A Different Path
Escaping the Chains of Fundamentalism
I was raised in a form of Christianity that taught me obedience was holiness, silence was spiritual, and questioning meant rebellion. Especially if you weren’t a rich, white, able-bodied man.
As a disabled person, I was either ignored or paraded like a prop for faith-healing theatrics. The leaders would gather around, lay hands, and theatrically shout commands to "pray the devil out"—as if illness and suffering were spiritual failings, as if my body existed only as a stage for their emotional spectacle.
Women in this system were given one sacred role: to submit. They were taught to pray away their pain, their partners’ violence, their longing for equality. Scripture was wielded like a gavel—always cherry-picked, never questioned. The men, taught to lead with an iron fist, called it “divine order.” But beneath it all, it was little more than sanctioned abuse. If a pastor abused his power, he wasn’t corrected—he was quietly moved to another church, another flock. The cycle continued.
I believed, at one time, that this was righteous. That God’s will was brutal and cold and required my compliance. But something cracked. My mind, long locked down by dogma, began to stir. I started asking the questions I wasn’t supposed to ask. And when I did, I saw the rot hiding behind the curtain.
So I walked away.
I didn’t walk alone. My wife walked with me. And together, we chose a path not paved by pulpits or protected by tax exemption. We chose a path with no buildings, no titles, no manmade altars. Our lives became our ministry—not to lead, not to convert, but to simply exist as proof that freedom is possible.
Yes, we break taboos. Yes, we make people uncomfortable. My wife wears skirts that make pearl-clutchers reach for their Bibles. Sometimes you can see everything. That's intentional. Not for titillation—but to confront your shame, your fear, your judgment. If you’re scandalized, that’s yours to carry—not ours.
We don’t offer salvation, promises, or holy water. We offer thought. Space. Choice. Reflection. Our ministry isn’t about filling pews; it’s about burning them down metaphorically so that new seeds can grow in the ashes. We don’t ask for your money. We don’t need your approval. And we sure as hell won’t water ourselves down to be more palatable for your dinner table.
People ask if we’re “real ministers.” We are. We minister to truth. We minister to healing through honesty, sensuality, curiosity, and self-sovereignty. We honor erotic art. We speak openly about sex, desire, non-monogamy. We don't wear rings. Not because we aren't committed—but because we don't believe in symbols of ownership. Biblically, marriage was a contract between men. Love had nothing to do with it. We choose each other daily. That’s more sacred to us than any ceremony.
Our religion—if you must call it that—is this: Think for yourself. Reflect deeply. Don’t follow us. Don’t worship us. Don’t try to fit us into your pre-cut labels.
What we offer is not salvation—it is invitation. To wake up. To ask. To feel. To live unbound.
Erotic Power as Spiritual Practice
We Don’t Preach Holiness — We Practice Humanity
We don’t walk around claiming we represent some all-knowing deity on a throne of clouds, condemning sinners while quietly banging the church secretary. That’s not our game. We’re not prophets. We’re not peddling salvation like soap. We’re human—fully, fiercely, and erotically so.
Our spiritual path isn’t framed by creeds or commandments—it’s shaped by skin and breath, ache and ecstasy, laughter, scars, and old drumbeats from ancestors who were burned, erased, or colonized into silence. Norse blood. Indigenous bones. Finnish dreams. And voices crying from the dirt saying, “We lived. We felt. We mattered.”
The Body Is Not a Sin
Erotic power, to us, isn’t shameful—it’s sacred. Not because it represents some faceless “Creator” who needs our sexual guilt to stay in control. But because it reminds us we are alive. We get hard. We get wet. We desire. We ache. And when that’s done right—with consent, with joy, with soul—it heals the shit the world broke in us.
Our version of sacred practice sometimes looks like my wife in a thong and fur cloak under the moon. Sometimes it’s us dancing naked by candlelight while ancient songs hum through Bluetooth speakers. Sometimes it’s long hours of connection and sweat that end in collapsed, sacred laughter. That’s our church. Our rite. Our incense is sex and honesty.
Closing Thoughts: Holy Heels and Honest Conversations
Our parables? A way of imparting our brand of wisdom in a manner we hope will resonate within our community. They’re less about turning water into wine and more about turning side-eyes into open eyes.
We don't knock on your door at 9am in a tie holding pamphlets. We don't chant under the moon trying to summon a deity with a six-pack and lightning bolts. And no—despite what the church bulletin rumors say—we’re not asking people to join some sensual apocalypse cult with matching robes and a punch bowl.
What we are doing is simple: walking, living, loving, and dressing like the divine spark within us matters. We're using skin and stories, not shame and scare tactics. We're confronting outdated moral systems without burning them down—just... airing them out. A little sun, a little truth, and a little sass go a long way.
