What happens when the man who portrayed Jesus with profound humility sits down with a pastor who literally said, “I am God.” from his pulpit. It took exactly 38 seconds for Steven Ferdick to realize that building a 16,000q ft mansion while preaching about a homeless messiah doesn’t look quite as good when someone actually asks you to defend it.

The lights at Elevation Church in Charlotte blazed with the kind of intensity that cost more per hour than most of Steven Ferdick’s congregation made in a week. Everything designed for maximum spectacle, maximum impact, maximum elevation of the man whose name was on the building. Jonathan Roomie walked into that space feeling like he’d entered a concert venue rather than a church, which perhaps was exactly the point. Fog machines stood ready in the corners.

The stage was elevated so high that whoever stood on it would literally look down on the thousands gathered below. Every detail screamed performance. Spectacly, the exact opposite of the dusty roads and humble synagogues where the real Jesus had ministered. Steven Ferdick bounded onto the stage with the energy of a man who’d built an empire on charisma and carefully cultivated authenticity that somehow felt manufactured.

He was younger than the other pastors Jonathan had confronted in his early 40s. Wearing distressed jeans that probably cost more than a car payment and a fitted t-shirt that showed off the physique he maintained with personal trainers, his congregation’s tithes paid for. His smile was wide, his handshake firm, his whole presence radiating the confidence of someone who’d never been truly challenged.

Jonathan, “Man, this is incredible,” Steven said. His voice carrying that particular blend of hip pastor, casual, and motivational speaker intensity that had made him famous. “Having you here at elevation is like I don’t even know. It’s surreal. The chosen has been such a gift to the church. Three billion views, bro. That’s insane.

Jonathan settled into the chair across from Steven. Noting the positioning, Steven’s chair was slightly higher. A subtle detail that probably seemed accidental, but Jonathan suspected was very much intentional. We’ve been blessed by the response, Jonathan replied carefully. But I think what resonates is that we tried to show Jesus as he actually was.

Humble, suffering, a servant who had nowhere to lay his head. Something flickered in Steven’s eyes, too quick to fully identify, but there nonetheless. For sure, for sure, Steven agreed, nodding enthusiastically. Although I think we also have to show people that Jesus wants to elevate them. You know, like God doesn’t want his children living in poverty or thinking small.

He wants to raise them up, give them abundance, help them reach their full potential. There it was. Jonathan noted less than 2 minutes into the conversation and Steven had already revealed his theology. elevation. Not the elevation of Christ, but the elevation of believers. Not taking up your cross, but reaching your potential. Not denying yourself, but achieving abundance.

That’s an interesting interpretation. Jonathan said, his tone neutral, but his eyes sharp. Because in the chosen, we spend a lot of time showing Jesus, calling people to lay down their lives, to lose everything, to count the cost before following him. The elevation he offered was being raised with him after dying with him. Steven’s smile didn’t waver, but it tightened slightly at the edges.

Well, yeah, but that’s very like first century context, right? Today in our culture, people need to hear that God sees greatness in them. That they’re not limited by their past or their circumstances. That’s what Elevation Church is all about. Helping people see themselves the way God sees them. And how does God see them? Jonathan asked quietly.

As his children, Steven replied immediately. As people created in his image with unlimited potential. as and this is where some people get uncomfortable but it’s biblical as little gods. We’re made in God’s image. So there’s divinity in us. That’s not blasphemy. That’s just recognizing who we are in Christ. Jonathan’s expression didn’t change, but internally he recognized exactly where this was heading. Little gods.

The same word of faith heresy that Kenneth Copeland and others had been teaching for decades. now repackaged in skinny jeans and hip phrasiology for a younger generation who didn’t recognize it as the same old error. Steven, you literally said from this pulpit and I quote, “I am God,” Jonathan said, his voice still calm but carrying new weight.

“Not little God, not godlike. You said I am God. Do you stand by that statement?” The smile finally faltered, Steven shifted in his elevated chair, suddenly looking less comfortable. “Okay, so that clip has been taken out of context so many times,” he said, his voice taking on a defensive edge.

“If you listen to the whole sermon, I was making a point about our identity in Christ, about how we carry God’s DNA as his children.” Context doesn’t make that statement less blasphemous. Jonathan replied, “It makes it more disturbing because you spent an entire sermon building to the climax of declaring yourself God.” Steven Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.

” When you say, “I am God,” you’re not claiming identity in Christ. You’re claiming to be Christ. And that’s not theology. That’s narcissism with a Bible verse attached. The accusation hung in the air like smoke. Steven’s face flushed, his jaw tightening. Around them, his staff exchanged uncomfortable glances, clearly recognizing that their carefully planned interview celebrating the chosen was becoming something else entirely.

“That’s not fair,” Steven said, his voice rising slightly. You’re doing exactly what my critics always do, taking one statement and using it to define my entire ministry. You want to know what Elevation Church is really about? Look at the numbers. 20,000 people every weekend. Baptisms in the thousands. Lives genuinely changed.

