The Witch of Babylon

By Ted Schnack

Babylon the Great... the dwelling place of demons... the mother of prostitutes... and abominations of the earth. — Revelation 17:5

When I first started writing this, I thought it would be an interesting Iraq side story—just one of those strange, almost-forgotten things that happened downrange. One of my favorite things about writing or sculpting or any creative endeavor is that you have to engage on a deeper and more meaningful level. You spend more time with it. You think about it. You explore ideas and concepts—discovering things previously hidden or simply yet undiscovered. I'm still trying to wrap my head around what was revealed.  Whoa.

But as I kept writing, it wasn’t just remembering—it was like the pages of the Book of Revelation were opening up in front of me. Layer by layer. Verse by verse. This wasn’t just memory—it was a revelation in the true sense of the word. Things I’d buried or faded with time twenty years ago came roaring back with a clarity I wasn't expecting—not just as events, but as warnings, symbols, spiritual battles I hadn’t known I was part of. Until now.

At the time, I felt uneasy, a weird happenstance. The edge. But I didn’t have the words for it. I didn’t have the eyes to see what I was walking into.

I can see it now.

But now, years later, something in me knows. This wasn’t just a seduction. It wasn’t just a woman. It wasn’t just war.

This was Babylon.

There’s something about Iraq that never sits right in the soul. You feel it the moment you step off the plane. The heat slaps you, the dust gets in your teeth, and the silence between blasts feels ancient. But it’s more than war, blast walls, choppers, and razor wire. Sword, shield, and sling had been replaced by AK-47s and suicide bombers. Same idea—armed men killing each other.  Its history is a bloody one. 

But it’s beyond that.

There’s more. It’s deeper. It’s something older. Ancient. Timeless. Spiritual. Unsettled.

This is Babylon. Of all the places on earth, my boots were in the dirt of fallen Babylon.  My path had led me to war.  I breathed its air. Felt the blistering sun. This is where the greatest spiritual battles in human history were fought and lost. Where dark and light fight in the ebb and flow of good and evil. This was a war in full stride, and I found myself in the middle of it in more ways than I realized then.

Babylon is not just the ruins or the maps—I mean spiritually. Biblically. Eden, Babel, Nineveh, Ur—the bones of the Bible are buried here. The Tigris and Euphrates still slither like ancient reptiles through a land soaked in blood and memory. God once walked this soil. So did the serpent.  The lands of first man and first sin. And ever since the Fall, it’s been contested ground. You can feel it in the hot wind. It doesn’t just blow dust—it presses in. Heavy. Dirty. Gritty. Like carrying messages in a language older than speech. The sun beats down, but there’s always something cold just underneath it—something unsettled. Old curses and forgotten names.

From the beauty and promise of the Garden of Eden, to the unleashing of sin, to the storms of judgment, this land shifted from divine birthplace to a place of eternal spiritual unrest—or all-out demonic thunderstorms. A lot of blood—real and spiritual—has been spilled into this dirt. And much of the blood, conquest, and defeat in that ancient story came from men who believed their deaths or the violence they spread were Holy. Righteous.

Sometimes I’d look across the blood-red sun setting and hemorrhaging across the burning flame of the horizon and know I was staring into the beginning of time. The nucleus of it all. I knew Eden was out there, once a lush paradise now burned into the dust. The land didn’t just feel ancient—it felt alive and ancient. And watching. Not with eyes—but with judgment. Scorched Earth that remembered.

We had a guy on our team—a powerful preacher named Paul. The real deal. He gave full-hearted sermons on base, filled with love, fire, and truth. A natural, charismatic energy of a man chosen to spread the Word. One of those glowing Christians. Honestly, he could’ve led a megachurch following of thousands, but some days it was just me and him. Didn’t matter—he preached like he was speaking to a stadium or at the Gates of Heaven. And I was listening.

It became a powerful place for me to explore the beauty of Christianity—something that would later become central to my life, in more than just a spiritual sense. Later in life, many creative blessings came upon me—truly out of nowhere. Sculpting. A way with words. Ideas. A compulsion to take action and spread the Word of Christianity had been thrust upon me. But reflecting, I can see clearly that God had been placing building blocks—skills and abilities—stone by stone, brick by brick, thought by thought throughout my entire life, preparing me for this part of my journey. Unknown to me at the time, but crystal clear now.

I didn’t know where it would all lead—I just knew I wanted to go deeper. And when you’re living in a war zone, refining your relationship with God is never a bad idea.

Soldiers, contractors, and other armed vagabonds drifted through that war. Some would join our little Christian circle. Some curious. Some seeking peace, grace, forgiveness—or whatever it was they needed from God.

One day, a young soldier showed up. He said he’d been woken by the mortar siren the night before, but never heard an explosion. Figured it was a false alarm. Went back to bed. The next morning, he found out a mortar had hit the tent next to his—close enough that if it had gone off, it would've killed him and half his squad. It pierced the tent top struck the floor and bounced landing between the legs of a sleeping soldier.

A dud.

He figured it was a good day to go to church.

It wasn’t uncommon for mortars to be duds. These insurgents weren’t James Bond. Most mortars have to spin in flight to arm the fuse and need to be fired from a rifled mortar tube. A lot of these Einstein's didn’t know that and would just grab a plumbing pipe. Some just went clunk on arrival.  And some went boom right when the "Ali Akbar" was chanted to send it on its way and instead turning them into a pink mist.  Deadly munitions in hands of someone that doesn't know how to tie bootlaces can have have mixed results.    Still—you don’t want to bet your life on some Jihadi not having his shit together.