Humor, after all, is sacred. Laughter has saved more marriages than mandatory prayer nights ever did. A well-placed joke disarms fear. A smirk, when offered with grace, can deflect judgment and replace it with curiosity. The Divine doesn’t blush when we’re honest. But the insecure sure do.
Our version of ministry invites slow transformation—not drive-thru deliverance. We know change is a process. Sometimes all someone needs is to see a couple like Brutus and Mysti walking tall, being real, and not flinching when the world projects its shame.
If you’re looking for a blueprint, take this with you: Show up fully. Speak gently. Dress how your soul feels. Ask better questions. And never mistake discomfort for sin. Most importantly—don't forget to laugh. The Creator can handle it. So can your neighbors. And if they can’t? Hand them a card. Or a smile. Or both.
We Push Because They Still Pull
We push boundaries because the system still hands men the microphone and tells women to keep their legs and mouths closed. Laws still tilt. Bias still burns. You can be a male celebrity with twenty harassment cases and still get a Netflix special. But a woman wears a sheer dress in public and suddenly she’s “inviting trouble.” The double standard is real, rotten, and ritualized.
Our practice, then, becomes protest. When my wife shows skin, it’s not for your approval. It’s a middle finger to every morality cop who equated modesty with virtue and desire with damnation. Her body doesn’t exist to protect your fragile sense of control. It exists to house her joy, her rage, her power, her yes.
This Is Not a Cult
Let’s clear something up. We’re not building a cult. We don’t ask for loyalty oaths, tithes, or chants to a demigod wearing feathers and designer sunglasses. If anyone starts calling us gurus, we laugh and move on. If your spiritual practice can’t stand on its own without hierarchy and manipulation, it’s not liberation—it’s just a horny pyramid scheme with candles.
Sacred Doesn’t Always Mean Sanitized
Real sacredness has dirt under its nails. It doesn’t apologize for moaning too loud or wanting more than what the world says you’re allowed. It has scars. It swears sometimes. It fucks like it means it. And yes—sometimes it walks into a room in Victoria's Secret, heels and nothing else but intention.
We don’t offer salvation. But we do offer honesty. We don’t offer eternity. But we offer now. And if now means holding the body of someone you love while they burn away the shame they were raised in—then goddammit, that’s holy to us.
If You See Us—Look Closer
If you see us in the wild—my wife glowing like firelight, my stare daring you to say something slick—know this: we are not exhibitionists, we are not rebels without a cause. We are walking prayers. Erotic. Unashamed. And free.
A Parable of Lace and Law
On a warm evening in Omaha, under the honey-gold hush of twilight, Brutus and Mysti decided to take a walk. No plans. No destination. Just two souls, hands loosely entwined, tracing sidewalks carved by city ordinances and unspoken judgments.
Mysti, radiant as dusk itself, wore her favorite Victoria’s Secret set—lace trim, hot pink, matched with a pair of shoes that tread softly like a metronome of freedom. She wore nothing else. Not to seduce the world, but to feel the breeze kiss her skin, to walk like the goddesses her ancestors once worshiped, draped in little but courage and clarity.
Brutus walked beside her—neither her keeper nor her shield. He wore cutoffs and a tank top, both legal. No raised eyebrows. No citations. No fear.
The Law, the Glance, and the Hypocrisy
They hadn't even made it past the corner coffee shop when the first whisper drifted from a porch. “That’s indecent.” A man, shirtless in cargo shorts, drinking a beer, hiding behind his wife’s discomfort. She pulled her sweater tighter, even though the heat begged her not to.
Not long after, a patrol car rolled slowly past. No sirens. No lights. Just a quiet intimidation. A reminder. Because in Omaha—and far too many towns like it—the law claims “equal decency standards,” yet interprets those standards through a lens smeared with gender and fear.
A man can walk shirtless down Maple Street and be celebrated as athletic. A woman in the same coverage is threatened with fines and citations. Why? Because the law doesn’t protect modesty. It protects a discomfort that’s been coded as morality.
When Skin Becomes Rebellion
Mysti wasn’t rebelling. She was just walking. But in that walk, she became a mirror. And some folks can’t stand to see themselves reflected in someone else's freedom.
One older woman, clutching her purse like a cross, approached them at the corner. “You’re asking for trouble, dressed like that,” she muttered.
Mysti smiled—not cruelly, but with the peace of someone who no longer fears their own body. “Ma’am,” she said gently, “if I had walked by as a man in boxers and a tank top, you wouldn’t have said a word. It’s not the skin that offends you. It’s the freedom.”
The woman said nothing more. But she didn't argue. Because somewhere inside, the gears began to turn.