That doesn’t happen through narcissism. Numbers again. Jonathan observed, “Every false teacher I’ve confronted points to numbers as validation.” Steven, “The wide gate and the broad road that leads to destruction.” Jesus said, “Many go that way. Narrow is the gate and difficult the way that leads to life, and few find it.

Your 20,000 prove nothing except that you’re good at attracting crowds.” Steven stood abruptly, unable to remain seated under the weight of the accusation. Good at attracting crowds, he repeated, and anger was creeping into his voice now. Jonathan, I’ve dedicated my life to reaching people who would never step foot in a traditional church.

I’ve made Christianity accessible, relevant, exciting. Is that really a problem? It is when you change Christianity into something unrecognizable in the process. Jonathan replied, standing now to face Steven directly. Steven, you preach a Jesus who elevates people to their potential. The real Jesus called people to die to themselves.

You talk about God’s children being little gods. Scripture says we’re wretched sinners saved by grace. You’ve built this. Jonathan gestured around the massive facility while Jesus said, “Foxes have holes and birds have nests, but the Son of Man had nowhere to lay his head. Everything about your ministry contradicts everything about his.

” The confrontation had escalated faster than Steven’s media team had anticipated. The cameras kept rolling, capturing every moment of the collision between authentic Christianity and the carefully branded versions Steven Ferdick had been selling for years. And Steven, who’d built his entire platform on confidence and charisma, was starting to realize that neither would be enough to defend against someone who actually knew scripture and wasn’t afraid to wield it. “You don’t know anything about my ministry,” Steven said.

But his voice had lost its earlier confidence. “You don’t know my heart or my calling or what God has spoken to me.” “Then tell me,” Jonathan said quietly but firmly. “Tell me how you justify building a 16,000 square ft mansion worth over a million and a half dollars while telling your congregation to give sacrificially.” Tell me how you defend saying, “I am God from the pulpit.

” Tell me how you reconcile calling yourself a follower of Jesus while living and teaching the exact opposite of everything he modeled. I’m listening. Steven make it make sense. And Steven Ferdick, who had made his career on having the perfect response for every situation, stood there in his elevated church, surrounded by his impressive lights and cameras, and found himself with absolutely nothing to say that wouldn’t either condemn him or force him into a clarity he’d spent years avoiding.

Steven’s mouth opened and closed twice before words finally emerged. And when they did, they carried the defensive tone of someone scrambling for solid ground. My house is my personal business. He said, “But the words sounded hollow, even to him. What I do with my money, how I provide for my family, that’s between me and God.

You made it public business when you built it with money from a congregation you tell to give sacrificially.” Jonathan replied evenly. Steven, you preached a series called Audacious Faith where you challenged people to give beyond their means to trust God for breakthrough. And while they were sacrificing, you were building a mansion that’s larger than most churches.

That’s not leadership. That’s exploitation. The color drained from Steven’s face before rushing back in a flush of anger. I never asked anyone to give beyond their means, he protested. his voice climbing in volume. I preach about faith, about believing God for big things. If people are blessed and want to give generously, that’s their choice.

Is it their choice when you manipulate them from the pulpit? Jonathan asked his tone remaining measured while Stevens grew more agitated. I’ve watched your sermons, Steven. The emotional manipulation is masterful. The story is perfectly crafted to tug heartstrings right before the offering. The implications that giving proves faith while holding back proves doubt.

You’ve turned fundraising into spiritual warfare where anyone who questions becomes the enemy of what God wants to do. Steven paced across the stage, his hands gesturing wildly. That’s such a cynical way to view ministry. I’m trying to inspire people to help them dream bigger than their circumstances. If that results in generous giving that’s a byproduct of transformed hearts, not manipulation, transformed into what Jonathan pressed into people who think Christianity is about achieving their dreams and reaching their potential. Steven, you preach what some have called narug

Jesus. Reading yourself into scripture in ways that completely distort the text. I watched your sermon on David and Goliath where you made the whole story about believers conquering their giants and achieving victory. You barely mentioned God’s glory. It was all about personal empowerment.

Steven spun back around, his eyes flashing because people need to know they’re not victims. They need to understand that in Christ they’re victorious. That they can overcome whatever they’re facing by making every Bible story about them. Jonathan’s voice carried both incredility and sadness. Steven David killed Goliath to defend God’s honor and God’s people.

It wasn’t about David’s personal victory or self-actualization. It was about God’s glory. But you took that story and made it a motivational speech where God becomes a supporting character in the drama of human achievement. That’s your interpretation. Steven shot back. I see it as making scripture relevant and applicable to modern life.

No, you see it as a mirror to show people themselves. Jonathan corrected. That’s what Nars Jesus means. You’re so focused on helping people see themselves in scripture that you’ve lost sight of God in scripture. Every text becomes about the reader’s journey, their victory, their potential. The Bible becomes a self-help manual instead of God’s revelation of himself.

Steven’s jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his face stood out. His carefully cultivated cool pastor persona had completely evaporated, revealing something raw and defensive underneath. “You talk about God’s revelation,” he said through gritted teeth, “but you’re just defending dead religion. Boring, irrelevant, stuffy religion that drives people away from church.

