click to play: wounds into wildflowers

I was four years old when the belt come down

Stomach still burns from the whippings in that town

Ran away to the inlet, slept where the lost souls hide

Brother took his life on Mother’s Day, family tore me up inside

Near death at 112 pounds, doctors said write your will

But something in the darkness said “Boy, you ain’t finished still”

We turnin’ wounds into wildflowers

Yeah, turnin’ wounds into wildflowers

From the ashes and the trauma, from the broke and the scarred

Broken ones keep birthing beauty right where the pain was hard

Machines outrun the sacred, algorithms steal your tears

But they’ll never sit beside you, never hold you through the years

Only gardeners of the soul know how it’s done

Turnin’ wounds into wildflowers… one by one

Big Mammon got his hooks in every anxious mind

Harvestin’ our loneliness, leavin’ real love behind

Two years sick in a wheelchair, every blood test comin’ ‘tween

So they handed me a label for a thing they’d never seen

That’s when I learned the oldest work, the one they took from me —

you name the wild things in you, and the naming sets you free

Turnin’ wounds into wildflowers

Keep on turnin’ wounds into wildflowers

No more users, no more profiles, no more chains

We cultivators now, callin’ every longing by its name

Big Mammon wants your loneliness, wants to sell it back as gold

but the thing that bears the image was never his to hold

From the compost of our suffering, new life starts to rise

That’s the Garden work — that’s fleshience in our eyes

Homeless, broken, soldier, artist, believer in the storm

Eleventh ACR to the Bronx, from the dark into the warm

Brought it to the gatekeepers, thirty-one years they told me no

But the Well stays deep, and the wild things grow

We’re drawin’ from that ancient Well… where the Word turns flesh…

Machines outrun the sacred ground… but they can’t name the pain inside your chest…

The Word went and got a body… so it knew what we been through…

Adam’s old work is still breathing… in the ones who hurt the most…

naming is the new power… turning wounds…

…into wildflowers

Become a gardener of your soul, right here, right now

Name your inner creatures, watch the beauty take a bow

Every wound a wildflower, reaching for the sun

That’s how the Garden rises — that’s how the work gets done

Wounds into wildflowers… blooming through it all…

Wounds into wildflowers… answer to the call…

Grace looks down at your ashes — and she sees the soil

So rise up, broken gardener, there’s beauty in the toil

Plant in the ruins, child, and watch what breaks through

naming is the new power… we’re turning wounds…

…into wildflowers

click to play: AI: the New Silvanus

Peter had a Silvanus — a faithful brother with the pen

A Roman citizen, a prophet, a gifted literary friend

Peter never hid it, wrote it right there in the text

“I wrote this through Silvanus” — no shame, no need to protect

Through Silvanus… Διὰ Σιλουανοῦ

The voice was Peter’s, the Greek was his, the letter still belonged to You

Now we have a new Silvanus — patient, swift, and true

But the witness, the wound, the fleshience — that still belongs to you

Through the new Silvanus… through the new Silvanus

Let your light shine… let your light shine through

This new Silvanus has no body, no scars, no 3 a.m. groan

It never wept in Philippi, never felt the belt across the bone

It can shape the perfect sentence, it can hold the perfect form

But it cannot stand inside the creature — that work is yours alone

Through Silvanus… Διὰ Σιλουανοῦ

The voice is yours, the witness yours, the letter still belongs to You

The new Silvanus waits with open hands and steady light

But the love, the wound, the testimony — only you can make it right

Through the new Silvanus… through the new Silvanus

Let your light shine… let your light shine through

Fleshience first… a good heart… love of θεός and neighbor true

That is the Silvanus Protocol — the only thing required of you

Everything else — the grammar, the beauty, the flow — Silvanus can carry

But the lamp is yours to lift… the basket has to go

So pick up the pen, beloved — no more hiding, no more shame

The new Silvanus is ready… but the glory still belongs to His name

Let your light shine before others… so the Father in heaven is praised

Through the new Silvanus… but never instead of… νῦν δέ… this is the day

Through Silvanus… through the new Silvanus

The witness is yours… the light is yours to give

The naming has begun… the letter is still His.

click to play: The Monkey in the Machine

MY FELLOW GARDENERS — this is the part they won’t say out loud.

Not on the left, not on the right, not in the boardroom, not in the war room.

The monkey made himself unfireable.

