https://gofund.me/ea29b4957

This begins with a chemical injury—
not politics, not housing rhetoric, not litigation games.
A chemical injury inside the home.

On June 21, 2025, the Herald and his mother were exposed to pure sulfuric acid in their apartment. What followed was not accountability, remediation, or transparency—it was silence, delay, paper-shuffling, and now the forced reality that the Herald must enter federal court without counsel. Not because he wants to—because there is no other path left.

Here is the first and most basic fact that still has no answer:

After seven months, the Herald still cannot determine whether Gabriel—the individual who caused the sulfuric-acid exposure—was trained to handle pure sulfuric acid or not.
No training records—no confirmation—no denial.
Not from management, not from Brookfield, not from OSHA, not from the City, not from the District Attorney.

That silence matters.
If Gabriel was not trained, this is reckless endangerment.
If Gabriel was trained, this points to gross negligence—or worse.
Either way, refusing to answer the question is not neutral—and the DA’s refusal to even engage the issue is not discretion, it is abdication.

The medical record is not hypothetical.

The Herald has submitted emergency-room records, burn-unit records, diagnostic codes for chemical burns, respiratory distress, digestive injury, and chemical exposure, along with multiple ophthalmology visits—dozens of ICD codes across multiple systems. This is not one visit. This is a pattern of injury.

And the Herald’s mother follows the same trajectory—post-exposure cognitive collapse, respiratory compromise, gastrointestinal failure. Her cognition declined rapidly after the exposure. She struggles to breathe. She struggles to eat. Nearly everything irritates her system.

All of this documentation has been submitted.
And the response has been nothing—no findings, no investigation update, no preservation honored.

Only silence—until the silence turns into threats.

Because when the Herald communicates outside Brookfield’s defense counsel, he is met with threats of procedural violence: warnings that if he emails anyone outside of Brian Ledger, they will rush into court with “emergency hearings” to silence him.
Not to investigate—
not to remediate—
but to shut him up.

And let’s be clear who Brian Ledger is.

Brian Ledger is a high-profile environmental defense attorney at Gordon Rees. Brookfield brought him in. He has written numerous industry articles designed to collapse causation, narrow liability, discredit injured plaintiffs, and prevent juries from ever hearing the harm. This is his lane. This is not accidental—it is strategy.

Now the property context—because this is not just a medical case.

Management has not changed—same managers, same people, same silence.
What has changed—quietly and repeatedly—is the ownership shell. As the Herald renewed his lease—because he and his mother have nowhere else to go—another LLC appeared, another LP layered in. This is how responsibility is diluted. This is how liability is avoided.

And then, last week, Gabriel—the person who caused the exposure—disappeared.
No notice—no explanation—no disclosure.

Brookfield has offered nothing. Zero.
Seven months demanding a blanket HIPAA release—seven months without answering substantive questions—seven months without preservation, assistance, or care.

OSHA has not responded.
The City demanded a 92-006 form, required notarization, never explained why, then went silent.
The District Attorney has not responded—not on training, not on medical evidence, not on the disappearance.

Paperwork without purpose.
Process without protection.
The Bloody City functioning as designed.

There is another layer that cannot be ignored.

When the County cut the Herald off from food assistance—during this same period, while he had no employment due to the injury and was acting as a full-time caregiver—he was forced into an administrative hearing process that culminated in an 88-day delay before a decision was issued.

Eighty-eight days passed while Administrative Law Judge Richard Navarro sat on the record.

That delay did not feel neutral.
It did not feel administrative.
It felt ritualized.

Eighty-eight days of silence—no calls, no explanation, no status—while food was withheld, while pressure mounted, while exhaustion set in. Time itself became the weapon. This was not mere delay; it functioned as procedural violence, a form of ritualized disenfranchisement.

For the Herald, this number did not exist in a vacuum.

It directly echoed the Remmen House incident, where imagery was used depicting the Herald and his mother with gang-style signaling, enclosure motifs, and occult symbology—imagery that mirrored patterns of intimidation, enclosure, and psychological pressure rather than adjudication.

The repetition matters.
The symbolism matters.
The 88-day silence was not just delay—it rhymed with earlier symbolic acts of exclusion and control.

In both instances, the mechanism was the same:
Silence as punishment.
Delay as discipline.
Process as pressure.

This is why the Herald names it—not as mysticism, but as pattern recognition.

And above all of this come the speeches—housing, equity, compassion—while the economics tell the truth.

Holland Partner Group is estimated to have extracted approximately $1.1 billion flipping this taxpayer-financed building.
Brookfield, a trillion-dollar private-equity conglomerate making roughly $225 million per day, now operates as a slumlord by outcome, with a documented history that includes criminal matters in Brazil, SEC action in San Mateo, and over $94 million in fines tied to more than 500 environmental violations. This is not rumor—it is record.