” “I’m bringing them back by teaching them to worship themselves,” Jonathan asked quietly. Because that’s what you’re doing, Steven. When you preach that they’re little gods, when you make every scripture about their triumph, when you build a palace while they struggle to pay rent, you’re teaching them that Christianity is about their elevation, not Christ’s.

Yours is the church of self- worship with Jesus as the life coach. The accusation landed like a bomb. Steven’s face contorted with rage and something that might have been conviction. “How dare you?” he whispered, his voice shaking. “How dare you come into my church and accuse me of teaching self- worship?” “I dare because three billion people have watched the chosen and seen what real Christianity looks like.

” Jonathan replied, his voice steady and unwavering. They’ve seen a Jesus who calls people to die, not to achieve. A Jesus who promises suffering, not success. A Jesus who demands everything. Not a Jesus who helps you get everything. And the reason it resonates is because deep down people know the difference between authentic faith and the spiritual narcissism you’re selling. Steven grabbed the edge of his elevated chair, knuckles white with pressure.

His breath came in short bursts, and when he spoke again, his voice had taken on a dangerous edge. You want to talk about the chosen fine. Let’s talk about how you make money off Jesus. How you’ve turned his story into entertainment. At least I’m upfront about building a church and providing for my family.

You’re profiting off portraying him while judging those of us in actual ministry. Jonathan’s expression showed he’d been waiting for this deflection. Steven The Chosen is free. Completely free. Anyone anywhere can watch it without paying a dime. We’re crowdfunded by people who want to see the story told. Well, I don’t own a 16,000 ft house. I don’t drive luxury cars paid for by viewer donations. I play Jesus.

You’re claiming to be God. There’s a rather significant difference. The comparison hit Steven like a physical blow. He stumbled back slightly, catching himself on the chair. You’re twisting everything. He said, but the conviction had drained from his voice.

That I am God statement was about identity in Christ, about understanding our position as children of God. Then explain your code red security. Jonathan said, “Switching angles so quickly, Steven barely had time to process. Why does Elevation Church have security protocols usually reserved for presidents and celebrities? Why do you need armed guards to protect you from your own congregation? If you’re just a humble pastor teaching people about Jesus, why all the protection?” Steven’s face flushed darker.

We’ve had threats. We have to protect our staff and our congregation. Security isn’t about pride. It’s about wisdom. Joel Ostein has security too. Jonathan observed TD Jake Jakes Crela Dollarer. All the prosperity preachers surround themselves with protection. You know who didn’t have security? Jesus.

He walked among lepers and sinners and tax collectors. He let children climb on him. He washed his disciples feet. The only time he had guards was when they were arresting him. But you’ve built walls of protection because deep down, you know, people might have questions you can’t answer. That’s not fair, Steven protested weekly.

You don’t understand the reality of megaurch ministry in today’s culture. I understand that you’ve created a culture where questioning you is equated with questioning God. Jonathan replied, “I’ve heard stories from former Elevation members about how dissent is handled. How anyone who raises concerns is marginalized or removed.

Steven, you’ve built a kingdom with yourself at the center, and you’ve convinced 20,000 people that supporting your kingdom is the same as serving gods.” Steven’s breathing had become labored, his chest heaving with emotion. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the air conditioning that kept the massive facility comfortable. The staff members watching from the wings exchanged increasingly panicked glances.

Recognizing that their pastor was drowning and they had no way to rescue him. You don’t know what you’re talking about, Steven said. But the words came out as desperate rather than defiant. You come in here for one interview and think you understand everything about how we do ministry. I understand narcissism when I see it.

Jonathan said, his voice carrying both conviction and compassion. Steven, you’ve made yourself the star of every sermon, the hero of every illustration, the center of every story. You read yourself into David’s victories and Joseph’s dreams and Paul’s revelations. Everything becomes about you and by extension about your listeners seeing themselves as the main characters.

That’s not preaching the gospel. That’s preaching the cult of self with religious vocabulary. The word cult made Steven recoil visibly. His hands trembled as he wiped his face, smearing the carefully applied makeup that made him camera ready. When he looked up again, his eyes carried something between fury and fear.

The expression of a man watching his carefully constructed empire begin to crack under the weight of truth he’d never allowed himself to fully examine. Steven straightened suddenly and something shifted in his demeanor. The vulnerability disappeared, replaced by the aggressive confidence of someone who decided offense was the only defense left.

“You want to know what I think?” he said, his voice taking on the commanding tone he used from the pulpit. I think you’re jealous. Plain and simple. You’ve got a successful show, but I’ve built a movement. Elevation Church is changing lives daily while you’re making entertainment. Jonathan’s expression remained calm, almost sympathetic.

Steven, we had this exact conversation with TD Jake when he couldn’t defend his theology. Accusing me of jealousy doesn’t answer the questions about your teaching. It just proves you can’t answer them. I can answer them, Steven insisted, but his voice cracked slightly on the assertion. I just refuse to justify my ministry to someone who’s never pastored a church, never counseledled hurting people, never had to make the hard decisions that come with leading thousands.

