There was a gospel that Jesus preached: “the gospel of the kingdom” (e.g., Matthew 4:23; Mark 1:14–15; Acts 1:3), and when he told his disciples to go and proclaim it, we have no reason to presume they preached another. The latecomer, too—the apostle Paul—while spending time in Rome, spoke to the Jewish community there, proclaiming “the kingdom of God and teaching about the Lord Jesus Christ with complete boldness”. (See Acts 28:17–31.)
Today, there is a gospel that we preach: borrowing some words from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, we refer to it as “the gospel of salvation”. (See Ephesians 1:13.)
“The gospel of salvation”
In the 1800s, some methods of presenting this gospel began to develop. Wanting to present the message in a tidy manner, some verses were taken from Paul’s dense letter to the Romans to communicate just how men might be “saved”: All have sinned (Romans 3:23); the wages of sin is death (Romans 6:23); because God loves us, He had (or let) His Son die in our place (Romans 5:8); if we confess and believe, we will be saved (Romans 10:9–13).
The approach persists; any Christian who takes their evangelistic calling seriously knows it well. “Saved from what?” is the question most often planted in the listeners’ minds to get the conversation going, and the answer at the ready is, “I have good news!”
Yet the gospel Jesus preached is much bigger than the one we frame while leading people down the Roman Road.
Jesus’ gospel
The Scriptures tell us that when Jesus began travelling throughout Galilee, he taught in the Jewish synagogues, healed people whenever and wherever they asked, and preached “the gospel of the kingdom”.
When he sat down on the mountain with his disciples at his feet and spoke about the kingdom of God (or “the kingdom of heaven”; depends on who was doing the reporting), he wasn’t introducing an unfamiliar term.
To the children of Israel, “the kingdom of heaven” wasn’t some blurry phrase referring to some blurry state, leaving lots of room to fill in the blank. It didn’t refer to some distant utopia or future destination. Its definition was quite simple, really: “Where God was king, where God is king, and where God will be king forever.” Alongside that definition was an expectation: a time was coming when all of humanity would recognise Him as king, and the whole earth would be filled with His justice and peace.
Saying “the kingdom of God” to a Jew then would be somewhat like saying, “the kingdom of Salman bin Abdulaziz” to a Saudi now, the sole difference being that King Salman bin Abdulaziz has been living in the palace in Riyadh while he’s been reigning, while Israel’s King seemed a little harder to find.
The kingdom of God is like…
By the time of Jesus, God’s presence had been absent from the temple for more than 600 years, and it was the polytheistic Romans’ turn to occupy His land. Now some unknown carpenter’s son from the hinterlands was saying that the kingdom of God was “in their midst”.
Most were curious. Some got excited.
Perhaps the Messianic Age was finally upon them! Maybe the trashy Romans would finally get their due! Maybe all of the prophecies from all of the ages would finally be fulfilled, and their King would take His throne before their very eyes and in the enemy’s face.
But it wasn’t long before most who had been excited were disappointed, and some who had been curious were just plain mad. Because the kingdom this man was telling them about and the kingdom they were expecting sounded nothing alike.
Yet nothing Jesus was revealing about the kingdom of God or its king was new. What he was unfolding had been there all the time, tucked away in the Scriptures and spoken of by the prophets, just waiting for ears that could hear.
Jesus began speaking the language of heaven, not with theological lectures or by drawing timelines or diagrams on parchment, but by telling parables—simple stories—that began, “the kingdom is like…”
His parables were akin to the fables we told our children once upon a time, or like the Bible stories we teach them on Sundays. Except these stories seldom had happy endings, and their moral was hard to find. They could leave the listeners bewildered, and they often ended in a question.
Their plots weren’t complicated or confusing; the settings were earthly, everyday. The audience probably nodded along in agreement; they just had trouble recognising the cast. Especially the roles they were playing.
Frankly — fairly — that wasn’t because they were Jewish. That was because they were human.
The good news that seemed to end badly
Because of the parables, Jesus’ popularity waned. These simple stories offended: they called for humility rather than prominence. They said the last would be first, that those who had been kept outside would be brought inside, and that prestige and riches meant nothing at all.
Alongside the parables, he challenged the Pharisees’ teachings and broke with human tradition. He called the ritually pure “whitewashed tombs” and experts in the law “blind guides”.
The Pharisees and scribes, in turn, called him a false teacher, and the Sadducees counted him a threat to the status quo. All the while, his favour with the common people grew. And none — not even the Romans — failed to notice.
The Jewish leaders heard that the Son of Man was coming and he would sit on His glorious throne; the Roman rulers heard that nations would bow down before him and he would be called “king”.
And so, the threat to tradition, and prestige, and power ignited a plot that would end this troublesome rabbi’s life, and with the revolutionary out of the way, the Pharisees could continue to teach a law they could manage, the Sadducees could remain in the high places, and the Romans could rest easy, knowing the masses were under control.
All the while, rather than expose the plot, stir up the masses, or stay safe in the shadows, Jesus continued to preach the gospel: “The kingdom of God is like…”
Like a farmer who sows a seed. Like yeast distributed in flour. Like a king who forgives the forgiving but will not forgive the hard-hearted. Like a father who offers all he has to his sons, and it’s the sons who judge if he is gracious or harsh.
When Jesus had said all he had to say, and those who had ears to hear had heard it, he committed himself into the hands of the Romans, who, according to the schemes of the religious leaders and under the influence of the dark spiritual powers, put him to death.
But He rose, and He reigns, and although the Romans and the religious thought they had achieved their end, the powers and principalities are kicking themselves still.
Why? Because His intent followers do what He said: proclaim the kingdom of God.
So what?
So what, you ask, does this brief history lesson have to do with the Great Commission? Is “the gospel of salvation” a bust?
Not at all. But the gospel of the kingdom is so much bigger. It is the reason we preach salvation at all.
“The kingdom of God” is not some blurry phrase about some blurry state or some distant utopia or future destination. On this side of the cross, its definition is simple: it’s where Jesus was crowned King, where Jesus is King, and where He will be King forever.
Jesus preached a gospel that promised far more than deliverance from sin; He swung wide the gates to His kingdom. This kingdom is a kingdom of righteousness, peace, and joy, and the whole world is called into its citizenship.
But it’s also a kingdom filled with risk, requiring vulnerability. It’s a place of humility and generosity. A place where the last are first and the first are last. Where those who have been kept outside are welcomed inside, and power and riches mean nothing at all.
Its citizenship is an out-in-the-open, all-out commitment — not just “a personal relationship with Jesus”. “Close your eyes and bow your head” never was, nor ever will be, its passcode.
Is the gospel we preach today sufficient?
Consider:
If you preach only the gospel of salvation, you may — and only may — have answered the question of “how?”
But only by preaching the gospel of the kingdom of God do you truly answer the question of “why?”