The ‘divine’ dilemma

By Herman M. Lagon 

“What would Jesus do?” is a question that many of us ponder when faced with a difficult moral choice. This question is simple but deep, and it makes you think about what you can do, anchored on what is right, just, sound, and beautiful. But what happens when the self-proclaimed “Appointed Son of God,” Apollo Quiboloy, faces a legal and moral crisis of his own? Should he not ask himself the same question? Or is the divine title enough to exempt him from earthly accountability?

As the impending arrest of Quiboloy looms large over his “Kingdom” in Davao, it begs the question: What should a man of such supposed divine stature do? Should he, like Jesus, face his accusers with fortitude and transparency, or should he continue to evade the justice system he claims to be above everyone but, mystically, below him? Jesus, when accused—even wrongly—stood trial and faced the wrath of the religious authorities of Jerusalem and the Roman government with a silent dignity that has inspired billions. Quiboloy, on the other hand, appears to have chosen a different path that seems more fitting for a fugitive than a figure of holiness, at least as far as the recent standoff in the KOJC compound is concerned.

Let us consider a few pertinent questions Quiboloy might want to ask or have already asked himself in the context of the age-old life hack, “What would Jesus do?” For instance, when Jesus was betrayed and handed over to the authorities, he accepted his fate without resistance despite having the power to summon legions of angels or escape with his disciples. So, why does Quiboloy, if innocent as he claims, resist so vehemently? What is he afraid of if he truly walks in the light?

The courts have called, and the world watches as Quiboloy’s empire quakes. The U.S. has unsealed warrants, and accusations of sexual abuse, child exploitation, and human trafficking weigh heavily on his name. The allegations are not just serious; they are heinous. Yet, Quiboloy remains defiant, his flock standing in defense, proclaiming his innocence as if the mere proclamation is enough to absolve all charges. But if Jesus himself submitted to earthly authorities, even the mere mortal Senator Leila de Lima followed his example, shouldn’t the ‘Word of God’ preacher Quiboloy also walk his talk? What example does it set when a leader evades the justice system under the guise of divine immunity or political inquisition?

Perhaps we all still remember that Jesus walked a path of humility, rejecting worldly wealth and power, and living as a carpenter with a kingdom not of this world. So, how does Quiboloy reconcile his lavish lifestyle—his collection of real estate, diamond doorknob, and a fleet of luxury cars—with the teachings of the man he claims to represent? If he genuinely believes in the divine righteousness he preaches, should he not also embrace the humility and accountability that come with it? Is it godly to amass inordinate riches while avoiding the very justice that his faith upholds? Can a man who claims to own the souls of all people on earth justify such material indulgence while evading the scrutiny that would confirm his innocence? Instead of facing his accusers, why does he choose the comfort of luxury over transparency that Jesus himself exemplified?

And what of his political connections? Jesus avoided political entanglements, declaring that his kingdom was not of this world. Yet, Quiboloy’s ties to patchy political figures are well-documented, particularly his close relationship with the former president, who became popular internationally because of his bloody drug war and wrestling against human rights. Does he not recognize the irony in wielding political influence to protect himself from the law, while the state crucified the very one he claims to emulate—the one who refused to bow to such power?

Quiboloy’s followers might argue that he is being persecuted, just as Jesus was. But persecution in the name of righteousness vastly differs from evading justice for criminal accusations that inflict actual harm on others. If Quiboloy is innocent, then why not clear his name in the courts of law? Why hide behind the pulpit or under a bunker when the truth should be his greatest defense if it is on his side? What would Jesus do? He certainly would not run, much so hide.

Consider also the company Quiboloy keeps. His staunch defenders in the Senate include figures who seem more interested in protecting their political alliances than seeking the truth. Robin Padilla’s objection to holding Quiboloy in contempt is a case in point. He argues that the Senate’s actions infringe on religious freedom. But does protecting a friend really justify disregarding allegations of such gravity? Does loyalty to a religious leader supersede loyalty to the law, to the people, to the truth?

Padilla’s objection is not just absurd; it is dangerous. By conflating criminal charges with religious persecution, he risks undermining the very principle of justice and the separation of the church and the state. How many more leaders, religious or otherwise, will hide behind such arguments to escape the consequences of their actions? If a priest, preacher, or imam commits a crime, should they not be held to the same standards as any other citizen? Would Jesus approve of using religion as a cover for wrongdoing or to flex one’s hubris?

And what about the other senators and personalities who stand by Quiboloy in this standoff? Their defense of him raises questions about their integrity and intentions. Are they truly motivated by a concern for religious freedom, or is a more cynical calculation that concerns spins, cuts, clouts, and votes play? Are they protecting Quiboloy because they believe in his immaculateness or because they owe or ask him for past or future favors?

Moreover, if Quiboloy is indeed the “Owner of the Universe,” as he claims, why would he fear any earthly authority? Shouldn’t a man with divine backing and power be able to face mere mortals without hesitation? And yet, to many, Quiboloy’s actions resemble those of a man with something to hide, not of the “second coming of Christ” with a clear conscience. Some say that his self-proclaimed divinity seems more of a shield against accountability than a reflection of true holiness. Whether this is true or not depends on what will happen in the following apocalyptic events to come.

In the end, the question remains: What would Jesus do? Would he evade the courts or stand firm in the face of false accusations? Would he accumulate wealth or live a life of simplicity and service? Would he use his influence to manipulate political systems or call out abuses and injustices wherever he saw it? Quiboloy, who also claims to be “the way, the truth, and the life,” must, or maybe he already did, ask himself these questions if he truly believes in the path of righteousness.

Imagine how prophetic it would be if the ending narrative were that, by some supernatural grace, Quiboloy is eventually proven innocent. Is this not the kind of justice one would want if they were innocent and divine? Is it not the kind of biblical narrative one needs to have in order to cement his holiness among his flock? Why not face the courts and let this sacred saga unfold, showing the world that the “man of God” can withstand the scrutiny of both heaven and earth? After all, truth and divine justice will surely side with you if you are who you claim to be.