Then justify it to your congregation. Jonathan suggested quietly. Stand up this Sunday and explain why you said, “I am God,” from the pulpit. Explain why your house is 16,000 square ft while Jesus was homeless. Explain why every sermon makes you the hero. Don’t justify it to me. Justify it to the people who trust you with their spiritual formation.

” The suggestion made Steven’s face go pale. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged initially. When words finally came, they were defensive and rushed. My congregation understands context. They know my heart. They’ve seen the fruit of this ministry. Fruit, Jonathan repeated, leaning forward slightly. Let’s talk about fruit.

Steven, I watched your sermon where you compared yourself to a tree that needed to cut off certain branches to bear more fruit. You told your congregation that you’d had to cut off relationships with people who didn’t support your vision. You literally compared yourself to Jesus pruning the vine and your critics to dead branches that needed removing. That sermon was about protecting your calling from toxic people. Steven protested.

But his voice lacked conviction. It was about isolating yourself from anyone who might hold you accountable. Jonathan corrected sharply. You took John 15 where Jesus talks about abiding in him and made it about people abiding in you and your vision. You positioned yourself as the vine instead of Christ.

That’s not Narug Jesus anymore, Steven. That’s replacement theology where you’ve literally put yourself in Jesus’s position. Steven’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. You’re taking everything I say in the worst possible light. You’re looking for reasons to condemn me instead of trying to understand what I’m actually teaching. I understand perfectly what you’re teaching.

Jonathan replied, his voice carrying both sadness and conviction. You’re teaching people that they’re the center of God’s story. That scripture exists to show them their potential and empower their dreams. That Christianity is about their elevation to greatness rather than their humiliation that leads to Christ’s exaltation. Steven, you’ve inverted the gospel.

You’ve made it about human ascent instead of divine descent. The theological precision of the accusation left Steven visibly shaken, he grabbed his water bottle with trembling hands, drinking deeply to buy time. When he set it down, his voice had dropped to something quieter and more dangerous.

Lives are being changed at elevation, he said, enunciating each word carefully. People are getting baptized. Marriages are being restored. Addictions are being broken. You can criticize my theology all you want, but you can’t deny the transformation happening in people’s lives. Jonathan stood now, unable to remain seated for what he needed to say.

Steven transformation into what? Are they becoming more like Christ or more convinced of their own potential? Are they learning to die to self or to actualize self? Because I’ve read testimonies from former Elevation members and you know what they say. They talk about how they had to leave because the church was more about Steven Ferdick’s brand than about Jesus.

They describe a culture of personality worship where questioning anything was treated as spiritual rebellion. Those are disgruntled people who didn’t fit our culture. Steven said quickly, “Every church has people who leave and become critics. You can’t judge a ministry by its critics.” No, but you can judge it by its fruit. Jonathan countered.

And the fruit of your ministry is a generation of Christians who think God’s primary concern is their happiness and success. Who’ve never been taught about suffering or persecution or taking up their cross. Who measure their faith by their circumstances instead of their faithfulness.

That’s not Christianity, Steven. That’s motivational speaking with Jesus as the mascot. Steven’s face had gone from pale to flushed. his emotions cycling too rapidly to track. “Stop calling it that,” he demanded, his voice rising sharply. “Stop reducing everything I’ve built to some caricature. You don’t sit in my office hearing people’s stories.

You don’t see the hopelessness I see every day. People need to know God is for them, not against them. And they’ll never understand how God is for them if you don’t tell them what he saved them from. Jonathan replied firmly, “Stephen, you preach a gospel without sin, without judgment, without the cross being central.

You talk about Jesus’s resurrection power, but rarely mention his crucifixion. You emphasize his miracles, but not his call to disciplehip. You’ve given people resurrection without death, exaltation without humiliation, crown without cross. Because people are dying from condemnation already. Steven shot back, tears forming in his eyes now.

They’re drowning in shame and guilt and feeling like they’re never good enough. I’m trying to give them hope that God loves them despite their failures. By never calling their failures sin, Jonathan’s voice carried both compassion and conviction. by never telling them they need to repent. Steven, hope without truth is just false comfort. You’re giving people medicine that makes them feel better while the disease kills them.

Real hope requires acknowledging how bad things really are. So grace becomes meaningful. I do preach about grace. Steven insisted desperately. That’s the whole foundation of my ministry. God’s grace covering our shortcomings, but grace for what Jonathan pressed. Grace to keep sinning. Grace to keep pursuing selfish ambition.

Grace to keep making yourself the center of your own story. That’s not biblical grace. Steven, that’s license. Paul addressed this in Romans. Shall we go on sinning so grace may increase? God forbid. But you’ve created a theology where sin is barely mentioned. So, grace loses its meaning entirely.

Steven sank back into his elevated chair. Looking suddenly small despite its height, his carefully styled hair was disheveled from running his hands through it. The confident hip pastor who’ bounded onto the stage 40 minutes ago had been replaced by someone who looked exhausted and cornered. “What do you want from me?” he asked.

And the question sounded genuine rather than rhetorical. Do you want me to change everything about how I preach to tell 20,000 people they’ve been following a false gospel? I want you to preach the gospel. Period. Jonathan replied, his voice gentler now but no less firm.