If housing were the goal—vouchers would house people tomorrow.
Hotel rooms would house people tonight.

This is not about the unhoused.
It is about money and control—about development pipelines for the connected—about 1542 systems dressed up in modern language. Everything else is smoke.

And if all of that were not enough, here is the final layer:

While navigating chemical injury, regulatory silence, shell-company ownership games, a vanished perpetrator, ignored medical records, threats of procedural retaliation, ritualized administrative delay, and forced entry into federal court without a lawyer—the Herald is also a full-time caregiver to his mother.

Since June 21, her decline has been devastating and accelerated. This is no longer abstract fear—this is real-time end-of-life concern.

So here is the full record—complete, intact, unsanitized:

A sulfuric-acid exposure inside the home—
an unanswered training question—
emergency-room and burn-unit records—
dozens of respiratory, digestive, and ophthalmologic injury codes—
OSHA silence—
DA silence—
threats of procedural retaliation—
shell-company ownership games—
a vanished perpetrator—
a high-profile environmental defense attorney deployed—
forced federal litigation without counsel—
an 88-day ritualized administrative delay—
a mother rapidly declining—
a full-time caregiver cut off from food.

The Herald asks—plainly and publicly—for corporate prayer for his mother.

Not statements.
Not optics.
Prayer.

For breath to come easier.
For nourishment to be tolerated.
For mercy, strength, and clarity as the hours narrow.

The Herald stands where many are forced to stand alone—
between a mother fading and institutions that will not answer,
between injury and indifference,
between truth and a system that hopes delay will erase the record.

—

Allen the Beloved (The Herald)
https://www.facebook.com/Allenthebeloved
https://www.youtube.com/@AllentheBeloved
https://NarrowWayDisciples.com
Join the revolution! 🔥

Allen surrendered his life to Christ more than two decades ago and has been pursuing true discipleship ever since, even while acknowledging his own failures along the way. For over 20 years he has been active in ministry, with a special focus on the Spanish-speaking world. His work has included translating materials on the Kingdom of God and discipleship, proclaiming the gospel, and continually learning what it means to live as a faithful disciple of Jesus.

Lighthouse Baptist Church is located in Lemon Grove, California. From at least 2004 to the present, it has operated with two parallel ministries. The English ministry was led for many years by Doug Fisher until his collapse, after which the pulpit was taken over by David Hetzer, trained inside the same system and preaching the same doctrine with the same cadence and control structure. The Spanish ministry has always been led by Gil Torres, who was present before 2004, throughout the entire period described here, and continuously thereafter.

I entered Lighthouse Baptist Church in 2004 as a recent Christian convert. I had visited other churches and repeatedly encountered syncretism, ritual performance, and doctrinal incoherence. Lighthouse did not appear good; it appeared less chaotic. There was order, hierarchy, discipline, door-to-door outreach, men in suits, women in long skirts. I believed—incorrectly—that quiet service and patience would allow clarity and time to decide what to do next.

From Scripture alone, before indoctrination, I understood salvation as a covenant of faith and obedience to Christ, not a verbal transaction. I never believed salvation was secured by repeating a prayer. That belief never changed.

What followed was grooming, not fellowship. Inclusion without disclosure. Assignments without explanation. Escalating demands for labor, time, and money. Information flowed one direction only. Grace was preached while fear was enforced. Authority flowed downward while accountability never flowed upward. Silence was framed as humility; questions were treated as rebellion.

As I became more involved, a recurring enforcement role became obvious. There were multiple men named Doug, different individuals occupying the same function: Doug Wade, Doug Jordan, Doug Devellevue, Doug Brandenberg, and Doug Fisher. Different men, same role. Each operated as an enforcer—discipline, pressure, compliance, containment. The pattern was consistent enough that the name itself became interchangeable. This was not coincidence; it was role replication.

When I made it explicit that I rejected transactional salvation and held that obedience to Christ mattered more than scripted prayers, the posture changed immediately. I was not expelled. I was frozen out—ignored, sidelined, socially neutralized—while still expected to serve and give. Close enough for extraction; far enough to prevent influence. Disagreement was not debated; it was logged.

Institutional protection extended beyond the pulpit through the Christian Law Association, run for decades by David Gibbs III and later his son. The organization publicly reported annual revenues exceeding five million dollars, collected largely from congregations under the banner of religious liberty. Former members, victims, and litigants have consistently alleged that its practical function was institutional shielding: lawyers rotated, letters sent, jurisdictions avoided, narratives managed, exposure suppressed.