For a few weeks, we were joined by a ten-man mobile security unit—“Shark Team.” Just the name carried weight. These guys were Samoan and looked like they’d stepped out of another era—massive, ancient-warrior types. Six-four, three hundred pounds, geared up in armor and toting machine guns. On sight, they were extreme apex predators.

As intimidating as they looked, bombs would’ve ripped them apart like anyone else. But the Iraqis—insurgents, foreign fighters—often saw the world through a more primal lens. These were ancient people, steeped in tribal memory, myth, and power dynamics. Word had traveled for centuries through the old silk routes—tales of island savages from the South Pacific who were said to be cannibals and headhunters. They never expected to see one in the middle of the desert… until now. And there they were.

It’s one thing to get killed. It’s another to get eaten or your head taken as a trophy.

To them, the Shark Team looked like a squad of otherworldly, heavily armed Goliaths—giant warriors sent by fate or force. It didn’t matter that a well-placed IED could kill anyone; the sheer visual presence of these armored titans moving through the city stirred something old in the local psyche. Fear. Myth. Reverence. They weren’t just men—they were dark omens of death.

And now, through the haze and rubble, came these silent giants, heavily armed., combat knives and dripping with ammo—tattooed, towering, moving with an prophetic calm. To the locals, it wasn’t just firepower and muscle. It was prophecy. Like something older and more vengeful than war had come back around.

But in spirit? Gentle giants. These were men of faith—Christians through and through. They’d sit in stillness during Paul’s sermons, holding their Bibles—books that looked like playing cards in their massive hands—yet handled Scripture with the reverence of monks. The image stayed with me: Paul preaching to warriors. Not unlike the original Paul, speaking to Roman soldiers and centurions. The message of Christ once traveled down the spear shafts of empire—and now, here it was again, threaded through rifle slings and combat vests.

The contrast was powerful. The Shark Team brought an energy that was both fierce and reverent. Strength on the outside, submission on the inside. It reminded me that God’s Kingdom doesn’t just call the meek and broken—it also calls the strong and the dangerous. Not to tame them, but to redirect them. To show them true power.  Soldiers for Christ, willing to march into hell for a Heavenly cause.

Isiah 6;8 Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I. Send me!”

In this part of the world, superstitions run deep. Always has and always will. It’s a land where ancient demons, desert jinn, and blood-stained folk tales still haunt the shadows of every alley. Where curses and vengeance echo through time. A place where people glance twice at smoke and whisper warnings about spirits and old curses.

And if you looked around back then, it wouldn’t take much to believe the gates of hell had cracked open. Armies of demons were on the loose. Madness was in the air.  Death and atrocities masquerading as righteous and even Holy danced with wild abandon. You’d seen tanks, choppers, and lots of men with guns… but something old and evil was running wild through broken Babylon once again.

“Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” —1 Peter 5:8

We were living on the Baghdad Police College compound—a dusty maze of squat buildings, blast walls, razor wire, and gun towers. The air was haunted by the call to prayer from surrounding mosques, punctuated by the clatter of machine gun fire and the warm booms of explosions near and far. There were barely any women around—maybe a few passing through with Army units, and none exactly beauty queens—but after months, you stopped noticing or caring. Your mind hardened into mission-mode.

Then one day, I was in the gym, hammering out a workout, and this woman stepped up beside me and smiled.

I had seen her—and so had everyone else—when she walked into the chow hall over the past couple of days. Hourglass figure. Tailored uniform. Clearly designed to show off her curves. She knew she was attractive under normal conditions—but in a place where everyone in the room was sex-starved and a stateside 3 was now a 10, she knew exactly the kind of attention she was stirring up. She was Lucille washing a soapy car in Cool Hand Luke in front of a chain gang. 

She wasn’t just attractive—she was radiant. Thick, glossy raven-black hair, bundled up but ready to fall like a shimmering sheet halfway down her back. Classic beauty. Full lips. Long eyelashes, Perfect white teeth. She had that look—the kind women know gives them  power over men—and she wielded it like a seductive song.   In this place it was a superpower. She told me she was from Kuwait, working as a translator for a Marine colonel. She laughed easily with her hand on my arm. Made flirty eye contact. And she was clearly interested. It caught me off guard. Anything like this seemed impossible 

"For Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light.” —2 Corinthians 11:14

Early in the deployment, I’d asked one of the seasoned contractors what gets guys booted from missions. He didn’t hesitate; drinking, temper, women. I didn’t drink. I kept my cool. But women? That had always been my Achilles’ heel. So I made a private vow—this year would be one of discipline. A spiritual reset. Not that I had a chance anyway. We were all doomed to celibacy. It was just part of the gig.

Still, when she invited me for a walk that night, I said yes—knowing full well it meant something. It felt a little... or maybe a lot... risky. Really, my only thought was not wanting to get into mission trouble and a twinge of guilt letting lust cloud my Christian journey. I hadn’t been told “no women” outright, and I was looking for wiggle room and justification. Shit, brother—I could get killed here. This might be my last chance. We’re consenting adults. What could it hurt?  This could be a great oasis in the daily risk, pressure and drudgery of this dangerous shit hole.  “ You got this.....were cool....we can handle our shit.”

We talked. Laughed. Strolled the perimeter under the watchtowers, the razor wire glittering under floodlights. But something about the night felt... heavy. 

She took my hand as we walked. I was paranoid someone would see us, so I guided us away from the beaten path—into the darker, shadowy, more remote parts of the compound. It felt dangerous, and I thought that danger was just fear of being seen. The base rumor mill would explode the second anyone caught wind.