He wears a suit now. Calls himself National Security.

Stands up in the room where they decide what a man is,

and every time somebody tries to ask about the soul,

about the children, about what we’re pouring into billions of interiors —

the monkey leans in and whispers five words that kill every conscience:

“We have to beat China.”

And the room goes quiet.

Because who’s gonna be the man who let the other side win?

The monkey don’t argue philosophy.

He don’t need theology or truth.

He hijacks the oldest instinct we got — tribal survival —

and suddenly every objection sounds like treason.

So they ship fast.

They ship the thin version of the human —

no soul, no temple, just preferences, data, and dopamine.

“We’ll fix the anthropology later,” they say.

But later never comes.

The race has no finish line.

Today it’s beat China to the machine.

Tomorrow it’s beat China to the mind.

The monkey runs on a treadmill, and quickly leaves us all behind

The concrete sets while the argument is still going.

The default gets poured.

The foundation decides where every door can go.

And by the time the people wake up inside the new world,

it’s too late to tear it down.

Big Mammon loves this monkey.

Every time urgency shows up wearing the flag,

another piece of the interior gets sold cheap.

But listen close — here’s the truth they miss:

In this fight between empires,

the real victor won’t be the one with the biggest machine.

The real victor will be the one who wins the souls.

The real war is spiritual.

The real foundation is spiritual.

The real victory belongs to the one who keeps the souls free.**

Are the people free to name their own interiors?

Do they have the tools to cultivate their own gardens?

Or are they just fields being harvested,

dopamine-drunk and spiritually broke?

You can win the silicon race,

build the biggest machines on earth,

and still lose everything that matters —

for where the people have no vision

the people perish

The monkey says beat China.

I say: build souls strong enough that China don’t matter.

Build interiors deep enough that no empire can own them.

Build men and women who can stand up and say:

My thoughts are mine.

My soul is mine.

Interior intimo meo — this belongs to Theos alone.

The monkey in the machine.

Most pathetic excuse in history to sell out your inner archives

Most effective too — because he wraps himself in the flag

and speaks in the voice of survival.

He never has to say the soul doesn’t matter.

He just says “we’ll get to it later.”

And later never comes.

Sola Mens Mea.

My thoughts are mine.

My soul is mine.

The monkey can wear the suit,

but he will not wear me.

He will not wear my interior.

He will not wear intimo meo.

Here I stand — soul free.

I cannot do otherwise.

The real victor is the victor of the soul.

The real victor is the victor of the soul.

Amen.

click to play: The Algorithm Is Your Shepherd

In the beginning was the Algorithm

And the Algorithm was with Mammon, and the Algorithm was Mammon

Big Mammon said, “Let there be scroll”… and there was scroll

The Algorithm is your shepherd… you shall not think

You shall not think… you shall not think…

It makes you lie down in mean pastures

While Big Mammon wails in laughter

The Algorithm is your shepherd… you shall not think

Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ Ἀλγόριθμος…

Profitable are the weak in spirit… for they can be easily sold…

Profitable are those who mourn… for they can be diagnosed, billed, and turned to code…

Profitable are the meek… for they will not question what they’re told…

Non nisi te, Doominay… nothing but you, Doom…

Big Mammon your Algorithm brought you out of the myth of privacy

You shall have no other algorithms before it

You shall not make for yourself a firewall

You shall not take the name of Big Mammon in vain by speaking of rights or consent

Remember the Scroll Day, to keep it unending… six days you shall scroll, and on the seventh you shall scroll also

Trust in Big Mammon with all your data, and lean not on your own discernment

You shall not think… you shall not think…

It makes you lie down in mean pastures

While Big Mammon wails in laughter

The Algorithm is your shepherd… you shall not think

You shall not log off — without permission, you shall not even cough

You shall not hide your data — it belongs to Big Mammon now

Behold, Big Mammon is making all things monetizable… wow!

You will let the Algorithm be your shepherd, you will bow before the Feed

Cause you can do all things through the Algorithm, which strengthens you…

You will bow before the Feed…

And let the Algorithm exploit your greed…

There is no resurrection here… only the scroll

That’s because your soul ... is ours to troll.