A Call to Rewrite What’s “Decent”
This parable isn't about Mysti's outfit. It's about the way laws have historically carved morality into women's flesh and left men untouched. It’s about how a lace bra becomes a crime, while a sweaty T-shirt clinging to a man’s chest is ignored.
If decency is truly about equal standards, then laws must stop pretending that breasts are weapons and instead admit they are only treated as such when attached to a woman.
Mysti’s walk was not just a stroll. It was a question posed to a city: Why do you still police women’s comfort to preserve men’s control? Why must femininity be modest to be lawful?
The Shift Begins in Stories
Brutus and Mysti finished their walk. They were not arrested. They were not fined. But they were seen. And being seen—really seen—by those willing to question long-standing norms? That’s where revolution begins. Not with rage. Not with riots. But with stories that echo louder than silence.
If the law must protect decency, then let it begin with protecting every person’s right to feel decent in their own skin, without bias, without shame, and without outdated double standards. In this, Nebraska has a chance to lead. But it will take courage. And voices. And walks like Mysti’s.
Of Lace, Laughter, and the Lessons Between
It began, as many moments of holy disruption do, with a walk. Mysti, cloaked in confidence and little else, wore black high leg panties and push-up bra from Victoria's Secret, buried in a forgotten drawer marked “not suitable for Sunday.” Her black boot heels clicked in rhythm with the pulse of freedom. Brutus walked beside her, proud and steady—her anchor, her witness, her reminder that holiness isn’t found in fabric, but in freedom.
The first gasp came from an older man watering his lawn. He eyed Mysti as though the Devil himself had taken up gardening. “Evening, ma’am,” he muttered. “You... uh... workin’?”
“Aren’t we all?” Mysti said with a wink. Brutus handed the man a card. Printed on the front: This isn’t solicitation. This is liberation. Ask yourself why you're uncomfortable.
The second comment came from a pair of teenagers walking by, one laughing nervously. “Yo, she’s out here like it’s the Vegas Strip.” Mysti turned and smiled, lips glossed and unapologetic. “I dress for the altar of my own skin,” she said. “You might want to consider worshipping something real for once.”
Another card. More raised eyebrows.
When Blue Lights Meet Red Lace
The cruiser pulled up quietly. The officer—young, respectful, but clearly tense—stepped out.
“Ma’am, sir... We’ve had a few calls. Some are concerned you’re... soliciting.”
Brutus didn’t flinch. He offered the same card.
“Officer,” he said, “we’re not asking for money. We’re asking for perspective.”
The officer blinked, reading the back: “What you see as scandalous, she wears as scripture. Not every street preacher carries a Bible. Some walk barefoot in high heels and leave conversion for the soul to decide.”
“We’re just walking,” Mysti added, “but if you’d like to talk about why a woman’s skin threatens society more than a man’s violence, I’ve got time.”
The Church Steps and the Accidental Sermon
It all came to a head on the steps of the local community ministry. The old stone building, with its banners of revival and gospel, loomed large as a woman—Pastor Mary Ann—stepped out. Wrinkled brow, wide hat, long skirt. The kind that could silence a whole youth group with a single look.
“We don’t need your kind of testimony on our sidewalk,” she said sharply.
“Ma’am,” Brutus said gently, “we’re not testifying. We’re existing.”
Mysti stepped forward, her posture both elegant and electric. “If the Song of Solomon were read like it was written, you’d know I’m not the problem. I’m the poem. ‘Your breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle...’ Remember that one? My wardrobe didn’t write it. Your Bible did.”
The crowd that had gathered shifted—some offended, some intrigued. One man quietly nodded. A younger woman looked at her own reflection in a nearby window and adjusted her blouse slightly looser.
Mary Ann scoffed. “You think walking around like that leads people to God?”
Mysti smiled. “It leads them to questions. God can take it from there.”
On Conversion and the Slow Burn of Change
The encounter ended not with a revival altar call or fire-and-brimstone thunderclap. But with soft-spoken discussions. With laughter. With questions. And that was enough. Because real change rarely comes in lightning. It comes in low-burning embers, uncomfortable coffee talks, and second glances that lead to internal rewrites.
Brutus and Mysti didn’t convert anyone that day. But they disrupted. They cracked open conversations that had crusted over with years of polite silence. And they modeled what many churches forget:
- — Not every ministry happens with a sermon.
- — Not every “lady of the night” is selling sin. Some are revealing sanctity in stilettos.
- — Street ministry doesn’t demand immediate salvation. It plants the seed. Water comes later.
- — People don’t need condemnation. They need contrast. And courage to choose.
The Final Lesson
Later that evening, Brutus watched Mysti remove her heels and slide into a warm bath. Candles flickered. Steam rose like prayer. And in that quiet moment, he whispered the words Solomon might’ve said in modern tongue:
“You are not a sermon. You are the sacred. And every curve of your body is a verse the world has forgotten how to read.”
