About the Ministry Team & Ministry Vision

We didn’t write the rules. We just made the mistake of asking the questions no one wanted answered.
The kind that make pearl-clutchers gasp… and the devout squirm in their Sunday seats.
Yes—even the questions that led us into shadowed realms where the silence wasn’t empty…
It was watching. Breathing. Waiting.
What we found there didn’t come with a church bulletin or a tidy theology. It came with teeth. And it screamed louder than a Yoko Ono marathon possessed by demons on steroids.

We are not what you expected. Not a preacher in polished shoes, nor a wife with a plastic smile. There are no holier-than-thou lofty titles here, no degrees framed in gold. Just two souls—bound by blood, by ancestry, by fire—walking a path that many fear to even look upon. My wife and I share the same old blood: cold-weather blood. Warrior blood. The kind that remembers smoke over ice, iron over fire. The kind that tightens its jaw when told what is and isn't allowed to believe.

She is the quiet one. The keeper of the inner fire. Her strength is not loud, but it is absolute. Like the Grandmothers who whispered truths that survived genocide, her presence does not beg for the world’s approval—it bends reality simply by remaining rooted. She is the shadow at my side, the stone beneath my feet. Her silence is sacred. It does not mean submission—it means alignment.

I am the voice. Not the kind that draws crowds with sweet verses or social media theatrics. No. Mine is a voice that splits stone. That howls into temples built on lies and refuses to kneel to crowns forged from money, influence, or dogma. I did not enter ministry to be liked. I came because the fire wouldn’t let me sleep. Because truth—real, jagged, blood-soaked truth— demands a mouth, and mine refused to close.

The path we walk did not begin in a church. It began in the dark. In the raw. In the kind of pain that makes men either break or transform. We’ve been broken. We’ve been remade. And what emerged was not holy in the way the world defines it. But it was honest. And that, to us, is holier than any sermon.

We are not religious bootlickers. We are not servants of politics. We are not your friendly, neutered spiritual brand. We are truth-seekers—stubborn as Finns in a blizzard, fierce as wolves in winter. We do not apologize for seeking the divine in the ashes, the sacred in the forbidden, or the Creator’s whisper in places where good folk fear to tread.

If you came looking for comfort, you may not find it here. But if you came searching for something real—something raw, eternal, and unflinching—you just might be in the right place.

Where I Stand

I'm Not Holy Or A Role Model

Let’s stop pretending. I’m not here to make religion comfortable. I’m here to make it accountable.

I’ve read the sacred texts. I’ve walked through the rituals. I’ve played the Church's game— sat through the sermons, bit my tongue, and watched self-proclaimed “men of God” hide behind crosses while lining their pockets and crushing spirits beneath doctrine. Let me say this as clearly as I can: I'm not that kind of minister.

I don’t worship men in robes. I don’t bow to a book if it’s used as a weapon. And I sure as hell don’t preach the gospel of guilt, shame, and obedience to hypocrites in suits who wouldn't know spiritual truth if it set their mansion on fire.

Anton LaVey once said that the best thing about religion is that it keeps the morally weak in check. And he was right—only the problem is, the ones doing the checking are often the most rotten of the bunch. I’ve seen more honesty in a dive bar than in a thousand pews. And if God is real—and I believe there’s more than just belief at stake— then He, She, or They are far more offended by lies dressed in scripture than by truth shouted in fury.

George Carlin said it best: “Religion is like a pair of shoes… find one that fits you, but don’t make me wear your shoes.” Well, I tried on those church-issued loafers. They pinched, they bled, and they reeked of hypocrisy. So I threw them into the fire and walked out barefoot—with scars, yes, but also with clarity.

This ministry doesn’t exist to impress bishops or beg for tax exemptions. It exists because somewhere out there, someone is teetering on the edge, questioning everything they were told to believe… and finally finding the strength to ask: “What if they lied to me?”

I won’t offer you false comfort. I won’t sell you salvation in a bottle or teach you to parrot prayers you don’t understand. What I offer is dangerous: freedom. The kind of freedom that gets you kicked out of churches and unfriended by family. The kind that makes you ungovernable by fear.

If you came looking for a safe space, turn back. If you came looking for something true, keep going. Just know this: once you open your eyes, you can never shut them again.

Confession of a Former Prophet for Profit

I once preached their gospel as a so-called street minister within the name it and claim it movement. I spoke their polished lies. I shouted into microphones and called it “faith,” while men wept beneath crushing debt and women begged for healing that never came.

I was one of them—trained in the halls of the Word of Faith empire. I quoted their verses, mimicked their cadence, raised my hands and closed my eyes like a good little performer. I was taught to sell Heaven like a product, to package God in seed offerings, and to wield scripture like a credit card in a rigged system where the house always wins.

But something inside me cracked. Not gently—violently. Because truth doesn’t always whisper. Sometimes it screams.

I watched the poor give their last twenty bucks for a “miracle breakthrough.” I watched pastors wipe their tears with silk napkins while hungry children prayed in empty kitchens. I saw how the Holy Ghost was shoved into a back room to make room for LED screens and luxury SUVs. And I felt something ancient in my blood rise— something older than pulpits and prosperity… something furious.

That was the day I remembered who I was—not a salesman of sanctified snake oil, but a son of the North. A bloodline carved from granite and glacier. A descendant of those who stood on wind-swept cliffs and refused to bow to gilded crosses brought by trembling priests. My ancestors did not fear gods—they stared them down. They did not trade truth for tithes—they forged it in iron and carried it into battle.

And so I cast off the robes. I tore down the altars built on greed. I picked up the sword of truth, and with it, I began the only sermon I could speak with a clean conscience: No more lies.

Christ did not die so men could buy jets. The Holy Ghost is not for sale. And the Kingdom of Heaven does not come wrapped in branding deals, mansion tours, or six-figure speaking fees. You cannot tithe your way into power, because true power isn’t bought—it is borne and earned. Through suffering. Through blood. Through brutal, soul-rending honesty.

The truth—real, unsanitized, Spirit-soaked truth—set me free. Not gently, but like a berserker loosed in a temple of idols. And I will not stop swinging until every golden calf is melted down and poured into the foundations of something real.