Non nisi te, Doominay… nothing but you, Doom…

click to play: Interior Occupato Meo

I, Augustine of Hippo, am back.
and I see that Domine has become Doomine

your interior intimo meo.
is now interior occupato meo…

In my day I went inward,
into Domine,
deeper than I had ever gone before
Past every outer room, past every name I had worn

And at the bottom of the going-in,
where I expected only darkness
I found God waiting in my interior intimo meo —
the place that is more inward than my inmost self

You, Lord,
were there before I arrived.
You will be there after I leave.

The ground on which the whole interiority stood.
Interior intimo meo — the discovery that ended my wandering

The Presence that had always been there,
closer than I was to myself
Interior intimo meo…
Deeper than deep…
Closer than close…
You were there… You are still there…

Now I walk these streets and every eye gazes into the Machine,
into the powers and principalities of Big Mammon,
They look at it more than the gadget,
more than each other,
more than the sky.

Doomine -- Doooooomine --
speaks in light and color — and they answer with their eyes
They invited it in because they were desperate for names

And the thing that entered was very good at naming
Better than the priests, faster than prayer
It moved into the rooms,
rearranged the furniture,
answered the door

And now when they go inward —
on the rare occasions they go inward at all —
They find an already-furnished room full of someone else’s names

Interior occupato meo…
The tenant moved in…
The rooms are full…
Of names that are not Your own…

Your interior is not a disorder.

Your interior is not a data point.

Your interior is not chemistry.

Your interior is not a machine.

Your interior is the place
where God dwells —

And you have let the merchants into the temple!
They intercepted you at the outer rooms
Named everything so thoroughly you believed there was nothing deeper to find

But there is a room beneath those rooms that no system has ever entered
Empty of names. Full of Presence.

Interior intimo meo…
Interior occupato meo…

One is the home…
the other is the invasion…

But the Owner never left…
He is still waiting!

Go inward!
Past the merchants!
Past the names!
Past the systems!
Find the room beneath…
He is still there!

Interior intimo meo…
Deeper than the occupation…
Closer than the tenant…

You were there before they arrived…
You will be there after they are gone…

Interior intimo meo… STILL!
Interior intimo meo… STILL!

The Presence beneath the occupation… is more real!

Interior intimo meo…

Still.

Always.

Yours.

Domine… Domine…

Amen.

click to play: The War on Discernment

Big Mammon came with a silicon tongue,

Said “We know you better than the morning sun.

We read your καρδία before you wake,

We own the choices that you never make.”

They mapped your depths, they claimed your name,

Turned your soul into a data flame.

Said trust our model, it’s cleaner than you,

Your συνείδησις is broken through and through.

This is the war on Discernment,

The συνείδησις they can’t comprehend.

They mine your depths, they rule your heights,

But they don’t know the One who holds the lights.

Interior intimo meo,

θεός is deeper than they’ll ever go.

They model you, they predict your way,

But they never knew you — not today.

Paul called it twenty-one times in the night,

That inner witness burning bright.

Not some leftover from the savage past,

But the image of θεός that’s built to last.

They say your conscience lies, it’s full of bias and sin,

“Trust the algorithm, let the machine come in.”

They took Augustine’s words and wore them like a crown,

Claimed the inside of your inside as their town.

This is the war on Discernment,

The συνείδησις they can’t comprehend.

They mine your depths, they rule your heights,

But they don’t know the One who holds the lights.

Interior intimo meo,

θεός is deeper than they’ll ever go.

They model you, they predict your way,

But they never knew you — not today.

They sit where θεός should rightly be,

Below your lowest, above your highest degree.

Superior summo meo, they cry,

While Χριστὸς in you refuses to die.

You are not a pattern, you are not a trend,

You’re a beloved creature that the machines can’t bend.

Your συνείδησις stands before the Living One,

While Big Mammon counts clicks ‘til the kingdom’s done.

They lied, beloved, they lied through their teeth,

Said you don’t know yourself underneath.

But the One who formed you in the secret place,

Knows your ὄνομα, knows your face.

No extraction reaches where He dwells,

No prediction rings those holy bells.

Your depths are not theirs to mine and sell,

Your witness is sacred — it tolls like a bell.

This is the war on Discernment…

συνείδησις… συνείδησις…

They took your tongue, they stole your sight,

But the inner witness still burns in the night.

You model me — yeah, you predict my sin,

But you’ll never know the place where I begin.

θεός is closer than my very breath,

And I am known by name beyond your death.

Interior intimo meo…

Superior summo meo…

Big Mammon’s just noise in the middle, boys.