The actual gospel where Jesus is the hero, not us. Where the story is about God’s glory, not our potential. Where following Christ costs everything. And we count that cost with joy because he’s worth it. Steven, you have a massive platform. Use it for truth instead of self-help spirituality and lose everything I’ve built in the process. Steven said bitterly.

Watch people leave, face criticism from those who loved what I was teaching. See the numbers drop and the influence fade. Jesus said, “Whoever wants to save his life will lose it.” Jonathan reminded him quietly. But whoever loses his life for his sake will find it.

What does it profit you to keep Elevation Church, but teach people to worship themselves? What good is 20,000 attendees if you’re leading them away from the real Jesus? The question hung between them, impossible to answer without either admitting fault or hardening into defensive pride. And as Steven sat there, his face a mixture of anger and fear and maybe the first stirrings of genuine conviction, he had to decide which direction his heart would turn.

Steven’s jaw tightened, and when he stood this time, his movements carried the coiled energy of someone pushed too far. You keep talking about the real Jesus, like you own the copyright, he said. His voice taking on an edge that bordered on contempt. Like your interpretation is the only valid one and everyone else is wrong.

That’s arrogance, Jonathan. Pure arrogance disguised as theological concern. Jonathan’s expression remained steady. Steven, I’m not claiming my interpretation. I’m pointing to 2,000 years of Christian orthodoxy that you’re contradicting. The church fathers, the reformers, Christians across every culture and century, they all agreed that following Jesus means self-denial, not self-actualization.

You’re the one with the novel interpretation, not me. The church fathers were products of their culture, Steven countered, grasping for theological footing. We’re in a different world now. People need different language, different approaches. What worked in the first century doesn’t necessarily work in the 21st. Truth doesn’t change based on centuries. Jonathan replied firmly, “Human nature hasn’t evolved.

Sin is still sin. God is still God. And Jesus still said, “If anyone would come after him, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow. That’s not culturally conditioned, Steven. That’s timeless truth you’re ignoring because it doesn’t fill stadiums.” The accusation made Steven’s face flush dark with anger.

His hands trembled slightly as he pointed at Jonathan. You have no idea what it takes to build something like this, he said, gesturing around the massive facility. No idea of the pressure, the responsibility, the weight of leading thousands of people. It’s easy to judge from the outside, but you’ve never carried what I carry.

What you carry, Jonathan said quietly, is a burden you created by building a ministry around yourself instead of Christ. Steven, I’ve watched your sermons. I’ve counted how many times you reference yourself versus how many times you point to Jesus. The ratio is staggering. You tell personal stories to illustrate every point. Making yourself the example instead of scripture. That’s not teaching. That’s testimony disguised as theology.

Stories connect with people, Steven protested. They make truth accessible and relatable. Unless the stories are always about you, Jonathan countered. Then they just make you the focus. Steven, I watched your Easter sermon last year. Easter, the most important day in Christianity, celebrating Christ’s resurrection.

And you spent 20 minutes talking about a time you felt defeated and how you overcame it. You made resurrection about your comeback instead of Christ’s victory over death. That’s called application, Steven said through clenched teeth, making scripture relevant to people’s lives. No, that’s Narciss Jesus. Jonathan corrected sharply.

You took the most significant event in human history and made it about you. You reduced the resurrection to a metaphor for personal reinvention. That’s not application, Steven. That’s hijacking scripture to serve your ego. Steven’s breathing had become audibly labored. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. His whole body radiating defensive tension.

The staff members watching from the wings looked increasingly uncomfortable, clearly recognizing their pastor was losing this confrontation badly. “My ego,” Steven repeated and bitter laughter escaped him. “You’re calling me egotistical while you travel the world being celebrated as the face of Jesus.” “The irony is incredible. I’m an actor playing a role,” Jonathan said, his voice hardening.

You’re a pastor claiming to be God. There’s a rather significant difference. And speaking of that claim, let’s return to it since you keep deflecting. You said, and I’m quoting directly, I am God. Not we’re made in God’s image, not we carry divine DNA. You said I am God. Explain how that’s not blasphemy.

It was about our identity in Christ. Steven insisted, but his voice had lost all conviction about understanding that as children of God, we share in his nature. Lucifer wanted to share in God’s nature, too. Jonathan observed that didn’t work out well for him. Steven, there’s a massive difference between being created in God’s image and claiming to be God.

One is biblical anthropology. The other is the same lie Satan told Eve in the garden. You will be like God and you’re teaching that from the pulpit as if it’s good news. The comparison to Satan made Steven recoil physically, his face went white, then flushed even darker. Don’t you dare, he whispered, his voice shaking with rage. Don’t you dare compare me to Satan for trying to help people understand their worth.

Their worth is that God loved them enough to send his son to die for them while they were still sinners. Jonathan replied, his voice carrying both passion and compassion. Their worth isn’t that they’re little gods. It’s that the real God considered them worth redeeming. Steven, you’ve inverted the gospel.

