gospel of addition, and it’s always more appealing than the gospel of grace because it gives you something to control, something to achieve, a way to prove you’re worthy.

But when you add to grace, you destroy it. Grace that requires performance isn’t grace—it’s wage. A gift that demands payment isn’t a gift—it’s a transaction. Paul sees this clearly: Christ gave himself for our sins to deliver us from the present evil age. The deliverance is complete. The gift is total. To say it needs supplementing is to say Christ’s self-giving wasn’t sufficient. And that’s not a variation of the gospel; that’s a denial of it.

The disciples’ temptation is subtler but related. They’ve been given genuine authority—Christ doesn’t take that back. But they’re rejoicing in the wrong thing. They’re celebrating their power over demons when they should be celebrating that their names are written in heaven. Power can make you feel significant. Being known by God makes you actually significant. The first is about what you can do; the second is about who you are. The first is achievement; the second is gift.

The Tyranny of Pleasing

Paul asks the crucial question: Am I now seeking the favor of men, or of God? Or am I trying to please men? Then he answers it: If I were still pleasing men, I should not be a servant of Christ. This isn’t about being needlessly offensive or refusing kindness. It’s about recognizing that you cannot serve two masters—you cannot simultaneously seek human approval and proclaim truth that offends human pride.

The gospel Paul preaches is inherently offensive to human self-sufficiency. It says you cannot save yourself, cannot earn your worth, cannot achieve your way to God. It insists that everything comes by grace, which means everything comes as gift, which means you contribute nothing but your receptivity. And this is intolerable to the part of you that desperately wants to prove you deserve love, that you’ve earned your place, that you’re good enough on your own terms.

So the temptation is always to revise the gospel into something more palatable. Make it about moral improvement, spiritual practices, doctrinal correctness, cultural conformity—anything that lets you feel like you’re accomplishing something, like you’re in control, like you deserve what you receive. But every revision that makes the gospel easier to swallow makes it less true. Because the truth is: you are loved not because you’re worthy but because God is good. You are saved not by what you do but by what Christ has done. Your name is written in heaven not because you earned that privilege but because you were given it.

Hidden From the Wise

Christ’s prayer reveals why this is so hard: I thank thee, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that thou hast hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to babes. The gospel remains hidden from those who approach it as something to master, analyze, improve upon. It reveals itself only to those who come as children—open-handed, receptive, willing to receive what they cannot earn.

This isn’t anti-intellectual; it’s anti-arrogance. The “wise and understanding” Christ speaks of aren’t people who think carefully—they’re people who think they have everything figured out, who approach God’s self-revelation as if it were raw data to be processed rather than gift to be received. They want to understand before they trust, to comprehend before they surrender, to evaluate the gospel as if they stood in judgment over it rather than the other way around.

But children don’t approach gifts that way. A child receives a gift with delight, without first calculating whether they deserve it, without checking if there’s a catch, without revising it to be more to their liking. The gospel comes the same way: as sheer gift, offered freely, requiring nothing but open hands to receive it.

This reveals reality’s cosmic structure: the universe is ordered toward gift, toward grace, toward divine love that gives without calculation. You are invited to participate in this reality by receiving it, not by earning it or revising it to match your preferences.

This is why Paul can be so absolute in his condemnation of the “different gospel.” It’s not that he’s being rigid or unwilling to accommodate other perspectives. It’s that the gospel isn’t a perspective—it’s the announcement of what God has actually done in Christ. You can accept it or reject it, but you cannot revise it. You can receive it as gift or refuse it as offense, but you cannot negotiate its terms. Christ gave himself for our sins to deliver us from the present evil age—that’s the announcement. The only question is whether you’ll receive it.

Authority Rightly Ordered

The disciples’ authority over evil spirits is real—Christ confirms it explicitly. But notice the order: I have given you authority. The authority is gift, not achievement. They didn’t earn it through spiritual advancement or prove themselves worthy of it. Christ gave it. And what’s given can be misunderstood, celebrated wrongly, turned into a source of pride rather than received with humility.

This connects to the ancient pattern of royal priesthood. From the beginning, humans were given genuine authority—dominion over creation, the capacity to name and order and cultivate. But that authority was always derivative, always for service, always meant to mediate divine presence rather than establish human glory. When Adam and Eve grasped at authority as if it were something to seize rather than receive, they lost the very thing they were trying to gain. Authority grasped becomes tyranny; authority received becomes service.

The First Temple pattern preserved this: priests had real authority, genuine power to mediate between heaven and earth. But the moment they began treating that authority as their own achievement, as something that made them superior, the whole system became corrupted. By the Second Temple period, much of the priesthood had become about status, privilege, control—authority twisted into self-service rather than divine service.

Christ restores the original pattern. He gives His disciples authority, but immediately redirects their joy: Do not rejoice in this, that the spirits are subject to you; but rejoice that your names are written in heaven. Your authority is real, but it’s not the point. Your identity as God’s beloved is the point. The power you’ve been given exists to serve that deeper reality, not to replace it.

This reveals God’s nature: divine power never coerces, never manipulates, never violates freedom. God gives authority as gift, invites you to participate, but respects your freedom absolutely—including your freedom to misunderstand the gift, to celebrate the wrong thing, to grasp at what should be received.

What You’re Invited to Receive

Paul’s repeated phrase let him be accursed shocks us. It sounds harsh, intolerant, opposed to the openness we value. But what Paul is protecting isn’t his own authority or a particular theological system—he’s protecting the announcement that has the power to save you. When you revise the gospel to make it more acceptable, more achievable, more under your control, you destroy the very thing that could liberate you.

Because here’s what the gospel actually announces: Christ gave himself for our sins to deliver us from the present evil age. Not “Christ gave Himself so you could try harder.” Not “Christ opened the way so you could prove yourself worthy.” Christ gave Himself. The gift is total. The deliverance is complete. Your only contribution is to stop trying to contribute and receive what’s freely offered.

This is why it’s hidden from the wise and revealed to babes. The wise want to add their understanding, their achievement, their worthiness to the equation. They want to say: “Yes, Christ did His part, but I must do mine.” But there is no ‘your part’ to do in receiving a gift except opening your hands. And the moment you think you’ve added something, you’ve rejected the gift in favor of a wage you imagine you’ve earned.

Christ’s joy in this moment is telling: In that same hour he rejoiced in the Holy Spirit and said, “I thank thee, Father.” He rejoices that the Father has structured reality this way—that the gospel comes not to those who deserve it or understand it or achieve it, but to those who receive it as children. This is divine wisdom: salvation comes by grace through faith, and even the faith is gift, so that no one can boast, so that everyone can receive.

Paul’s warning remains urgent: If any one is preaching to you a gospel contrary to that which you received, let him be accursed. Not because Paul is controlling, but because your life depends on receiving the true gospel. Any version that adds requirements destroys grace. Any version that makes your worthiness the question rather than God’s goodness distorts the truth. Any version that centers on your power rather than your belovedness misses the point entirely.

The gospel you cannot revise is this: Christ has done everything necessary. Your names are written in heaven not because you deserved that honor but because God is gracious. The authority you’ve been given exists to serve this deeper truth—that you are known, loved, and held by the One who made you. Receive it as a child. Add nothing. Let it be enough. Because it is.