Jesus Said, "Ye Are Gods." And Then Femi Said, eeeer " Professor Jesus"... Now big-man, You're "Blasting Femi'' Blaspheming.

 

Jesus Christ Said, "Ye Are Gods."  And Then Femi Said,  eeeer " Professor Jesus"... Now big-man, You're "Blasting Femi'' Blaspheming.

Jesus stood before humanity and declared,

"Is it not written in your law, 'I said, Ye are gods'?"

And somewhere in the back, I raised my hand.

"Excuse me, Rabbi...

Have you met us?"

Because I'm looking around and I'm struggling to find Olympus.

What I see is a species that can't return a shopping trolley without requiring moral encouragement.

You call these people gods?

One can't stop cheating on his wife.

Another can't stop cheating on his taxes.

Another can't stop cheating at golf.

We've got people who'll steal your wallet, pray over the stolen money, then thank God for providing.

Divine beings?

Jesus...

You're gambling with your credibility.

You looked at a species that produced dictators, genocides, serial killers, pyramid schemes, reality television, internet comment sections, spam calls, fake gurus, cult leaders, and parking tickets...

...and your conclusion was,

"Gods."

That's not theology.

That's optimism bordering on hallucination.

Look at us.

The only animal intelligent enough to split the atom...

...and stupid enough to ask whether pressing the red button is good for quarterly profits.

We poison rivers...

then sell bottled water.

We manufacture loneliness...

then invent social media.

We build hospitals...

and bomb them.

We write constitutions...

then spend centuries searching for loopholes.

We congratulate ourselves for abolishing slavery...

while discovering newer, more efficient versions with better branding.

We're extraordinary.

Not morally.

Commercially.

We're the only species capable of turning compassion into a subscription service.

We monetize meditation.

Patent seeds.

Trademark kindness.

Sell enlightenment by the weekend.

Package salvation in twelve easy installments.

The Devil himself must occasionally stop taking notes and ask,

"Who trained these people?"

Then we have the audacity to ask where evil comes from.

As though evil sneaks into the room through the window.

No.

It clocks in every morning wearing a tie.

It carries a briefcase.

It attends board meetings.

It files expense reports.

The greatest monsters rarely have fangs.

They have PowerPoint presentations.

Hell doesn't always smell like sulfur.

Sometimes it smells like expensive cologne.

Then there are the ordinary saints.

The woman who quietly feeds strangers.

The nurse working eighteen hours.

The father breaking his back so his children don't inherit his hunger.

The stranger who tells the truth when lying would have been profitable.

Funny, isn't it?

Nobody remembers them.

History has a strange addiction.

It photographs the arsonist.

It forgets the firefighter.

Perhaps that's why the newspapers always seem haunted.

Goodness whispers.

Evil owns a megaphone.

Still...

Jesus refuses to withdraw the statement.

"You are gods."

I keep objecting.

He keeps insisting.

And suddenly I realize the insult isn't his.

It's mine.

Because I wanted him to divide humanity neatly into angels and monsters.

The problem is...

every monster began as a child.

Every saint still contains the machinery of a monster.

Civilization isn't a wall separating good people from bad people.

It's a very thin sheet of glass separating everyone's better judgment from everyone's appetite.

Scratch it hard enough...

and Caesar starts talking through accountants.

Nero reincarnates as executives.

The village gossip becomes digital surveillance.

The medieval mob discovers Wi-Fi.

Technology doesn't create sin.

It gives it broadband.

Then comes the truly offensive possibility.

Maybe Jesus wasn't flattering humanity.

Maybe he was indicting it.

Because what is a god?

A being whose imagination alters reality.

Who creates worlds with words.

Who reshapes history by choice.

If that's the definition...

then every lie creates a world.

Every act of mercy creates another.

Every war begins as an idea.

Every civilization begins as one too.

Our thoughts become architecture.

Our beliefs become governments.

Our fears become prisons.

Our hopes become cathedrals.

We are not powerless.

That's the terrifying part.

Powerless creatures deserve pity.

Powerful creatures deserve responsibility.

So perhaps "Ye are gods" was never a medal.

It was a court summons.

It wasn't praise.

It was evidence.

Look what you've done with the power you were given.

You manufactured Auschwitz.

You composed Mozart.

You built orphanages.

You built nuclear missiles.

You discovered antibiotics.

You discovered torture techniques.

The same species.

The same nervous system.

The same hands.

The same brain.

The same breath.

Heaven and hell are less like destinations than competing business plans drafted inside the human imagination.

So yes, Jesus.

I'll stop accusing you of blasphemy.

You weren't exaggerating.

You were issuing the most dangerous diagnosis ever spoken.

We are gods.

Not because we're flawless.

Because every ordinary human being carries enough creative force to become either a blessing or a catastrophe.

The joke isn't that Jesus thought too highly of humanity.

The joke is that humanity keeps proving him right—

by creating miracles on Monday...

and monsters before Friday.

That's what makes us divine.

Not our goodness.

Our terrifying capacity to choose.