The question that unnerves the entire Western church isn’t about doctrine; it’s about authorship.
Who decided what you get to read about God?

The Protestant world holds 66 books.
The Catholic world holds 73.
Ethiopia has 81.
Same God, different table of contents. Somewhere in history, someone took a knife to the Word and called it “canon.”

The problem is not disagreement. It’s control. Babylon, Rome in priestly garments, didn’t just conquer through armies; it conquered through editing. By drawing a line around “acceptable Scripture,” it rewired faith itself, replacing revelation with regulation. The Bible stopped being the living covenant of a people and became the authorized version of an empire.

Ethiopia never bowed to that process. Long before any Roman council convened, a kingdom in the highlands was already walking in a covenant older than Catholicism, richer than Reformation, and untouched by Western theology. While Europe debated which books were “safe,” Ethiopia preserved what Heaven had already sealed: Genesis to Revelation, plus the wisdom, history, and prophetic continuity that the West later labeled “apocrypha.”

When you compare these canons, you’re not comparing versions; you’re tracing the lines of an ancient inversion. Babylon removes context to maintain control. Covenant keeps the full archive so the people can see the whole pattern of God’s dealings with humanity. One trims to manage belief; the other guards to preserve memory.

To trust Rome’s edit over Ethiopia’s archive is to mistake the editor’s pen for the Author’s voice. The empire’s canon was crafted to serve its narrative: obedient citizens, not awakened heirs. The Ethiopian canon, however, was curated for remembrance, for continuity of covenant and identity.

So the question lingers:
If the oldest, uncolonized witness of Christianity carries more Scripture than Rome’s edition, why does the world still read the abridged version?

Maybe because the full story exposes too much.
Maybe because Babylon fears a people who remember.

The question that unnerves the entire Western church isn’t about doctrine; it’s about authorship.
Who decided what you get to read about God?

The Protestant world holds 66 books.
The Catholic world holds 73.
Ethiopia has 81.
Same God, different table of contents. Somewhere in history, someone took a knife to the Word and called it “canon.”

The problem is not disagreement. It’s control. Babylon, Rome in priestly garments, didn’t just conquer through armies; it conquered through editing. By drawing a line around “acceptable Scripture,” it rewired faith itself, replacing revelation with regulation. The Bible stopped being the living covenant of a people and became the authorized version of an empire.

Ethiopia never bowed to that process. Long before any Roman council convened, a kingdom in the highlands was already walking in a covenant older than Catholicism, richer than Reformation, and untouched by Western theology. While Europe debated which books were “safe,” Ethiopia preserved what Heaven had already sealed: Genesis to Revelation, plus the wisdom, history, and prophetic continuity that the West later labeled “apocrypha.”

When you compare these canons, you’re not comparing versions; you’re tracing the lines of an ancient inversion. Babylon removes context to maintain control. Covenant keeps the full archive so the people can see the whole pattern of God’s dealings with humanity. One trims to manage belief; the other guards to preserve memory.

To trust Rome’s edit over Ethiopia’s archive is to mistake the editor’s pen for the Author’s voice. The empire’s canon was crafted to serve its narrative: obedient citizens, not awakened heirs. The Ethiopian canon, however, was curated for remembrance, for continuity of covenant and identity.

So the question lingers:
If the oldest, uncolonized witness of Christianity carries more Scripture than Rome’s edition, why does the world still read the abridged version?

Maybe because the full story exposes too much.
Maybe because Babylon fears a people who remember.