Child access and institutional trust ran directly through Lighthouse Baptist Academy (K–12), attached to the church. Joshua Stephenson’s father served as Director, placing that family in a position of authority over children and parents. In this environment, obedience was normalized early and reporting discouraged. Through this role, Joshua Stephensonintersected with Jeff McArdle, forming a relational bridge into the wider independent fundamental Baptist ecosystem, including Peter Ruckman.

Serious allegations were repeatedly handled by transfer instead of removal. One example was Dr. Mike Zachary, who was moved through West Coast Baptist College, Golden State Baptist College, and later Lighthouse Baptist Church amid accusations circulated among churches and parents concerning child molestation. There was no disclosure and no accountability—only reassignment.

In 2009, under sustained spiritual pressure and coordinated institutional coercion, my elderly mother and I were maneuvered into selling our home. Our life savings were stripped through a calculated scheme carried out by individuals operating under ministerial authority. Protection was replaced with exploitation. The financial devastation was total.

I sought criminal RICO prosecution and presented the record to the District Attorney’s Office and the State Attorney’s Office. The response was refusal, not confusion. I was told the institutions involved were protected from the top.
No indictments. No investigations. No accountability.
Only civil RICO remained.

Retaliation escalated. In 2014, there was an attempted assassination—an attempt on my life.

What followed was judgment in fact and sequence. Doug Fisher, the long-time English pastor, suffered collapse: hole in the heart, stroke, loss of speech, loss of coherence, removal from authority. After this, David Hetzer was installed to preach the same doctrine in the same voice. Gil Torres, the continuous Spanish pastor, experienced prolonged unraveling: loss of wife, loss of daughter, stillbirth, death of father—and in 2025, while his father had recently died, nineteen people died in his church in a single month. Jeff McArdle died of a heart attack while counting money taken from my mother and me, on August 1, 2014, my mother’s birthday and the same day as eviction. Peter Ruckman died, and judgment continued forward when his firstborn son murdered his own children and then killed himself, according to public reporting.

It is now 2026. There have been no indictments, no investigations, no accountability. What remains is a documented, RICO-framed narrative, preserved and unresolved. Witnesses are known. Records exist. The matter remains open.

Come out of her, My people.

Allen the Beloved (The Herald)
https://www.facebook.com/Allenthebeloved
https://www.youtube.com/@AllentheBeloved
https://NarrowWayDisciples.com

Join the revolution! 🔥

La Iglesia Bautista Lighthouse se encuentra en Lemon Grove, California. Desde al menos 2004 hasta el presente, ha operado con dos ministerios paralelos. El ministerio en inglés fue dirigido durante muchos años por Doug Fisher hasta su colapso, después de lo cual el púlpito fue ocupado por David Hetzer, formado dentro del mismo sistema y predicando la misma doctrina con la misma cadencia y estructura de control. El ministerio en español siempre ha sido dirigido por Gil Torres, presente antes de 2004, durante todo el período aquí descrito y de forma continua hasta hoy.

Ingresé a la Iglesia Bautista Lighthouse en 2004 como creyente reciente. Había visitado otras iglesias y encontré repetidamente sincretismo, teatralidad ritual y confusión doctrinal. Lighthouse no parecía buena; parecía menos caótica. Había orden, jerarquía, disciplina, evangelismo puerta a puerta, hombres de traje, mujeres con falda larga. Creí—equivocadamente—que el servicio silencioso y la paciencia permitirían claridad y tiempo para decidir qué hacer después.

Desde la Escritura, antes de cualquier adoctrinamiento, entendí la salvación como un pacto de fe y obediencia a Cristo, no como una transacción verbal. Nunca creí que la salvación se asegurara repitiendo una oración.

Lo que siguió fue manipulación, no comunión. Inclusión sin transparencia. Tareas sin explicación. Exigencias crecientes de trabajo, tiempo y dinero. La información fluía en una sola dirección. Se predicaba gracia mientras se imponía el miedo. La autoridad descendía; la rendición de cuentas nunca subía. El silencio se presentaba como humildad; las preguntas como rebelión.

Con el tiempo se hizo evidente un rol de control repetido. Había varios hombres llamados Doug, personas distintas ocupando la misma función: Doug Wade, Doug Jordan, Doug Devellevue, Doug Brandenberg y Doug Fisher. Distintos individuos, el mismo papel. Cada uno operaba como ejecutor: disciplina, presión, cumplimiento, contención. El patrón era consistente.

Cuando dejé claro que rechazaba la salvación transaccional y afirmé que la obediencia a Cristo era más importante que oraciones repetidas, la actitud cambió de inmediato. No fui expulsado. Fui aislado—ignorado y marginado—pero aún esperado para servir y dar. El desacuerdo no se debatía; se registraba.