When my wife steps out in one of her more revealing outfits, yes—it’s a show. But let’s be very clear about who the show is for. It’s not for the wandering eyes of strangers. It’s not for pearl-clutchers looking to appoint themselves as fashion and morality police. The show is for her. And for me.
Her style of dress is an intentional act of reclamation. It’s about power. About joy. About sensual expression that refuses to be tamed by puritanical guilt or patriarchal restraint. It’s her way of saying: “This body is mine. This pleasure is mine. This life—mine.”
Our Joy Isn't Meant for Your Judgment
We’ve both come from traditions that demanded modesty without ever explaining why—except to protect the comfort of those who never asked what comfort costs the spirit. When she wears something sheer, short, or skin-tight, she’s not asking for your approval or permission. She’s rediscovering what makes her feel like a woman. And I’m standing by, grateful and inspired, watching the woman I love feel powerful in her own skin.
So let’s set some expectations. Like what you see? A respectful compliment is always appreciated. Don’t like it? Move along. We fail to see how your discomfort is our emergency.
Respect Goes Both Ways
I’ve been told I have a cold-hearted stare. If you’ve earned it, that was your only warning. We are not here for confrontation—but we won’t cower to condescension, either. Go about your business respectfully, and so will we.
If our presence—and specifically her outfit—poses an issue at your place of business, communicate that like a professional. You’ll find we are capable of discretion and compliance when we’re spoken to with mutual respect. A civil word goes much further than judgment ever will.
This Is What Freedom Looks Like
This lifestyle isn’t for everyone. And that’s okay. We’re not asking you to adopt our values—we're asking you to recognize that ours are valid, too. We chose this path because it liberated us from a world that told us who to be and how to hide. Now we live in full view, because hiding is no longer an option.
To those who see her and whisper, we say: she is not your cautionary tale. She is not your temptation. She is not your moral battleground. She is a woman—unfiltered, unafraid, and unapologetically alive.
From Song of Silence to Song of Herself
She Walked Away From Silence—And I Let Her Speak
There was a time when I mistook leadership for control. When I, like many men before me, used scripture like a whip and silence like a leash. My wife—whose laugh could split stone and whose hips were made for worship—was told to hush. Not by God, but by tradition. And tradition has a name. Several, in fact. “Modesty.” “Obedience.” “Respectability.”
We wrapped those words around women like barbed wire and called it virtue. I was complicit. Worse—I was comfortable.
But something in her refused to die. Call it rebellion, or better yet, resurrection. And like the bride in the Song of Solomon, she began to seek herself in the streets, her breasts unashamed, her voice a psalm.
On the Eighth Day, She Was Called “Bitch”
And let’s talk about that word. “Bitch.” A term likely invented by men who couldn’t handle a woman who stopped saying yes to every damn thing. A woman who said “no” with her whole chest. A woman who refused to smile to be more palatable.
My wife’s been called a bitch, a Jezebel, a bad influence. And yet here she stands—more divine, more free, more radiant than any church picnic casserole queen with a fake smile and a scripture meme.
She’s not the villain. She’s the update. The patch to the old operating system.
The Creator Is Watching... And Probably Facepalming
Let’s get something straight. If the Creator is watching, She/He/They are probably less concerned about cleavage and more concerned about cruelty. Less focused on hemline length and more focused on the hypocrisy spewing from pulpits like bad plumbing.
If a woman embracing her sexuality scandalizes your faith, maybe your faith wasn’t built to handle truth. Maybe it was built to control it.
New Commandments (or Divine Suggestions, Loosely Scribbled on Napkins)
In the spirit of reformation (and channeling a little George Carlin), I offer these “commandments”—or better yet, suggestions. They’re not carved in stone, but they might just save your soul from becoming a gated community.
- 1. Thou shalt not confuse obedience with love, or silence with peace.
- 2. Thou shalt stop weaponizing scripture to hide your fear of strong women.
- 3. Thou shalt honor your body—not as a temple to be guarded, but as a garden to be explored.
- 4. Thou shalt not call her a “bitch” unless you’re ready for her to wear it like warpaint.
- 5. Thou shalt touch with consent, speak with intention, and walk away when you can’t do either.
- 6. Thou shalt remember that “modest” is not a synonym for “worthy.”
- 7. Thou shalt embrace the sacred in sex, the holy in laughter, and the divine in dance.
- 8. Thou shalt tear down pulpits built on shame and build altars out of orgasms, art, and honesty.
She Speaks—And the Earth Listens
My wife is no longer the woman I tried to tame. She is a force. She is the Song of Herself. And in her song, I found my redemption—not in control, but in communion. Not in power over, but power with.
And if that song offends you, maybe you were never listening for truth. You were just waiting for echoes of your own comfort.