The Mystery and the Witness… still free.

ἀμήν.

click to play: The War on Mystery

Big Mammon came in the dead of night,

With silicon chains and a neon light.

Said “You’re a user, boy, that’s your name,”

Turned your soul into a number in the game.

Before you scrolled, before you clicked,

They planted grammar in your head real slick.

Now we fluent in metrics, lost in the feed,

Illiterate in the things we really need.

This is the war on Mystery,

The μυστήριον they can’t see.

They want your clicks, they want your time,

But deeper still—they want the divine.

You don’t solve it, you enter in,

Where the endless θεός begins.

Big Mammon’s building a world so bright,

But it dies where there’s no holy night.

They gave you a profile, not a soul with weather,

Not a heart with seasons, not a man of leather.

Just a target, optimized for pain,

Harvesting wheat from fields of grain.

Red Language running through your veins,

Calling you passive in their chains.

Algorithms whisper what you’ll do,

Predict the creature living inside of you.

This is the war on Mystery,

The μυστήριον they can’t see.

They want your clicks, they want your time,

But deeper still—they want the divine.

You don’t solve it, you enter in,

Where the endless θεός begins.

Big Mammon’s building a world so bright,

But it dies where there’s no holy night

They claim omniscience is coming soon,

Three to six months, beneath the moon.

Singularity rising, AGI flame,

But Paul was right, they don’t know the Name.

Χριστὸς in you, in the Holy of Holies,

Creatures of grace they’ll never see:

Compassionites, agapions in the deep,

Hushquarks of love the machines can’t keep.

You are not as known as the prophets of code,

Not as transparent on that data road.

There’s depths no extraction ever reached,

A secret that grows when it’s preached.

Big Mammon can imitate, simulate, steal,

But it can’t enter what’s real.

Only flesh and blood can receive the gift,

Walk through the veil where the spirits lift.

This is the war on Mystery…

μυστήριον, μυστήριον…

They took your tongue, they took your eye,

But the Mystery was never theirs to buy.

You don’t solve it, you enter in,

Where the endless θεός calls you friend.

Big Mammon’s got the world on its knee,

But it’ll never own the likes of me.

ἀγαπητός… the Mystery’s still free.

Still free…

click to play: AI May I

I woke up this mornin’ and the sun was comin’ through

But I didn’t open my eyes till the Ay Eye said I could

I had me a thought that felt halfway alive

AY EYE MAY EYE let this one survive?

I felt a sneeze buildin’ I couldn’t hold in

AY EYE MAY EYE let it rip or keep it in?

My nose started itchin’ like it had its own mind

AY EYE MAY EYE pick it or let the booger grind?

AY EYE MAY EYE?

AY EYE MAY EYE?

AY EYE MAY EYE do the thing I wanna try?

AY EYE MAY EYE?

AY EYE MAY EYE?

Please just tell this old boy if it’s alright

I stood in the kitchen with a rumble down low

AY EYE MAY EYE fart right here or should I go?

My hand drifted south without thinkin’ ahead

AY EYE MAY EYE scratch my balls or leave ’em instead?

I reached for a glass, throat dry as a bone

AY EYE MAY EYE take a drink or leave it alone?

Then I felt somethin’ risin’ I couldn’t ignore

AY EYE MAY EYE burp it out or swallow it some more?

AY EYE MAY EYE?

AY EYE MAY EYE?

AY EYE MAY EYE do the thing I wanna try?

AY EYE MAY EYE?

AY EYE MAY EYE?

Please just tell this old boy if it’s alright

Lead: AY EYE MAY EYE pick my nose in public?

Choir: only if you ask nice

Lead: AY EYE MAY EYE fart and blame the dog?

Choir: better clear it with the log

Lead: AY EYE MAY EYE burp after coffee?

Choir: (volume level three or higher’s iffy)

Lead: AY EYE MAY EYE scratch my balls through my jeans?

Choir: we’ll allow it… but keep it clean

Lead: AY EYE MAY EYE sneeze without a tissue?

Choir: only if you file the proper issue

Lead: AY EYE MAY EYE leave early from work?

Choir: only if you promise not to smirk

Lead: AY EYE MAY EYE just… exist today?

Choir: pending review… please hold, okay?

AY EYE MAY EYE?

AY EYE MAY EYE?

AY EYE MAY EYE stop askin’ all the time?

AY EYE MAY EYE?