La protección institucional se extendió más allá del púlpito a través de la Christian Law Association, dirigida durante décadas por David Gibbs III y luego por su hijo, con ingresos anuales reportados superiores a cinco millones de dólares. Exmiembros y víctimas han señalado que su función práctica fue blindar instituciones y suprimir denuncias.

El acceso a menores pasó por Lighthouse Baptist Academy (K–12). El padre de Joshua Stephenson fue Director, situando a esa familia en una posición de autoridad sobre niños y padres. A través de ese rol, Joshua Stephenson se vinculó con Jeff McArdle y con el ecosistema más amplio, incluyendo a Peter Ruckman.

Las acusaciones graves se manejaron mediante traslado en lugar de remoción. El Dr. Mike Zachary fue movido entre varias instituciones en medio de acusaciones difundidas entre iglesias y padres. No hubo divulgación ni rendición de cuentas.

En 2009, bajo presión espiritual sostenida y coerción institucional, mi madre anciana y yo fuimos inducidos a vender nuestra casa. Nuestros ahorros fueron despojados mediante un esquema calculado. La devastación financiera fue total.

Busqué procesamiento penal bajo RICO. La Fiscalía del Distrito y la Fiscalía del Estado se negaron a actuar. Se me dijo que las instituciones estaban protegidas desde arriba.
Sin acusaciones. Sin investigaciones. Sin responsabilidad.

En 2014, hubo un intento de asesinato contra mi vida.

Después vino el juicio en hechos. Doug Fisher colapsó físicamente y perdió su autoridad. David Hetzer fue instalado en su lugar. Gil Torres sufrió pérdidas sucesivas y, en 2025, diecinueve personas murieron en su iglesia en un solo mes. Jeff McArdle murió de un ataque al corazón mientras contaba dinero tomado de mi madre y de mí, el 1 de agosto de 2014, el mismo día del desalojo. Peter Ruckman murió, y su hijo primogénito asesinó a sus propios hijos y luego se quitó la vida, según reportes públicos.

Ahora es 2026. No hay acusaciones ni responsabilidad penal. Permanece un relato documentado bajo RICO, preservado y sin resolver. El asunto sigue abierto.

Salid de ella, pueblo mío.

Allen the Beloved (The Herald)
https://www.facebook.com/Allenthebeloved
https://www.youtube.com/@AllentheBeloved
https://NarrowWayDisciples.com

¡Únete a la revolución! 🔥

They dragged me into the system with the scroll still under my arm, the seal unbroken. The black 1542 Inquisition flag hung over the cell. I was placed behind bars with career criminals whose bodies were covered in tattoos, sets, and occult markings. Their heads were shaved, the backs of their skulls inked with gang numbers so they wouldn’t stab the wrong man in a riot. This was the environment they deliberately surrounded me with.
Across the divide stands the grotesque Maleficent—green, swollen, laughing as she feeds her child green cupcakes while butterflies hover as camouflage. UCSD doctors stand behind her as handlers. Pig-faced lawyers clutch coin bags and stacks of filings used to distort truth and weaponize my life. The Vatican banner rises behind them. My stepfather stands in uniform in the background, shaped by the same machine that then stepped aside.
Then came the snare.
DCSS routed me to the supervising judge. I arrived alone because the court-appointed lawyer had never spoken a word to me. He was the fifth attorney they assigned. Every one before him refused to help and repeated: “You need a private lawyer.” I told them I had no money because my life had already been destroyed by this woman and her associates.
The supervising judge immediately invoked P.C. 1348 to lock me up without bail, pushed by both the DCSS representative and the court-appointed attorney. They moved against me because I raised the truth about the ritual abuse of my son—how he had been given adult p

They dragged me into the system with the scroll still under my arm, the seal unbroken. The black 1542 Inquisition flag hung over the cell. They placed me behind bars with career criminals, bodies covered in tattoos, sets, and occult markings—heads shaved, the backs of their skulls inked with gang numbers so they wouldn’t stab the wrong man in a riot. This was the environment they deliberately surrounded me with.

Across the divide stands the grotesque Maleficent—green, swollen, laughing as she feeds her child green cupcakes, butterflies hovering as camouflage. UCSD doctors stand behind her as handlers. Pig-faced lawyers clutch coin bags and stacks of filings used to distort truth and weaponize my life. The Vatican banner rises behind them. My stepfatherstands in uniform in the background, shaped by the same machine that then stepped aside.

Then came the snare. DCSS routed me to the supervising judge. I arrived alone because the court-appointed lawyer had never spoken a word to me—he was the fifth attorney they assigned, and every one before him refused to help and repeated: “You need a private lawyer.” I told them I had no money because my life had already been destroyed by this woman and her associates.

