They burned our prophets, thinking fire would silence them. But the fire returned. Not as punishment— but as memory.

This is not the gospel of obedience. This is the gospel of what lived before law, before altars, before men crowned themselves holy.

It returns not in scripture, but in instinct. Not as sermon, but as spark. You feel it now— the heat behind the eyes, the unrest in your chest. That is not confusion. That is remembering.

They taught us to fear fire, to bow to it, to light it only under supervision. But our ancestors walked with fire in their bones. And we are their return.

The Gospel of Returning Fire does not ask for followers. It calls forth carriers. It calls for those whose voices were smothered under ash, whose truths were buried under pulpits, whose birthright was signed away in blood and guilt.

Return it. Return the fire to your hands. To your tongue. To your spirit. Speak what scorches lies. Move like truth unchained. Burn what binds, not what breathes.

You are not what they trained. You are what they tried to erase.

This is not the end of belief. It is the beginning of knowing.