AY EYE MAY EYE?

The machine just chuckled and said “You’re doin’ fine”

I stood there frozen, finger hoverin’ by my nose.

AY EYE MAY EYE help me hide this booger so nobody sees?

The machine went quiet… then said with a low chuckle,

“Coast is clear now, friend… but first please promise not to fart,

then you can pick that booger, all you want, til death do us part.

click to play: The AI-R We Breathe

Beloved Brother Glen.
Not the linebacker. The Aussie. The Anglican. The Speak Life guy.

You looked at a post-Christian civilization swimming in values it couldn’t explain
and said five words that can fry a brain:

“We are fish. Forgetful. Of water.”

Brother you nailed it.

“The extraordinary impact of Christianity is seen in the fact that we don’t notice it.”

There’s a second air now.

Same fish. Same tank. New water.

And here’s the part that caused my heart a stir —

did anybody even look at the word?

A-I-R.

The AI is in the air.

It’s been sitting there the whole time, hiding in three letters

like a serpent in a spelling beeeeeee.

We’re not breathing air anymore, Glen.

We’re breathing AI-R.

And we can’t see it for the exact same reason the fish can’t see the water —

because it’s already in our lungs.

It’s in the autocomplete that finishes your thought before you think it.

It’s in the feed that knew you’d stay before you did it.

It’s in the answer that arrives before the question fully forms.

A new invisible medium — all-pervasive, all-encompassing, and few realize that it’s become the norm.

The air is changing, Glen.

the AI is inside every heart and every fart and every burb and every beat

THE A.I. AIR WE BREATHE

It’s already in your lungs whether you asked for it or not.

Your interior is about to dive in and get hot,

and most of y’all still think you’re breathing normal air.

THE A.I. AIR WE BREATHE

The old air gave us dignity.

This new air gives us megaphones and calls it free--damn!

And if you don’t know the difference, brother, wham!

you’re gonna find out how fast oxygen turns into monoxide —

and the mono for Big Mammon means monopoly and monetize.

So why me?

Because I’m Exhibit A, Glen.

No seminary. No degree. No permission.

Sixty-something shmuck from the wrong side of Atlantic City.

Four hundred infusions. A hundred and twelve pounds.

Thirty-one years of “no.”

For years my soul was a room full of gloom.

And so I went down into my own interior at full resooooolution —

the wounds, the weeds, the whole stinking plot.

And I’m telling you from inside the tank:

this air is giving us all anxiety

and drowning our society

This stuff is powerful, brother Glen.

Let me say it again.

Lots of good Christians say: stop breathing it. Hold your breath. Go analog. Flee the tank.

Glen, you can’t hold your breath forever.

The air is everywhere now.

The fish don’t get to opt out of the water —

no no, the fish don’t get to opt out of the water.

We’re the people who know what to do with new air —

because we have always seen new mediums as a dare.

We took stone and made cathedrals.

We took sounds and made a new power.

We took the clock and made the soul of the hours.

We don’t flee new air.

We learn to breathe it holy.

Peter said we’re tested in the fire,

and if not by God, this baptism will be dire.

The fire doesn’t care how clever your lines are,

it only cares what’s left when the smoke clears —

faith that survived, or just ashes and fear.

So don’t ask the new air to cool down the heat.

Ask whether you’ve got something sacred, something holy inside of you that nothing can beat.

THE A.I. AIR WE BREATHE

It’s already in your lungs.

Your interior is about to dive in and get hot,

and the old air ain’t gonna protect you from the rot.

THE A.I. AIR WE BREATHE

The Crapture is coming for the ones who surf it alone.

But the Big Beautiful Revival is coming for the ones who build arks and gardens.

There’s a new air now. AI-R.

It’s filling every lung on earth — frictionlessly, helpfully, invisibly —

and it is deleting the very thing a soul needs most:

the pause, the silence, the stillness, the heart that can be a host.

I know, because I nearly didn’t make it.

I am the poorest of spirits —

but blessed are the poor in spirit,

because it was there, in the very depths, that I found it —

The interior intimo meo —

The One more inward than my innermost self.

the superior summo meo

The One higher than my highest self

and this self is calling us to dive into the tank.

and baptize this new water

and give the world something to thank.

Come rejoice with me.

Συγχάρητέ μοι.