You’ve made it about human divinity instead of divine mercy. That’s not just wrong theology. It’s dangerous heresy. Heresy. Steven spat the word like poison. Everyone’s a heretic who doesn’t preach exactly like you want them to preach. That’s why people hate Christians. Jonathan, that’s why the church is dying.

Because of people like you who care more about being right than reaching people. The church isn’t dying where the gospel is actually preached. Jonathan countered, “Christianity is exploding in the global south where persecution is real and following Jesus costs everything.

It’s only dying in places where people like you have turned it into prosperity, theology, and self-help spirituality. The chosen has three billion views because people are hungry for authentic Jesus, not your sanitized version where he exists to help them achieve their dreams.” Steven grabbed the edge of the stage. His knuckles white with pressure. His chest heaved with emotion.

And when he spoke again, his voice cracked with something between fury and desperation. You keep bringing up the chosen like it proves something. He said, “Like entertainment somehow validates your theology over mine. But at the end of the day, you’re making money off Jesus just like you’re accusing me of doing. The Chosen is free, Jonathan said for the second time.

His patience clearly thinning. But more importantly, we never claim that the show itself saves anyone or that watching it makes you a Christian. You’re claiming that Elevation Church is the vehicle for people’s spiritual growth while teaching them a false gospel. That’s the difference, Steven. We point to Jesus. You point to yourself.

I point people to Jesus, Steven shouted, his composure completely shattered now. Every sermon, every message, I’m trying to help people know him and follow him. Which Jesus? Jonathan asked, his voice cutting through Steven’s outburst with devastating clarity. The Jesus who said, take up your cross, or the Jesus who helps you elevate to your potential.

The Jesus who had nowhere to lay his head, or the Jesus who wants you to have a mansion. The Jesus who said in this world you will have trouble or the Jesus who promises breakthrough and victory because those are two different saviors. Steven and only one of them actually exists. The question hung in the air like a sword suspended above Steven’s head.

His mouth opened and closed, searching desperately for an answer that wouldn’t either condemn him or force him into an admission he’d spent years avoiding. The cameras captured every moment of his struggle, every flicker of emotion across his face, preserving for posterity the moment when Steven Ferdick was confronted with the fundamental contradiction at the heart of his ministry, and found himself with no defense that wouldn’t crumble under the weight of scripture.

Steven’s eyes darted around the studio, seeking escape or support from his staff. finding only uncomfortable silence. His carefully curated image had completely disintegrated, revealing a man who perhaps had never seriously examined whether his theology aligned with scripture or just with what worked to grow his platform. Both Steven finally managed his voice.

I preach the Jesus who calls us to sacrifice and the Jesus who wants to bless us. It’s not either or. It’s both and. Jonathan shook his head slowly. Steven, you can’t have both when they contradict each other. You can’t preach a Jesus who demands everything while simultaneously teaching that God wants you to have your best life. Now, you can’t call people to the cross while promising them a crown without the suffering.

One of those messages is biblical. The other is what you’ve created to fill seats. The accusation of creating a false Jesus purely for growth made Steven flinch visibly. His hands ran through his hair again, destroying what remained of his careful styling. When he spoke, desperation had replaced anger in his voice. “What about grace?” he asked. And the question sounded almost pleading.

What about the fact that Jesus came to give abundant life? What about God’s goodness and his desire to bless his children? Are you saying those things aren’t real? They’re real when understood biblically. Jonathan replied, his tone softening slightly but maintaining its conviction.

Abundant life in John 10 isn’t about material prosperity. Steven Jesus said it in the context of being the good shepherd who lays down his life for the sheep. Abundant life is knowing God intimately. Having eternal security, experiencing joy and suffering. It’s not a mega church in a mansion. You keep bringing up my house,” Steven said, and fresh anger flared in his eyes.

“Like somehow where I live disqualifies my ministry. It doesn’t disqualify your ministry,” Jonathan corrected. It reveals your theology, Steven. You built a 16,000q ft home while preaching about a savior who was born in a borrowed manger and buried in a borrowed tomb. You live in luxury while telling your congregation to sacrifice.

The disconnect isn’t just optics, it’s fundamental hypocrisy. I work hard, Steven protested weekly. I’ve built this ministry through sacrifice and dedication. Why shouldn’t I enjoy the fruit of that labor? Because you’re not running a business. Jonathan said firmly, “You’re supposed to be a pastor, a shepherd, and shepherds in scripture lived simply among their flocks.

They didn’t build palaces while the sheep struggled. Paul worked as a tent maker to avoid being a burden. Peter owned nothing. But you’ve turned ministry into a pathway to wealth and called it blessing.” Steven’s face crumpled slightly, tears threatening again. You don’t understand the pressure, he repeated.

But the words had become a mantra without meaning, the constant demands, the expectations, the weight of leadership. Jesus understood pressure. Jonathan replied quietly. the weight of the world’s sin on his shoulders, the expectation of perfect obedience to death, the demand to love humanity enough to die for them, and he did it all while homeless. Rejected, ultimately crucified.

Your pressure pales in comparison, Steven, and his response was humility. Yours has been elevation. The contrast was devastating in its simplicity. Steven stood there surrounded by the trappings of success he’d accumulated, being compared to a savior who owned nothing and gave everything. The theological gap between them yawned like a chasm impossible to bridge.