But now, reflecting back, that feeling of unease was something much deeper—and far more dangerous.  I was being lured into a trap.  I could sense it, feel it, but the bait was too irresistible.

Then she turned to me and said:

“You know, I’m a witch.”

She half-smiled.

I laughed it off.

But it didn’t land like a joke.

We got back to her hooch. She stepped close to me, lifting her chin, and we started kissing. She lay back on the bed—moonlight coming in through the window. I was lying across her, my hands caressing her hips and breasts. Okay, I’d been down this road before, and while there are differences, some things are the same. I don’t think I noticed it clearly at the time, but something felt off. In reflection—she wasn’t making the small sounds and sighs of passion when a woman’s body is being touched with intention. I wasn’t checking boxes in the moment, but I remember now—she was silent.

Then I saw  I saw her eyes.

Black. Wide open. Not blinking. Emotionless. Still. Like glass. Bottomless. Liquid.  Blank.  This was all happening in just a few minutes... maybe five.

During our kissing, she started biting at my lips—just a little bit too hard.


Then her tongue touched mine.


And it wasn’t smooth.


It was rough.

Like a cat’s tongue.

My whole body recoiled. Something primal in me screamed: Get the fuck out. Now!.

I made an excuse, stood up, and walked out into the night. My heart was racing—but not from arousal. From “what the fuck was that?”

I remember quickly walking back to my hooch with a deep sense of relief. Like I had just skipped down the gallows stairs. When I got back, my roommate said, “So what happened, lover boy?” Then his look shifted. “Hey… you cool?” I remember saying, “You don’t even want to know.”  Iraq was the kind of place where, when someone says that, you don’t ask again.

Throughout it all, I’d had a sense of trouble. I wrote it off at the time as fear of getting in hot water with the mission—some disciplinary infraction. But looking back, that feeling was something deeper. Something spiritual. A primal instinct. God gives us free will, but He also sends warnings. Give us tests. Not as way to condemn but to make us into better people through trial, struggle and understanding and teaching us to set more paths forward. nudges, whispers or sometime a yank back from the abyss.   Becoming better.  We are made in God image and he wants us to live up to that amazing gift.  And Satan lurks about doing everything he can to make sure we struggle with or fail those tests.  Many people wallow in a satanic life, embrace it, he doesn't need to bother with them they are already in the bag.  He and his demons and wormwood look for those that are trying to live in the Light and even more those trying to promote that Light to others.  They become prime targets. 

Like the phone call on the Tarmac that probably saved my life—literally a call from God. Or the fire that consumed my home and studio—another event clearly touched by dark forces. Or a feeling of unrest you just can’t shake. The closer you are to God, less sin more clarity, the easier it is to see those messages for what they are.   Sometimes God whispers, and sometimes He yells—and we’ve got to listen, not just to the parts we want to hear.

I never saw her again.

In the weeks that followed, the memory wouldn’t let go. But life moves fast. Weird shit had happened to me before—and this was a strange place.

Then came the sign.

It was midday. I was walking to the range by myself. Bright desert sun. I looked up and saw a pigeon flying toward me. But this one wasn’t like the usual gray, dull birds swarming the city. This one was pure white. Clean. Alone. I’m a lover of nature, and taking time to notice and appreciate beautiful things is part of my journey and stopped to watch it.

As it passed, it banked low overhead above me. I saw a smear of red running down its side.

Blood.

It was the only pure white pigeon I’d seen—or would see—the entire deployment. I remember muttering to myself, That was blood. It didn’t seem injured. It just flew past and vanished into the haze. But that image burned into me. A symbol I couldn’t explain—but couldn’t ignore.  Remembered.

For a long time, I chalked it up as just another strange occurrence in a strange place. Something about that bird stuck with me, sure—but I didn’t dwell on it. I made no connection. Just shook my head and thought, Whoa… that was weird. Just another odd ripple in the dark waters of Babylon. 

Because make no mistake—this was Babylon..


Fallen ground.


A haunt for violence.


A furnace of corruption.

Revelation 18:2 hits different when your boots were in that dirt, when the fleeting ideas of satanic evil had manifested itself in flesh and blood the horror of war on the ground you tread, live and lay your head to rest. 

“Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great!


She has become a dwelling place for demons,


a haunt for every unclean spirit,


a haunt for every unclean bird,


a haunt for every unclean and detestable beast.”

That verse described the air I breathed.  The dread around you dressed up as a noble cause.

But not that bird.

I didn’t fully see it until I sat down to write twenty years later. Two decades of distance. And suddenly, it hit me.

It wasn’t unclean.


It wasn’t defiled.


It was pure.

A white bird—marked with blood.

“Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare... He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge.” —Psalm 91:3–4

Frozen in my mind now, framed in a hazy powder blue sky.

Not a curse.

A message.

Not the whore of Babylon’s bird...


But Heaven’s.

The blood of Christ.
 The Holy Spirit.
 Right there in front of me.

That was the sign.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” —John 1:5

All that time, it registered wrong. I looked at light and didn’t recognize it. It did feel like an dark omen. But it was light. I didn’t know where I fit—but I remembered.

“Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness…” —Isaiah 5:20

That verse cuts differently when you realize it’s talking about you. How many times have you read scripture and felt like it was written just for you? Specifically.  It’s that kind of book. That kind of message. It’s personal. It’s supposed to be.

Now I know. That bird wasn’t some random oddity. It was a flare from Heaven. A whisper through blood and feathers:

“Pay attention. I’m still here.”