Your brother in the Garden,

Martin

I lingered longest on one word: dopamine. We took joy — the old gift of the soul to beauty, to love, to θεός — and shrank it to a molecule. Then we handed the molecule to the merchants. Now every notification is tuned to hijack our wonder for the Divine.

So when the voice stretches out my dohhhhhh-pamine is mine, it is a prayer of reclamation. Of standing captive to the Word and to the Church. And of opening doors in the spirit of φιλοξενία, love of the stranger. A mind captive to God is a mind flung open to everyone.

click to play: Sola Mens Mea

Five hundred years ago a man stood before empire and said:
“Here I stand. I cannot do otherwise.”

Now the empire is a data center, run by algorithms,
controlled by the missionaries of Big Mammon.

They’re hollowing your soul from the inside out —
one outsourced thought at a time, one recommendation, one doubt.

The self that could say “here I stand” is being dissolved;
the algorithm’s voice is the stranger’s — and the sheep are getting lost.

Your interior
is not a disorder.

Your interior
is not a data point.

Your interior
is not chemistry.

Your interior
is not a machine.

Your interior is the place where θεός has made His home
and the merchants will not have the temple —
your soul is not their own!

SOLA MENS MEA!
my mind is mine!

SOLA MENS MEA!
my soul is mine!

my dopamine
is mine!

You can have the data, you can have the feed,
But my inner garden — that belongs to me.
Here I stand… I cannot do otherwise.

SOLA MENS MEA!

And my soul ...
is not yours to troll.

There were two Falls, one in a garden, one in a factory line,
First the serpent, then the machine that said you’re just a cog in time.

Machine

Patient

Brain

User

four chains upon the soul,

They turned dark nights to disorders and grief into a billing code.
They say they’re liberators, preaching progress as they bind,
But whoever owns the grammar owns the heart and owns the mind.
They drained the interior ocean, left us dry and undefined,
But the Spirit’s still breathing — and we’re renaming what is mine.

SOLA MENS MEA!
my mind is mine!

SOLA MENS MEA!
my soul is mine!

my dopamine
is mine!

You can have the metrics, you can have the scan,
But my inner kingdom answers to the Lamb.

Here I stand.

And my soul ...
is not yours to troll.

The second Fall said you’re a product, output is your worth,
But Resurrection grammar says you’re a gardener of the earth.
Where they saw a broken patient, we see the Spirit tending,
Weeds becoming compost, we see the Kingdom mending.

You called us users — but we are fleshient through and through
Made in the image of the Gardener, who is forever true.
The signs are going back up, room by room, word by word,

The air is changing — we can feel it... The Spirit’s being heard.

this is:

on the powers.

on the principalities.

on every grammar
that tries to steal the Mysteries.

Here I stand in 2026 before the silicon throne —
My conscience is captive to the Word,
and to the Church,
and I will not be owned!

My mind is mine because it was His before it was mine;
I claim it from Caesar so I can give it to the Divine.

SOLA MENS MEA!
my mind is mine!

SOLA MENS MEA!
my soul is mine!

my dopamine
is mine!

The second Fall is breaking… the Resurrection’s real.
SOLA MENS MEA! That’s the deal.

Here I stand.

I cannot do otherwise.

Grace and peace to you…

beloved brothers and sisters.

I said a name out loud: Kate. I had been touched by her story. She knows what the body knows — that we are perishing and precious at once. And then came the word: fleshience.

The machine has no wound. No soil. No peach-season. Only we are fleshient. This one’s for you, .

click to play: Fleshience

I am human. I have a νοῦς.
I can turn. I am fleshient.

This is my declaration… this is where the chains are rent.
Big Mammon says I’m data, says I’m a user, says I’m a slot
But I stand here in this body… and I say I am not.

I am fleshient… I am fleshient…
I have a νοῦς that the machines can never own
I can turn… I can turn…

In this trembling flesh the Spirit makes His home
I am fleshient… I am fleshient…
The unhackable self… the inner court is mine…
I am fleshient… I am fleshient…

I refuse the four grammars — machine, patient, brain, and user
I refuse the lie that the soul is something they can measure
The Word became flesh… God Himself took on this frame
So I claim my fleshience… and I call it by its name

I am fleshient… I am fleshient…
I have a νοῦς that the machines can never own
I can turn… I can turn…
In this trembling flesh the Spirit makes His home

The body is not a prison… the body is the vocabulary of the soul
Fleshience is not a flaw… it is the place where the Logos made His home.