Maybe I’ve made mistakes. Steven admitted suddenly, and the words seemed to surprise even him. Maybe I’ve let success go to my head. Maybe I’ve focused too much on growth and not enough on disciplehip. But that doesn’t mean my entire ministry is false. Then what parts are true? Jonathan pressed gently. Because Steven, I’ve listened to hours of your sermons.

I’ve analyzed your theology and I can’t find where you clearly preach the gospel. You talk about God’s love, but never his holiness. You mention Jesus, but rarely the cross. You promise blessing, but never warn about judgment. What remains when you strip away the narcissesis and prosperity promises? The question forced Steven to examine his own preaching in ways he’d apparently never done. His face showed the internal struggle.

Decades of building an empire colliding with the possibility that the foundation was sand rather than rock. I preach about Jesus, Steven insisted. But even he could hear how hollow the assertion sounded. Which Jesus Jonathan asked again, refusing to let the question go unanswered. The Jesus who said, “Blessed are the poor in spirit.

” Or the Jesus who helps you achieve financial breakthrough. The Jesus who promised his followers would be hated by the world. Or the Jesus who elevates you to influence and success. You can’t preach both, Steven. They’re incompatible. Maybe they’re only incompatible in your rigid theological system. Steven shot back, grasping for any argument that might give him footing. Maybe God is bigger and more complex than your narrow categories.

God is revealed in scripture. Jonathan countered, “And scripture is clear. Jesus came to save sinners, not to help successful people feel better about themselves. He came to call people to repentance. not to affirm them in their pursuits. He came to die for us, not to show us how to actualize our potential.

Steven, every sermon you preach contradicts this basic gospel framework. Steven sank into his chair again, looking utterly defeated. His voice, when it emerged, was barely above a whisper. Then what am I supposed to do? Tear down everything I’ve built? stand before 20,000 people and tell them I’ve been wrong.

If you’ve been wrong, then yes, Jonathan said simply, “Steven, better to be humiliated before men than condemned before God. Better to lose elevation church than lose your soul.” Jesus asked, “What it profits a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his life? You’ve gained crowds and influence and wealth, but at what cost?” The question hung between them, unanswerable, without either repentance or hardened pride.

Steven sat there, his elevated chair now seeming to mock him. His massive facility feeling hollow, his success suddenly looking suspiciously like failure dressed in expensive clothes. I can’t, Steven finally whispered, and the admission seemed to break something in him. I can’t do what you’re asking. It would destroy everything.

My reputation, my influence, my family’s security. Everything would collapse. Then you’ve answered the question of which Jesus you serve? Jonathan said quietly. Sadness evident in his voice. The one who demands your cross or the one who protects your crown. And Steven, you’ve chosen the crown.

You’ve chosen elevation over humiliation, success over surrender, your empire over truth. That choice has consequences that extend beyond this life. Steven looked up, tears streaming down his face. And for a moment it seemed he might break, might finally admit the fundamental errors in his theology and teaching.

But then something hardened in his expression. Pride reasserting itself as the final defense against truth too costly to accept. Steven wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand and stood with forced confidence. The mask of the hip pastor struggling to reassert itself over the broken man underneath. You know what, Jonathan? I’m done with this.

I’m done defending my calling to someone who doesn’t understand what God has asked me to do. Elevation Church is blessed. Period. and no amount of your theological nitpicking changes that Jonathan’s expression showed both sadness and resolve. Theological nitpicking, that’s what you call pointing out that you claim to be God. From this very stage, Steven, let’s address it directly one final time.

You said, “I am God.” Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” One of you is lying. and three billion people who’ve watched The Chosen know which one. The comparison hung in the air like a death sentence. Steven’s face cycled through rage, fear, and something that looked like genuine horror at having his blasphemy stated so plainly.

That’s not fair. He protested weakly. You’re comparing a single statement taken out of context to Jesus’s core claims about himself. Context doesn’t make blasphemy acceptable, Jonathan replied firmly. It makes it worse because you built an entire sermon around elevating yourself to divinity. Steven, when Jesus said, “I am,” he was claiming to be Yahweh.

When you said, “I am God,” what were you claiming? What exactly did you mean if not that you possessed divinity? Steven’s mouth opened and closed multiple times before words emerged. I meant that we’re created in God’s image, that his spirit dwells in us, that we carry his DNA as adopted children.

Then why not say that Jonathan pressed? Why choose the most blasphemous phrasing possible unless some part of you actually believes it, Steven? This is the fruit of the word of faith, heresy, you’ve absorbed. Little God’s theology leads inevitably to someone standing on a stage and declaring themselves God without qualification. And you did exactly that. It was a rhetorical device.

Steven insisted desperately. A way of making people understand their identity and authority in Christ. Jesus used rhetorical devices, too. Jonathan said quietly, “Parables, metaphors, hyperbole.” But he never once said anything that could be confused with claiming to be someone other than who he was.