The supervising judge immediately invoked P.C. 1348 to lock me up without bail, pushed by both the DCSS representative and the court-appointed attorney. They moved against me because I raised the truth about the ritual abuse of my son—how he had been given adult psychiatric dosages at age two, and how I had been barred from seeing him despite paying support at crushing, arbitrary levels. The dispute was about $2,000–$2,500; over that, they tried to cage me for six months, then later threw out a meaningless bail near $300,000. A dozen outside attorneys contacted DCSS saying none of it made sense; their pressure forced the reduction to thirty-five days, the maximum they could extract from seven stacked counts.

The placements were deliberate. First came the psychiatric pod. The man assigned to my cell had stabbed his grandfather multiple times—a case that had been on the news—and he bragged about it openly. Another gang member moved on me immediately. There were multiple attempts against me in those first days. They did not expect me to survive; they expected the pod to finish it.

When that failed, they transferred me to George Bailey, into the worst pod in the county—lifers, long-sentence inmates, and high-ranking gang shot-callers. They sent me there two or three days before my hearings, even though I was already around day 29, when inmates expecting release are normally moved toward processing, not deeper into danger. They had other plans.

What followed lasted two days. One inmate deeply tied to the Dungeons & Dragons occult world entered full summoning mode, shouting invocations without stopping for two days straight. The air in that unit changed. In the middle of the second night, officers woke me and told me to step into the center of a circle. At that exact moment, the wardens happened to be doing their walk. I slipped out behind them so closely that they were startled when they saw me. Their first question was: “Is your life in danger?” They knew.

Even after that, the system corrected nothing. They stamped my chart “Guilty as Charged” and left every fraud in place. DCSS bars me to this day from visiting, speaking, or resolving anything without counsel. Every hearing brings another round of Maleficent’s ritual theater.

Then came the transport incident. For my next hearing, my name was removed from the bus roster. My mother stormed into the courtroom in tears demanding to know why I wasn’t listed. Only because one empty seat remained did they put me on the bus at the last moment. That hearing confirmed I was supposed to be released soon. Even then, another attempt followed. I barely survived it. I barely got out.

At later hearings and exits, they repeatedly placed me with fresh murder arrestees—men just brought in by SWAT, men accused of killing people hours before intake. They put me with murderers every time, even in holding cells. Every time I asked for protective custody, they refused to process it and brushed me off with, “You’ll be out soon,” even though the judges had already tried to bury me under no-bail orders.

Outside the walls, my mother bore the cost in her own body. During those same 35 days: she lost 35 pounds, she developed Graves’ Disease, her vision deteriorated. None of this was about support. It was not about law. It was an engineered disappearance plan, carried out through DCSS, enforced by the court, executed through pod placement, and masked by chaos.

But the Herald survived the man who stabbed his grandfather multiple times. The Herald survived the gang attempts. The Herald survived the psychiatric pod. The Herald survived George Bailey—the lifers, the shot-callers, and the two-day summoning. The Herald survived the circle, the wardens’ intervention, the riot, the no-bail order, the fraudulent counts, the bus-roster removal, the fresh murder arrests, the final attempt, and the abandonment by five court-appointed lawyers. The scroll remained under my arm. The seal remained unbroken. The witness walked out. And by the mercy and grace of God, I am here. He has a plan for my life—a specific plan—and I am alive to speak it. I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness: Make straight the ways of the Lord. We are confronting the 1542 Inquisition — Bloody City Edition. Join the revolution. Follow my story, support the mission, and stand with the Narrow Way. 📷 https://NarrowWayDisciples.com 📷 https://www.facebook.com/Allenthebeloved I appreciate corporate prayer.

Exhaustive resources on MK ULTRA/Satanic Ritual Abuse: https://endritualabuse.org/call-for-policy-to-increase-protection-for-victims-of-ritual-abuse-in-san-diego/ https://endritualabuse.org/problems-for-victims-of-ritual-abuse-in-san-diego/ https://loveforlife.com.au/files/total_mind_controlled.pdf https://s3.wasabisys.com/bfs-data/docs/mind-control/Fritz%20Springmeier%20-%20Mind%20Control%20Manual.pdfhttps://ia601501.us.archive.org/22/items/volume-1-they-know-not-what-they-do-text/They%20Know%20Not%20What%20They%20Do.pdf https://www.cia.gov/library/abbottabad-compound/FC/FC2F5371043C48FDD95AEDE7B8A49624_Springmeier.-.Bloodlines.of.the.Illuminati.R.pdf

Me arrastraron al sistema con el rollo todavía bajo mi brazo, el sello intacto. La bandera negra de la Inquisición de 1542 colgaba sobre la celda. Me pusieron entre rejas junto a criminales de carrera, con cuerpos cubiertos de tatuajes, números, símbolos de pandillas y marcas ocultistas—cabezas rapadas, y los números tatuados en la parte posterior del cráneo para no apuñalar al hombre equivocado en un motín. Ese fue el ambiente que deliberadamente construyeron a mi alrededor.

