About the
Genesis of the Mercy Code

About

EXPLAINING THE ORIGINS OF THE CODE

Letter from the Founding Guide

Dear Reader,

It feels like something’s broken — everywhere. You can feel it on the street, in the headlines, in the way people talk to each other. Like the cruelty isn’t hiding anymore. Like corruption has soaked into every corner of life — politics, faith, power, even everyday decency. We’re told this is just how things are now. That anger wins. That greed gets ahead. That kindness is weakness. That mercy is for fools.

And yet, this year, something strange happened.

A movie about Superman came out — and people didn’t just watch it. They felt it. It sparked something. Suddenly, compassion was trending. A viral movement exploded: "Being kind is punk rock." The idea that showing up, helping out, and doing good every day isn’t naive — it’s revolutionary. For a generation raised in chaos, who’ve only known dystopia, it hit like sunlight after a decade of storm.

Because after all this time living in what feels like a slow-motion collapse — rising hate, division, cruelty as policy — we saw a character on screen who just wanted to help.

No catch. No ego. No dominance. Just goodness.

That moment cracked something open in me.

I’ve always loved Superman. As a kid, he wasn’t just a comic book character. He was a lifeline. I didn’t grow up safe. I didn’t grow up steady. I grew up feeling like the other — unwanted, unseen, struggling to make sense of a world that rarely made space for softness. But there he was. Superman. The strong man who didn’t use strength to dominate. The one who could level cities but chose to lift people instead.

He gave me hope — not that I could fly, but that I could be good, even when everything around me was not.

Seeing this new movie didn’t just bring that back — it connected it to everything I’ve felt these last few years. This version of Superman — comic-accurate, morally clear, quietly radical — reminded me of who I used to be. Who I still want to be. And how sick I am of watching cruelty pass as strength.

Because we’re not just tired. We’re hurting. And no system — religious, political, or cultural — seems to care about healing anymore.

That’s where this all started.

I’ve spent months digging back through what I used to believe — sifting through the rubble of religion, politics, identity. And I kept coming back to Jesus. Not the version warped by rules or power structures. Not the one filtered through centuries of manmade dogma. Just… the man. The one in the Gospels. The one who said hard things with love and did kind things with courage.

He didn’t build an empire. He didn’t gather weapons. He didn’t fight for control. He washed feet. He touched lepers. He told the truth, even when it made enemies. He forgave from the cross. He loved the forgotten. And he taught — again and again — that mercy was the center of it all.

Not once did he say, “Worship me or else.” What he said was: love your neighbor. Care for the poor. Let the children come. Forgive seventy times. Judge less. Help more.

That’s what The Mercy Code is. A return to those words — and only those words.

This isn’t a church. This isn’t a doctrine. This is a code. A way to live in a world where being good sometimes feels impossible. It’s a moral framework rooted in what Jesus actually said and did — without the add-ons, without the edits, without the spin.

It’s for people of any faith or none at all. If you see Jesus as divine, or as a prophet, or just as a man who lived what he taught — this code still holds. It’s not about belief. It’s about behavior.

Because if we’re being honest? The evil in the world today isn’t about belief systems. It’s about people choosing power over kindness. Choosing cruelty over care. Choosing to look away instead of show up.

The Mercy Code is a rebellion against that.

It’s not loud. It doesn’t wear a flag. It doesn’t demand loyalty. But it does ask something of you. To be decent — even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. To live with integrity, humility, and courage. To be the kind of person who chooses mercy, on purpose.

That’s what Superman did for me. That’s what Jesus taught me. That’s what I’m trying — imperfectly — to do now.

And if you’ve been feeling what I’ve been feeling — exhausted, angry, heartbroken, but not ready to give up — maybe this is for you too.

We don’t need more preachers. We don’t need more pundits.

We need people who live like what they do matters.

We need people who carry mercy like a quiet superpower.

We need you.

— Founding Guide, The Mercy Code