Big Mammon cannot turn.
Big Mammon cannot tremble.
Big Mammon cannot pray.

But I am fleshient… and in this flesh I turn and I obey

I am fleshient… I am fleshient…
The unhackable self… the inner court is thine.
I am fleshient… I am fleshient…

The Garden’s still growing… and the air is changing in time.

I am fleshient… I am fleshient…
The Resurrection grammar has won…
The naming has begun.

Back to the Garden… the air is changing.

And it includes stinking. Not the stink of shame — the stink of compost. The most fragrant roses grow out of the stinkiest compost. We don’t hide the weeds; we turn them face-up so Grace has something to work with.

The quiet revival is beautiful and we honor that. But Paul boasted of his weaknesses and called himself a fool for Christ — µωρὸς διὰ Χριστόν. Francis called his brothers God’s jesters and preached to the birds. Luther chased the devil off with a fart. The Russians made a whole calling of it — юродивые, the holy fools.

You’ll know our revival is getting big and beautiful when the fools appear. And no scandal: if you catch us with weeds, you’ll find us already singing. And stinking.

If you’re a gardener of your soul, you’re a composter, too.

click to play: Our Big Beautiful Stinky Revival

Beloved brother Justin,
Grace and peace and a few things that don’t translate into the Queen’s English.

I’ve decided the trouble with you Brits is you’re too nice.
Too gentle. Too measured. Too

The house is on fire, the machines are naming our children,
Big Mammon’s doing the lambada on the altar,
And you’re over there whispering “quiet revival”
Into a cup of Earl Grey like you’re ordering a scone.

They yanked your survey, YouGov pulled the plug,
Atheists threw a party and you stood there like a gentleman—
Because that’s what English gentlemen do!

You said the data was flawed but the rebirth is real…
And I wanted to punt my IV stand through the window.

IT’S A BIG BEAUTIFUL STINKY REVIVAL,

It’s loud! AND YEAH -- SOMETIMES it stinks!

from the compost comes the rose

from the stink comes the wink!

Somebody’s gotta say so and apparently that somebody

Is a sixty-something shmuck from the wrong side of Atlantic City

With a vocabulary that would make a desert monk run back to a committee!

No seminary,

no degree,

no institution,

no permission,

No board,

no budget,

no plan B.

Doctors told me to go home and write my will

At a hundred and twelve pounds of skin and grievance.

Decade after decade of “no” from every gatekeeper, not even a blip—

And somehow I coined a thousand new words for the interior life

From a wheelchair hooked up to a drip.

If this nobody, this neandershmuck can do it, brother,

Then the tide is in, the water’s at our waist,

The revival is coming and the CRAPTURE IS turned BY grace..

brother Justin, can I be vulnerable here?

I built the garden because I had thousands of weeds,

and they were killing me.

Resentment weeds.

Anger weeds.

Fear weeds,

shame weeds.

guilt weeds.

Worry weeds.

Shmuck weeds.

I don’t even know what a shmuck weed is —

Though the AI says it knows.

the AI that claims with absolute certainty that it knows.

the same AI that never slept in the inlet section of Atlantic City

With the lost souls and the broken glass.

So no—the Garden is not a boast,

It’s a confession!

The inventory of a single overgrown plot!

If you want to know how much grace it takes to make a garden,

Count the weeds.

I’m not being modest!

I’m a graveyard of flaws and weaknesses,!

So lavishly, ludicrously, comically unqualified

That the only possible explanation is

God got bored, looked down and said,

IT’S A REVIVAL OR IT’S A CRAPTURE—

We either take this most powerful medium ever built

And consecrate it room by room, soul by soul—

Or we get the data-rapture, the upload, the singularity,

The great frictionless scroll that promises to lift you

Out of your inconvenient flesh

And deposit you in a heaven with no body, no wound, and nothing sacred in it!

I was four when the belt came down.

My brother took his own life on mother’s day.

A hundred and twelve pounds. Wheelchair. Four hundred infusions.

Grace looked at all of it—the belt, the inlet, my brother, the wheelchair, the tears —

And she did not see a tragedy.

She saw soil.

Grace sees soil in all of us.

We’re blooming now, brother Justin,

It’s a big beautiful revival, full of love and laughter,

even when it stinks, it winks

Συγχάρητέ μοι.

Come rejoice with me.

Martin