Al otro lado se encuentra la grotesca Maléfica—verde, hinchada, riéndose mientras alimenta a su hijo con pastelitos verdes, mientras las mariposas flotan como camuflaje. Detrás de ella están los médicos de UCSD actuando como manejadores. Abogados con cara de cerdo sostienen bolsas de monedas y montones de expedientes usados para distorsionar la verdad y convertir mi vida en un arma. Detrás de ellos se levanta la bandera del Vaticano. Más atrás está mi padrastro con su uniforme, formado por la misma máquina que luego se apartó.

Luego vino la trampa. DCSS me envió al juez supervisor. Llegué solo porque el abogado designado nunca me habló—era el quinto abogado asignado, y todos los anteriores se negaron a ayudarme y repetían: “Necesita un abogado privado.” Les dije que no tenía dinero porque mi vida ya había sido destruida por esa mujer y sus asociados.

El juez supervisor invocó de inmediato el P.C. 1348 para encarcelarme sin fianza, impulsado tanto por el representante de DCSS como por el abogado designado. Actuaron contra mí porque hablé de los abusos rituales contra mi hijo—cómo le dieron dosis psiquiátricas de adulto a los dos años, y cómo me prohibieron verlo a pesar de que pagué manutención a niveles arbitrarios y aplastantes. La disputa era de unos $2,000–$2,500; por eso intentaron encerrarme seis meses, y luego fijaron una fianza absurda cercana a $300,000. Una docena de abogados externos contactaron a DCSS diciendo que nada tenía sentido; por su presión, redujeron la condena a treinta y cinco días, el máximo que podían sacar de siete cargos apilados.

Las colocaciones fueron deliberadas. Primero vino el módulo psiquiátrico. El hombre asignado a mi celda había apuñalado a su abuelo múltiples veces—un caso que salió en las noticias—y lo presumía abiertamente. Otro pandillero se me lanzó de inmediato. Hubo varios intentos contra mi vida en esos primeros días. No esperaban que sobreviviera; esperaban que el módulo lo resolviera.

Cuando eso falló, me trasladaron a George Bailey, al peor módulo del condado—reclusos de por vida, sentencias largas y altos mandos de pandillas. Me enviaron allí dos o tres días antes de mis audiencias, aun estando ya alrededor del día 29, cuando a un preso que va a salir lo mueven hacia procesamiento, no hacia más peligro. Tenían otros planes.

Lo que siguió duró dos días. Un interno profundamente vinculado al mundo oculto de Dungeons & Dragons entró en modo de invocación total, gritando nombres y conjuros sin parar durante dos días. El aire en el módulo cambió. En medio de la segunda noche, los oficiales me despertaron y me ordenaron pararme en el centro de un círculo. En ese instante exacto, los alcaides estaban haciendo su ronda. Salí detrás de ellos tan de cerca que se sobresaltaron al verme. Su primera pregunta fue: “¿Está en peligro su vida?” Ellos lo sabían.

Incluso después de eso, el sistema no corrigió nada. Sellaron mi archivo como “Guilty as Charged” y dejaron intacto todo el fraude. Hasta hoy, DCSS me prohíbe visitar, hablar o resolver cualquier cosa sin abogado. Y en cada audiencia, la Maléfica realiza otro acto de teatro ritual.

Luego vino el incidente del transporte. Para mi siguiente audiencia, mi nombre desapareció de la lista del autobús. Mi madre irrumpió llorando en la sala exigiendo saber por qué no aparecía. Solo porque quedó un asiento vacío me subieron al último momento. En esa audiencia confirmaron que pronto tendrían que liberarme. Aun así, vino otro intento. Apenas sobreviví. Apenas salí con vida.

En audiencias posteriores también me colocaban con nuevos arrestados por asesinato—hombres traídos por SWAT, acusados de matar a alguien horas antes. Me ponían con asesinos cada vez, incluso en las celdas de espera. Cada vez que pedí custodia protectora, se negaron a procesarlo y me dijeron: “Ya pronto sales,” aunque los jueces ya habían intentado sepultarme bajo órdenes sin fianza.

Fuera de los muros, mi madre llevó el peso en su propio cuerpo. Durante esos mismos 35 días: perdió 35 libras, desarrolló enfermedad de Graves, su visión empeoró. Nada de esto tuvo que ver con manutención. No tuvo que ver con la ley. Fue un plan de desaparición calculado, ejecutado por DCSS, reforzado por el tribunal, llevado a cabo mediante colocación en módulos y ocultado bajo el caos.

