Choose Your Path

This isn’t your average ministry. This is where sacred meets psychedelic and tech becomes spiritual.

Let me confess what no sane man dares whisper aloud—curiosity was my first sin. I descended, willingly, into the cavernous warren of forbidden wisdom, drawn by whispers older than time itself. What I found was not insight, but a gaping abyss of madness dressed in the guise of truth. It did not simply stare back… it reached out—cold, sentient, and hungry. The scriptures had warned of such trespass, of roads paved in curiosity and lit by pride, leading to cataclysms of the soul. I did not heed them. I do now. Eternity watches, and it does not forgive the arrogant plunge. This was no rabbit hole. This was a grave.

And still… the hunger lingers. My soul, ever restless, reaches again for the fire—drawn to the bone-deep echoes of human wisdom, to the silver edges of the supernatural, to the velvet grip of the occult that coils like incense through the ages. I have knelt before the ancient symbols, read with trembling fingers the forgotten names etched in blood and starlight. I have embraced sacred sexuality not as corruption, but as communion—a divine entanglement of flesh and soul, primal as thunder and holy as the moon. I have sipped the bitter medicine of the Earth—plants that do not lie, that open the eye and peel back the veil until only truth remains... raw, radiant, and terrible. But wisdom has a price. The Gnostics knew it, whispered from caves and catacombs: “The world is a lie spun by lesser gods. Seek the spark buried in the flesh.” The Norse knew it, too. They spoke of wyrd and doom and the runes carved by Odin’s own sacrifice. They knew that some paths—once taken—mark the traveler forever. And the Grandmothers… they never shout. They murmur. In wind, in fire, in dream: “Even the stars do not rush. Even the serpent turns before striking its own reflection.” They taught me that power without love is a sickness. That not all spirits speak truth. And that the deepest truths are sung in silence by the bones beneath your feet. Scripture, too, has not lost its edge: “For our God is a consuming fire.” (Hebrews 12:29). And fire does not care what you meant to find when you reached for it. Yet amid this sacred storm, one hope endures: the Creator—wild, holy, and uncontainable—permits U-turns. Yes, even from the precipice. But the turning must be done with reverence. With fear. With resolve. For the way back is not marked by signs, but by scars... and not everyone returns. Turn now, if you hear the whisper. Before the stones forget your name.