“How much more will the blood of Christ... purify our conscience from dead works to serve the living God.” —Hebrews 9:14

That wasn’t just poetic. That was what I’d walked through. A demon in a beautiful disguise. A moment that wasn’t just temptation, it was seduction by something ancient.

I was tempted.

I was targeted.

I was tested- I failed. God saved me as he had many times before.

Babylon’s daughter, still prowling the ruins.

“The woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet... holding in her hand a golden cup full of abominations... and on her forehead was written a name of mystery: 'Babylon the Great, Mother of Prostitutes and of Earth’s Abominations.’” —Revelation 17:4–5

What I thought was just a strange night twenty years ago started to come back sharper with time. Not as a weird memory. As a spiritual warning. Because Babylon isn’t gone. The demons that whispered at Eden’s edge, that danced at Babel’s fall, that filled the whore’s cup in Revelation—they’re still active. Still charming. Still looking for cracks.

And that night, they found one.

I was weak.

And once again, God saved my ass.

It reminds me of Samson. Strong as any man God ever made—brought to his knees not by armies, but by one woman. Delilah didn’t need a sword or a battle cry. She used a soft sigh. Seduction. Lust. And like me, Samson knew better. But strength, wits, and a lifetime of confidence had always ruled the day. He thought, I got this. So did I.

But he let the line blur. He trusted Delilah—and it nearly cost him everything.

I was strong too. Savvy in violence, weapons, threat detection—always on guard. But I allowed a venomous serpent slip in through the back shadows, wrap its coils around me—cloaked in seduction and dark intent, hunting for my soul. And I let it. I dropped my physical and spiritual guard. I welcomed it with passion and lust on my mind.

And like Samson, I almost paid the ultimate price.

“For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world…” —Ephesians 6:12

Some spirits don’t come at you head-on. They come through a smile. A lock of black hair in the wind. A look. A hand in yours. A caress. A whisper in the dark.

“She has cast down many wounded, and all who were slain by her were strong men.” —Proverbs 7:26

That night in Baghdad, I wasn’t facing just temptation—I was facing Delilah with a demon behind her eyes.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me… —Psalm 23:4

That night in Babylon, by God’s grace, I walked away.

Through shifting shadows, through lusty fire, through dark charm. Through a kiss that wasn’t human and a look that has never left my minds eye. Not because I was brave—But because God never left my side. 

"But the Lord is faithful. He will establish you and guard you against the evil one."—2 Thessalonians 3:3

I had survived men trying to kill me—and something more ancient than men.  Not just bullets and mortars, but forces that slithered beneath the surface, venomous coiled with intent, whispering in old tongues, promises, curses. Somehow, my journey had armed me for battle and led me to Babylon—a timeless land of smoke and mystery, of blood and power, conflict and vengeance. A furnace of gods, ghosts and witches where kingdoms rose and crumbled like sandcastles in the breath of eternity. A place where wars raged not only between armies, but within the quiet chambers of the human soul. Over thousands of years, I was just another armed intruder carrying a weapon of war, boots treading dust soaked with history, violence, and judgment looking to find my way.

Across deserts and war zones, over the bones of empires and the ruins of sin, Christ’s light spreads. I’ve bet my life—my art, my words, my mission—on the truth that the light of Christ and the love of God are stronger than the forces of darkness. Every sculpture God makes through me, every song I write, every story I tell—it’s a flare against the darkness. A Holy rebellion.  But that flare, that light is worldwide, its eternal and the light of single candles has turned raging fire of Christ love that has spread to ever dark corner of the world.  That light has not faded for thousands of years and only grows stronger with time. 

The same kind of holy rebellion we witnessed 2,000 years ago. Make no mistake—Christ and His disciples were outlaws.  Rebels. Tough men enduring the harsh elements—wind, blistering sun, cold desert nights, and hunger.  They defied the ruthless power of Rome and the religious elite, playing the most dangerous game. Christ bore His cross—His crucifixion—without complaint, without regret, never losing sight of His message of love and redemption. His last earthly thought was forgiveness for His oppressors.  All his disciple died martyrs’ death the love of Christ the last word on their tortured lips. That’s real power. The kind of power that brings Samoan warriors to their knees in prayer. The kind that rewrites the human heart and soul. His message swept across every known corner of the globe.  The world has never seen anything like it. Not even close.

Christ changed the course of human history more than any figure ever has—by a long shot.  Its Supernatural it has to be.

A flame raised high in the face of shadows. A light brighter than a million suns. The truth more vast than all the galaxies. The Alpha. The Omega. The First. The Last. The Everything. And once again—He forgave me. He had my back.

Most think the threat is always out there—terrorists, politics, bullets, economies. But the real battlefield is quieter. It’s the soul, when no one’s watching. When a beautiful woman leans in. When a dream stirs something buried. When a symbol reaches into your memory and taps something primal. That’s where wars are won or lost.

“These will wage war against the Lamb, and the Lamb will overcome them, for He is Lord of lords and King of kings—and those who are with Him are called, chosen, and faithful.”

—Revelation 17:14

But even in a place like this—scarred and scorched by time—hope remains.

Babylon may be fallen, but eternity is not.

Because the love of Christ stretches even here.

And Heaven doesn’t flinch.

“No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn.—Isaiah 54:17

I’ve created dozens of bronze Biblical sculptures—really, bronze visions. They’re barely my ideas. I feel moved by a power I can hardly understand. I don’t measure anything or use references. I’ve never taken a lesson or watched a how-to video. I just started doing it. It all flows from inspiration—by taking action and putting full trust in an unseen but very real, angelic muse.