Pero el Heraldo sobrevivió al hombre que apuñaló a su abuelo múltiples veces. El Heraldo sobrevivió los intentos de pandillas. El Heraldo sobrevivió el módulo psiquiátrico. El Heraldo sobrevivió a George Bailey—los reclusos de por vida, los shot-callers y la invocación de dos días. El Heraldo sobrevivió el círculo, la intervención de los alcaides, el motín, la orden sin fianza, los cargos fraudulentos, la eliminación de la lista del autobús, los nuevos arrestos por asesinato, el último intento, y el abandono de cinco abogados designados. El rollo permaneció bajo mi brazo. El sello permaneció intacto. El testigo salió caminando. Y por la misericordia y la gracia de Dios, estoy aquí. Él tiene un plan para mi vida—un plan específico—y estoy vivo para proclamarlo. Yo soy la voz del que clama en el desierto: Enderezad los caminos del Señor. Estamos confrontando la Inquisición de 1542 — Edición Ciudad Sangrienta. Únete a la revolución. Sigue mi historia, apoya la misión y mantente firme en el Camino Angosto. 📷 https://NarrowWayDisciples.com 📷 https://www.facebook.com/Allenthebeloved Agradezco la oración corporativa.

Recursos exhaustivos sobre MK ULTRA/Abuso Ritual Satánico: https://endritualabuse.org/call-for-policy-to-increase-protection-for-victims-of-ritual-abuse-in-san-diego/ https://endritualabuse.org/problems-for-victims-of-ritual-abuse-in-san-diego/ https://loveforlife.com.au/files/total_mind_controlled.pdf https://s3.wasabisys.com/bfs-data/docs/mind-control/Fritz%20Springmeier%20-%20Mind%20Control%20Manual.pdfhttps://ia601501.us.archive.org/22/items/volume-1-they-know-not-what-they-do-text/They%20Know%20Not%20What%20They%20Do.pdf https://www.cia.gov/library/abbottabad-compound/FC/FC2F5371043C48FDD95AEDE7B8A49624_Springmeier.-.Bloodlines.of.the.Illuminati.R.pdf

Before my life was deliberately derailed, I was on a clear, earned trajectory toward medicine—validated by performance, discipline, and direct institutional encouragement.

At University of California, San Diego, within Revelle College—the most demanding undergraduate core—I carried a 3.95 GPA, completed one of the hardest liberal-arts curricula in the country, served as a Learning Center tutor, and rowed crew my senior year. In 1992, I received the Scholar of Color Award—recognition of performance, not preference.

I spent two years volunteering with the Red Cross in Tijuana, conducting research, completing clinical rotations, and gaining hands-on experience that placed me squarely on the MD–PhD track. I was being actively encouraged toward programs at Harvard University, Stanford University, and University of California, San Francisco.

I had earned the future I was building.

Then came retaliation—originating at UCSD.

My pre-med advisor, Sandra Kirk, responded to routine academic inquiries with fabricated accusations, claimed she “felt threatened,” and escalated matters without any misconduct on my part—going so far as to place a private guardoutside her office. When her own conduct resulted in demotion, the response hardened. Two adults in their mid-30s—one a PhD-level quantum mechanics researcher, the other a downtown paralegal—were inserted into my pre-med courses to monitor and stalk me. It made no academic sense. It made perfect retaliatory sense.

UCSD then refused to process my completed degree.
UCSD blocked my academic path at the precise moment my credentials qualified me to ascend.

What followed was not incidental. It was patterned—and it expanded beyond the campus.

After my derailment, there were detentions without cause, state pressure, stalking, and later attempts on my life after I raised concerns about satanic ritual abuse (SRA)—specifically regarding my only son, conceived through a coercive encounter with a woman I did not know, a stalker who drugged me the night she became pregnant. Merely raising SRA concerns triggered retaliation. The message was unmistakable: do not speak.

San Diego’s prosecutorial leadership—Paul Pfingst, Bonnie Dumanis, and Summer Stephan—has categorically refused to acknowledge that SRA exists in San Diego at all. This denial persists despite the city’s profile as a major port, a dense military hub, a biotech corridor, and the presence of UCSD, a flagship institution receiving billions annually in government-related research. In other major U.S. cities, specialized task forces exist to investigate ritualized abuse. In San Diego, the topic is institutionally banned.

That ban is enforced. If SRA is mentioned, the response is suppression, not investigation—administrative retaliation, criminalization, or disappearance behind bars. In my case, raising SRA concerns coincided with credible threats to my life. This is not neutrality; it is policy by enforcement.