Your rhetorical device sounds suspiciously like the serpent’s promise in Eden. You will be like God. Steven, you’re preaching the original lie with a microphone and stage lights. The accusation struck with devastating precision. Steven stumbled back as if physically pushed his hand gripping the chair for support. Stop it, he said, his voice breaking completely. Just stop. You’ve made your point.

You think I’m a heretic and a narcissist and a false teacher. I get it. Are you happy now? I’m heartbroken, Jonathan replied. And genuine emotion cracked his steady composure. Steven, you have gifts. You have passion. You have a platform that could reach millions with truth. But you’ve chosen to use it for self-promotion disguised as ministry.

And thousands of people are following you into a version of Christianity that won’t survive contact with real persecution or suffering. My people know how to suffer. Steven protested weekly. I preach about overcoming obstacles all the time. Overcoming isn’t the same as enduring. Jonathan countered. You teach people to overcome through positive confession and faith declarations.

Jesus taught people to endure through hope in him despite circumstances. When your congregation faces cancer or bankruptcy or loss, will your motivational messages sustain them? Or will they realize you’ve given them cotton candy when they needed bread? Steven sank into his chair one final time.

his body language screaming defeat even as his mouth struggled to form defenses. “You don’t know what you’re asking me to give up,” he whispered. “This church, this influence, this platform, it’s my life’s work. It’s everything I’ve built. Then you’ve built on the wrong foundation,” Jonathan said gently, but without compromise. and Steven.

Buildings constructed on sand don’t just gradually erode. They collapse suddenly when storms come. Matthew 7. Jesus warned about this specifically. Those who hear his words and don’t practice them are like foolish builders. When the storms come, great will be their fall. Are you threatening me? Steven asked. But the question lacked any real force. I’m warning you, Jonathan corrected.

As someone who cares about your soul and the souls of the thousands following you, Steven, you can change direction. You can start preaching the real gospel tomorrow. You can repent of the narcisses and prosperity theology and word of faith errors. It would cost you everything you’ve built. Yes, but it would save your soul and potentially save those you’ve been leading astray.

The offer hung between them, genuine and devastating in its implications. Steven sat there, tears flowing freely now. His carefully constructed empire revealed as having foundations that wouldn’t survive biblical examination. And in that moment, he had to choose. Repentance that would cost him elevation church or pride that would preserve his platform while potentially damning his soul. His face hardened into something cold and final.

“Get out,” he said, his voice, but carrying unmistakable dismissal. “Get out of my church.” Now, Jonathan stood slowly, his expression showing he’d known this was coming, but hoped otherwise. He removed his microphone with deliberate movements, setting it carefully on the table. “Before I go,” he said quietly. One last observation. You keep calling this your church, my church, my ministry, my platform.

Jesus said, “I will build my church, not your church.” Steven his. And the gates of hell won’t prevail against it. But your church, the one built on Narcug Jesus and prosperity, promises, and self- worship that won’t survive because it was never his to begin with. The words landed like hammer blows.

Steven’s face contorted with rage and pain and something that might have been conviction he was choosing to smother. I said, “Get out,” he repeated, his voice shaking. Jonathan walked toward the exit, his footsteps echoing in the massive facility that suddenly felt hollow despite its grandeur. At the door, he paused and looked back one final time at Steven Ferdick, who sat elevated above an empty audience, surrounded by expensive equipment and elaborate staging that existed to make him look larger than life. “You said, I

am God,” Jonathan said, his voice carrying clearly across the studio. Jesus said, “I am the way.” History will judge which of you was telling the truth. And more importantly, God will judge. And on that day, Steven, your mansion and your crowds and your influence won’t matter only whether you faithfully represented the one whose name you claimed to preach.

With those devastating final words, Jonathan Roomie walked out of Elevation Church, leaving Steven Ferdick alone with the cameras still rolling, capturing every moment of a man who’d built an empire on his own glory, watching it exposed as fundamentally empty. The door closed with quiet finality. Steven sat motionless, his staff rushing toward him with promises of damage control and legal options.

But their voices seemed distant and meaningless because Jonathan had asked the question that would haunt Steven for the rest of his life when God examines what you built. Will he find his church or yours? And the terrifying truth, the reality Steven couldn’t quite silence despite his best efforts was that he’d built his own kingdom and called it God’s.

He’d elevated himself and called it ministry. He’d preached about his potential and called it gospel. And three billion people watching the chosen had seen what authentic Jesus looked like, making Steven’s counterfeit impossible to miss. Outside, Jonathan stood in the Charlotte Sun, knowing this confrontation would force Christians to examine what they’d accepted as normal in modern megaurch culture.

The spectacle, the narcissism, the prosperity promises, all of it defended as reaching people when really it was just making pastors famous and rich while calling it God’s blessing. Steven Ferdick would have to choose what to do with the truth he’d been confronted with. Repent or double down, humility or continued elevation, the real Jesus or the one he’d created to serve his ambitions.

and the watching world would discover which path he chose because truth has a way of emerging no matter how much stage lighting tries to obscure it. Thank you for following this story. Let us know in the comments below if this story has moved you and you’d like to stand with us in bringing more voices of truth and hope to light.

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