Maybe the spiritual realm saw it coming and sent a Witch.   What follows in this story is an unfolding of demonic forces in play right now to destroy me and my mission.  There’s a pattern in scripture: the supernatural often moves before the visible world catches up.  These forces of good and evil setting up golden paths or dark traps in our future, nudges, whispers, pushes off cliffs or mind-blowing revelations of good.    Not as some sort of grand personal prophecy, but I see an interesting parallel—it’s like when Herod sensed something divine had entered the world and sent men to kill all the newborn infant males hoping to get Christ in this demonic net of death long before anyone knew His name or heard his message. God has opened incredible doors for me and set my sails in an amazing wind and direction. .   Saved me before.  A solid five times I should have died and likely others times I never knew of.  Maybe, there were forces—good and evil—already stirred by the direction my life would take decades later. I was on the Radar. 

I wasn’t anyone special. Just another contractor doing his job in a broken place trying to stay alive. But the things I’d go on to make—the sculptures, the songs, the stories—they must’ve stirred something. Something ancient that can traverse time and space in a flash. Something that didn’t want them those ideas to see the light of day. Or that journey protected. Looking back, I realize now—what I brushed off as strange moments, weird encounters, odd resistance—might’ve been something more. Something watching. Something trying to derail what hadn’t even started yet.

But the truth is, this whole journey wasn’t mine to design. The path, the shaping, the fire—it was all God. I wasn’t just sculpting bronze. He was sculpting me. Every open door, every setback, every whisper of an idea was His hand at work. I was just following the heat, like molten metal guided through the mold.

Even my lifelong love of art—that wasn’t just passion. It was preparation. I didn’t just admire beauty. I studied it. I listened.   I felt a deep magnetic attraction.  I sensed how to speak its language, how to sing its song. And one day, without warning, God handed me the instrument: bronze. And suddenly, everything made sense.  It resonated deeply in my mind and soul and I knew this was going to be a bit part of my life and destiny.

Here’s the wild part—I was 52 when this all began. The sculpting itself felt like stepping into another realm, another dimension—the most amazing experience of my life. People liked it.  They bought it,  They saw something real in it—something that stirred the heart, lit up the eyes.  I had been a lifelong hunter and outdoorsman and started with wildlife, animals I loved and understood deeply.  When I started the biblical pieces the effect was entirely different, deeper, this all way going to a complete different place.  They seemed to understand what I was trying to say—not with words but the art itself, but through the silent language of the bronze.  For millennium of a bronzes journey the artist is long gone they have to speak for themselves.  Starting an art business at that age, with no training, no art degree, no roadmap? By the world’s standards, it was nothing short of insanity. and starving artist a clique for failure.   Give up your overseas six figure plus gigs.  But it was all I could think about.   I couldn't not do it.

So when I say these bronzes will carry the message and stories of the Bible long after civilizations—and I—have turned to dust, I mean this: they aren’t mine. They were never mine. They belong to the same Spirit that lit the flame.  And as they go forward, they carry the energy poured into them in their making—spiritual energy, emotional energy, a spark from the forge of something greater. With each person they engage, that energy stirs something new. It becomes a river, flowing soul to soul, generation to generation... until it disappears into the future.

"For if I preach the gospel, that gives me no ground for boasting. For necessity is laid upon me. Woe to me if I do not preach the gospel!" —1 Corinthians 9:16

It is my mission in life to make these bronzes, and it has gotten the attention of dark forces. These forces have attacked me, injured me, and destroyed my most precious belongings. But I'm willing to pay the ultimate price, up to and including death, for this mission. I’m willing to march into Hell for a Heavenly cause.

My studio and home, filled with finished and in-progress biblical art, were destroyed in an unexplained fire, all of my most personal possessions from a lifetime of traveling and engaging with the world—just hours after the most mind-blowing and affirming event of my entire Biblical bronze journey.  Destroyed in hell fire.

On a Monday, I appeared on the Chris Stefanick Show. Chris is a bright, charismatic man with a deep devotion to the deity of Christ—widely considered one of the most influential Catholic evangelists in the world. I’d been booked two months in advance, which gave me time to sculpt a special bronze to present to him live on the show.  Chris owns several of my biblical bronzes. 

The sculpture was of a broken Christ—arms gently spread, ascending upward in what looked like a heavenly dive. Rising directly above Him was a perfect, symmetrical, polished golden Christ. The broken body—earthly and wounded. The golden figure—spirit redeemed. It was a visual sermon. The moment on the show was powerful and real.

A few days later, Chris contacted me. He told me he’d given the bronze to his daughter, who lives with multiple sclerosis. He said she broke down in tears. She saw herself in the broken Christ—her suffering, her limitations, her broken body—and saw her true spirit in the golden Christ above. As an artist and a man of faith, I was deeply moved. That moment felt like God yelling in my face: You’re on the right path.  I really was riding an emotional high

And then—just hours later—the house I’d lived in for ten years went up in flames when I was gone for the evening. Everything was destroyed or heavily smoke-damaged. Many biblical pieces I was sculpting—gone. My studio. My gear. My personal history. I’ve traveled far and deep in this world, and that house held a lifetime of meaning and memory. Gone in fire.

I knew as I sped back to my burning house—this was demonic. The timing was too perfect. The fire wasn’t just tragedy. It was symbolic.  This was an attack.  When you standing in your smoldering life and destroyed life and things you love dearly and see specific demonic action against you you can't help but wonder what might be next.    Maybe a truck thrown in your path, cancer, accident or murder.   The game had changed.   Changed big time.  The stakes were high.  It only strengthened my resolve. 

Yes, there were tears—plenty of them. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this had happened for a reason far greater than my belongings. 

When the devil plays his cards, God always has a stronger hand.

Almost lost my main sculpting finger while working on the head of Christ. Not just any piece—this was a resurrection of the original: Christ banishing demons into the swine to be drowned. That sculpture had been nearly finished once before… and then it was destroyed in the fire.  I am determined to re-sculpt any biblical ideas and partially finished sculptures destroyed in the fire.

I’ve sculpted close to 80 bronzes, moved literal tons of clay, and that one finger—my right index—was the tool I trusted most. My chisel. My brush. My signature. But this injury didn’t come from a blade or a blunt strike. There was no dramatic snap, crunch, or puncture.

Toward the end of a long night of intense sculpting on that Christ figure, the pain flared out of nowhere—hot and sharp. By morning, it was swollen, two purple blisters rising like angry welts. Hurt like hell. It throbbed like it had been cursed. And maybe it had. I figured it was a sprain. Expected to be told to ice it, rest it.

Instead, the hand surgeon took one look and cut deep. His tone was serious—grim. We weren’t treating an injury. We were fighting to keep the finger.

I was touch and go for a while but I still have it. But it’s a little stiff. The once sensitive fingertip that flowed with grace and intention, creating thousands of gestures and meaningful shapes, in sculpture clay before bronze casting; is now  partially numb. The once strong fingernail I used to carve details has turned brittle and flaky. I’ve adapted—started using the next finger. If I lost my right hand, I’d learn to sculpt with my left.

I wasn’t just sculpting anything—or even just a biblical piece. I was sculpting the very head of Christ—banishing the demons once again, driving them into swine for drowning. And something unseen reached in and tried to take my finger—the one that had shaped so many pieces of God, immortalized in bronze.

It didn’t like what I was making. Didn’t like what I was doing. Didn’t want that piece reborn.

That was a warning shot from Hell.   Fuck-em.

An unexplained full-out demonic dog attack under really strange circumstances. The filthy, open-wounded, mangy stray dogs where I live in Thailand are normally docile, shifty and shy staying out of the way or circling suspiciously, some time barking at you when you pass. Even before this event I had an odd feeling about these dogs. None neutered, yet I have never seen anything but these same groups or loners, no puppies or half grown dogs, there we no age levels. We should be tripping over puppies, But they all just seem to be middle aged or old and ugly, scabby and septic.  I'm a lover of dogs and not once had anything more than a dark feeling about  a single one of these dogs or saw one wag its tail. 

Out of nowhere, a 30-pound mongrel was in full savage attack and would have surely ripped into me. I’ve been involved in martial arts all my life, weigh 220, and know how to kick. As the dog made its final lunge, I kicked as hard as I could, hitting it square in the jaw—hard enough that my foot hurt all day and with enough force to knock out a heavyweight fighter. It didn’t even faze it. But it bought me a few seconds to back-shuffle out of there.

If demons can dwell in swine, they can surely possess a filthy street dog. You might check the crazy box for me, but now when I look at those mangy dogs limping through the alleys—snarling at each other, oozing sores, half-blind, missing an eye—it feels like a retirement gig for demons. Or maybe some kind of demon prison. Squatting in a pack of sinister mutts like washed-up spirits waiting out the apocalypse in the dirt, eating garbage or dead things. Watching. Seething. Doing time.  

You never hear stories of dog attacks here. Just me.

The next day, a wounded, filthy pigeon appeared in my small, high-fenced back patio. It sat on the ledge, looking in. You never see birds in there—it’s walled off and hard to get into. Its wing hung limp, like it had been mauled by a dog. It was wet on a dry day and looked like it had dragged itself out of a grave. I was afraid I was going to have to kill it or have it die slowly and then have to deal with its cursed body. Touch it even through a plastic bag.  I didn't want any of that.   But the way it just sat there silently, watching—it didn’t feel like a bird. It felt like a message. I barely managed to shoo it off.

I was having a classical piece of Christ art made—something inspired by Michelangelo’s The Last Judgment, the altar piece in the Sistine Chapel and my single favorite work of art. I’d composed a scene drawn from classical figures, forming a new, fresh image: Christ as the central figure, overseeing ascending souls rising into Heaven. The painting was turning out beautifully. I had asked for a few tiny touch-ups—minor tweaks—told the painter I would come in to oversee those changes the next day when I was planning to pick it up.

But when I returned, I was stunned. Something had possessed the painter to turn my Heavenly vision into a flaming hellscape—writhing, tortured, demonic figures overtaking the canvas. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a satanic transformation.  I left the shop, the painting and my deposit behind. 

Then, just a few weeks later, my hot water kettle malfunctioned. It roared  and hissed like an animal and splashed scalding water across the underside my right forearm, my main work arm in a way that made no physical sense.   It was as if the scorched water lashed out, almost like a fiery boiling tongue.  An hour later, the pain still hadn’t faded—and I saw it was going to blister. I muttered, half-joking, “Great, now I’ll have some kind of demonic shape burned into me.”, after all the things that happened.  But what appeared the next day was stranger: two perfectly shaped and spaced, eye-like burns,  I couldn’t have drawn them better now scars seared into my arm. My main sculpting arm. They’ve never faded much and look like they will be there for life.  If we ever meet, ask—I’ll show you. Burned into my forearm like a brand.

Okay—go ahead get ready to check another crazy box.

I’ve met people who seemed like normal friends or acquaintances—completely ordinary at first. But once I got to know them, there were moments. Strange, out-of-character things. Sometimes subtle. Sometimes more direct. A weird turn in conversation, a strange look, or a casual comment nudging me to concentrate on my wildlife art or other creative work—and always away from the biblical bronzes, the writings, the songs. Unsolicited advice that, on the surface, sounded thoughtful. Encouraging, even. But it always carried a strange weight. A quiet undertow. Like it was trying to steer me off course.

There’s a frequency we all give off—something you start to feel the longer you’re around someone. A rhythm to their personality. And these moments? They buzzed offbeat. Like static crackling over a clear signal. A sour note in a familiar melody. It wasn’t paranoia. More like spiritual radar. A subtle, internal alert. Like something else was speaking through them—and maybe they didn’t even realize it.

It reminded me of that line from Star Wars—the Stormtrooper saying, “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.” Like someone had reached through and moved their mouth. A ventriloquist thought in a familiar voice.  

Crazy? Sure. Go ahead. Check the box. But I know what I felt.   And it didn't just happen once but many times.  When I was a Police Investigator people do lots of talking, and lying, and spinning, exaggerating, and then there are things they say that ring like a gong.  They said something in all that chatter that was important.  And it wasn't always necessarily the words they said, but they way they said them ,or didn't say them.  In this case it was the words and the way they were said.  

I met a western man here in Thailand, down at the pool where I was renting a Condo.  He was bright, well read, engaging—one of those rare people you can have long, intelligent conversations with that actually go somewhere. We talked about many things.  During those conversations I spoke openly about Christ, about how my faith shapes my artwork and my life.

He told me he was gay, HIV positive, and had been with thousands of partners. That didn’t scare me off—I’m curious by nature and saw it as a chance to understand a world completely foreign to me. He was knowledgeable, helpful at times being a long time local.  Yet, once again strange nuanced attempts to persuade my off my Biblical art journey. Subtle nudges here and there, encouraging me to blend zodiac signs mystical celestial themes into my biblical work. It wasn’t overt, but it was persistent, with the idea it would make the art "better", or take it to a "higher level."

Over time, actually not much,  I always kind of suspected it,  I started getting that feeling I’ve learned to trust—the offbeat buzz, the spiritual static. Okay,  he didn't exactly come carrying a picnic basket in a bonnet, I knew he had been down some dark roads in his life.  This guy is carrying something darker. Is something darker.  Demons don’t just come clawing and growling.  But I'll let Don Corleone speak for me,  when I say "keep your friends close but your enemies closer" and I was a little fascinated talking to him.   I kept my eyes open.   I have taught police interview and investigations and intentionally took conversations places things would be revealed, brushed over or hidden.  He wasn't passing these small tests and my feeling of uneasiness grew. 

One night, out of the blue, I got a text from him. Late, unfiltered—like the mask slipped. He wrote that "Christ and His disciples were nothing more than a group of cross-dressing faggots.”

That was it.  The demon had swallowed enough of my Christ talk with a smile on his face and had to roar.  Block.

I’ve come to believe we’re all spiritual antennas. Good and evil both try to tune in—sometimes to inspire, sometimes to interfere good-bad, or dark reasons.   We become actors in a larger play. Sometimes knowingly. Often not. Used for a moment, or a lifetime. For good or for evil.  Scripture says the unseen world is far more powerful than the one we see—and I believe it. I’ve felt it.

There is more. The house fire was two years ago now and these other event the last few months.   If I listed every weird occurrence, you'd think I was crazy and maybe already do. If I wrote them all out I might think I'm crazy too.  But I’m not. It’s real. And since the fire, I’ve been seeing it more clearly than ever.

I have a deep faith that the force of light—the power of Christ—is stronger than the dark forces messing with me. I feel like I’m betting my life on it. And in a strange way, these demonic attacks, this meddling, this attention—it all endorses my journey. You don’t catch flak unless you’re over the target.

I’ve written a lot about Christianity, as I’m doing now, and it’s probably the thing I think about most. I’ve composed lyrics for many songs about God, Christ, and Biblical ideas.  The bronzes, not only those I have created but those I will.   Back then, I had no idea I’d dedicate so much of myself to this path. These are clear messages of Christianity—meant to engage people with love, light, divinity.  And I have seen their effect on people. 

But it’s not me.  Really.    I'm just a "God Printer"   This is all God.  I'm just a tool.  This is not feigned humbleness.   This is ALL GOD.  In  this story or essay I am simply am trying to be as honest as possible.  What I'm trying hard to to  do and give and honest portrayal how this all unfolded, what seemed to make sense in the most transparent and straight forward way possible.  The last thing I want to do is sounds boastful.    This is all God.  All of it. All I can do is be an effective tool and do as much as I can with this blessing. 

I think there are multiple dimensions to all this, the unseen colors beyond the edge of the prism. What we see as a timelines—a sequence of scattered events—the spiritual world sees as a single, living whole. Untethered by time. Unbound by space. The Alpha and the Omega. The First and the Last. The Future. The Past. He had plans for me long before I had any idea.

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I set you apart…” —Jeremiah 1:5

The future still holds its mystery, but when we look back, we can start to see the pattern, out life's history—how the chapters connect, how our failures and triumphs braid together. The puzzle takes shape. We see the fingerprints of God in places we once thought were just happenstance and just the way our lives were unfolding.  God has very specific reasons for our journey and purpose.

Our time here is fleeting—fragile and fierce. Each day a gift, each breath a thread in something eternal. And when this life ends, for those who believe, it doesn’t end at all. We’re called forward into a higher dimension—into the light of Heaven, by the promise of Christ. A promise offered to one and all.

“The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord… and though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down.” —Psalm 37:23–24

That verse hits harder when you’ve actually fallen. When you've felt the slip, the failure, the crush of consequence—and still, somehow, you’re not down for good. Still walking. Still standing. Not because you’re strong, but because He held you up.  I failed that night in Baghdad,  have come a long way still fall short.   I think we are always a work in progress.   

Life on this side of the veil is short. Beautiful and brutal. Fragile as glass, tough as leather. Some days you fight through it. Other days, it fights through you. But if you walk with Christ, you know this isn’t the endgame. He has your back for eternity.  The Light.  And when this body gives out or breaks, the story doesn’t stop. We’re headed higher—into  new dimensions, lit by something no Sun can match. That’s the promise. And it’s not poetry—it’s war-won truth.

And the enemy doesn’t play fair. It doesn’t just hit when you're ready. It hits when you're blind, distracted, or worn thin. That’s what Babylon was. That’s what that night was. Not some seduction or temptation. 

It was a warning shot. 

A test.

And I didn’t walk away clean because I was strong. I walked away because grace covered me. Because something—someone—bigger than me stepped in. Not to reward me, but to protect what hadn’t even taken shape yet. Now I can see it. Back then, it was just a strange blur. But those moments were part of something bigger than I ever realized.

You might ask yourself why I mention all this. Isn’t this a story about Iraq?  Fallen Babylon...war, fear and loathing and suicide bombers, something once sold as "Operation Iraqi Freedom" but now universally accepted as a bloody blunder... I think for what happened 20 years ago to make really sense, it is part of a greater whole on what's happening now.   

I thought the bronzes were the endgame. But God has more in mind. The bronzes were just keys—unlocking something bigger. Around every turn, He sets the bar higher, and I keep walking forward in awe and trust. This blessing comes with an endless mountain of work, but I bear it joyfully—with a true heart and full dedication. How could I not?  The fire was two years ago now...the other incidents coming now more frequently as I close in on  my ultimate goal beyond the bronzes, songs and writings.  After the fire it would have been a natural time to say, you have done enough, you have accomplished enough its time to cash out and relax a little bit at 63.  To the contrary I feel like I'm in a low grade panic to get done what I need to do. 

Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me.” Isiah 6:8 

The demonic part is not my imagination. I wish it were. But I’ve learned with certainty that the force of good is stronger. That doesn’t mean Satan won’t conjure up something wicked when he’s outside the cage and not grappling directly with Christ.  Shuffling through our file cabinets he knows our weaknesses.  Just look around—there is a lot of evil in the world evil is everywhere and on the rise. We’ve all felt it. From the most nuanced manipulations to full-on assaults.  But the Light is stronger.  For sure.  Satan is just a bit player in a much more powerful story. 

At the time, I wasn’t thinking about any of this. I was just a believer trying to find my way, like billions before me. A sinner trying to draw closer to the light and love of Christ, a courageous rebel crucified 2,000 years ago in a dusty Roman outpost and changed the world forever in the deepest and most profound ways.   What happened is not explainable in human terms. This Christ message didn’t spread across the globe to become the most known and influential person in history of the universe because people liked exchanging campfire stories he was in. 

It’s supernatural.  It has to be for any of it to make sense.

If scripture is taken literally—and it should be—then there’s an intense, unseen world happening all around us. A supernatural spiritual realm. And once you really accept that, things start to reveal themselves in sharper, more specific ways. I speak openly about it.

Demons, angels, spirits, unseen forces, miracles, visions—of both light and dark. Time warps between the physical and spiritual world. Things to ponder without answers, and things to learn and know. The Bible is FULL of it—the supernatural world.

Sometimes people engage. Other times—behind the polite nod—I can sense the eye-roll. Most people aren’t equipped to talk about it, or they just haven’t given it much thought. But if you say, “I’m a Christian,” and it’s more than just checking a box, then you’re already saying you believe in something you can’t fully see. A powerful, all-knowing force beyond this world.

That’s supernatural in my book. And honestly? That’s super cool.

So open your heart. Buckle up. Let your mind, heart  and soul roar.   We didn’t crawl out of some septic pond of primordial goo—we were created, on purpose, in the image of God. And we live in a whirlwind of miracles if you’re willing to see them the ride is mind-blowing.

There’s evil out there, no doubt. I’ve seen it, felt it, been scraped by it, had directed attacks, and nuances to set us astray.   But the light always breaks through. That’s the whole story of the Bible: God piercing the darkness, over and over. It’s not poetry—it’s war-won truth. And the deeper you go, the clearer it gets, the more amazing it gets.  I feel in ways its about opening you heart and mind to unknown possibilities, when our practical world tethers us to concentrate on the right here right now. No time for "dreaming"  Look beyond the pragmatic world into the Supernatural.

The darkness is real—it’s ancient, cunning, and rising. But the light isn’t some soft metaphor. It’s a supernatural force. Stronger than death. Stronger than deception. And it’s already won.

"Arise, shine, for your light has come,
and the glory of the Lord rises upon you.
See, darkness covers the earth
and thick darkness is over the peoples,
but the Lord rises upon you
and his glory appears over you.” —Isaiah 60:1–2

We were breathed into by the living God. This world isn’t random. It’s a battlefield of miracles, invisible war lines, and second chances.

“The night is nearly over; the day is almost here.
So let us put aside the deeds of darkness
and put on the armor of light.” —Romans 13:12

The armor of light. That’s what I’m wearing now. And I’m not taking it off.