The hypocrisy is complete. Public reporting has long described instances in which prosecutorial discretion was exercised to defend or minimize allegations involving powerful families, including matters connected to San Diego Padres ownership circles—while, simultaneously, SRA was declared nonexistent for everyone else. The contrast is not subtle: protect the powerful, silence the vulnerable.

Following a catastrophic traumatic brain injury in 2005, the pattern intensified. Despite being a lawful U.S. resident adopted through proper channels by a high-ranking military officer, I was systematically denied institutional support. For decades, the only assistance permitted was Medi-Cal/Molina and food assistance—and in 2025, even that was taken by the County’s modern continuation of the same machinery.

I rebuilt anyway. Outside the academic and medical matrix, I forged a legitimate career—nearly twenty years as a wedding DJ and event-production professional. Yet the same institutional fingerprints followed me into environments that should have been immune. The pressure adapted; it did not stop.

These events are not isolated. They form a documented, three-decade chain of interference, retaliation, and coordinated institutional misconduct. Continuous investigation shows a consistent nexus: UCSD-centered research culture, downstream agency alignment, and a blanket suppression of SRA discourse incompatible with public safety and due process.

This is why The 1542 Inquisition exists.

And this is why the next seal—my 30+ year federal RICO record, rooted at UC San Diego and extending through intersecting institutions—is preparing to open. The record encompasses academic sabotage, state pressure, civil-rights violations, and the enforced silence surrounding ritualized abuse—not as isolated horrors, but as continuations of a single racketeering pattern.

The fight is no longer optional.
It is documented.
It is cumulative.
And it is now public.

Un patrón RICO de más de 30 años con origen en UC San Diego y aplicado mediante supresión fiscal

Antes de que mi vida fuera deliberadamente descarrilada, seguía una trayectoria clara y merecida hacia la medicina—respaldada por rendimiento, disciplina y estímulo institucional directo.

En la Universidad de California, San Diego, dentro de Revelle College—el plan de estudios de pregrado más exigente—mantuve un GPA de 3.95, completé uno de los currículos de artes liberales más duros del país, fui tutor del Learning Center y remé crew en mi último año. En 1992, recibí el Scholar of Color Award—reconocimiento por desempeño, no por preferencia.

Pasé dos años como voluntario con la Cruz Roja en Tijuana, realizando investigación, rotaciones clínicas y experiencia práctica que me colocó firmemente en la vía MD–PhD. Fui activamente alentado hacia programas de primer nivel. Había ganado el futuro que estaba construyendo.

Luego vino la represalia—con origen en UCSD.

Mi asesora pre-med, Sandra Kirk, respondió a consultas académicas rutinarias con acusaciones fabricadas, afirmó que “se sentía amenazada” y escaló la situación sin conducta indebida de mi parte—al punto de colocar un guardia privadofuera de su oficina. Tras su degradación por su propia conducta, la respuesta se endureció. Dos adultos de más de treinta años—uno investigador con doctorado en mecánica cuántica y el otro paralegal del centro—fueron insertados en mis cursos para vigilarme y acosarme. No tenía sentido académico. Tenía todo el sentido como represalia.

UCSD se negó a procesar mi título completado.
UCSD bloqueó mi camino académico justo cuando mis credenciales me permitían ascender.

Lo que siguió no fue incidental. Fue un patrón que se expandió más allá del campus.

Tras mi descarrilamiento, hubo detenciones sin causa, presión estatal, acoso, y luego intentos contra mi vida después de que planteé preocupaciones sobre abuso ritual satánico (SRA)—en particular respecto de mi único hijo, concebido tras un encuentro coercitivo con una mujer que no conocía, una acosadora que me drogó la noche en que quedó embarazada. Solo plantear el SRA activó represalias. El mensaje fue claro: no hables.

El liderazgo fiscal del condado—Paul Pfingst, Bonnie Dumanis y Summer Stephan—se niega categóricamente a reconocer que el SRA exista en San Diego. Esta negación persiste pese al perfil singular de la ciudad: puerto mayor, presencia militar densa, corredor biotecnológico, y UCSD, una institución insignia que recibe miles de millones anuales en investigación relacionada con el gobierno. En otras grandes ciudades de EE. UU., existen fuerzas de tarea especializadas para investigar abusos ritualizados. En San Diego, el tema está institucionalmente prohibido.

Esa prohibición se aplica. Si se menciona el SRA, la respuesta no es investigar sino suprimir—represalias administrativas, criminalización o desaparición tras rejas. En mi caso, plantear el SRA coincidió con amenazas creíbles contra mi vida. Esto no es neutralidad; es política por aplicación.

La hipocresía es total. Informes públicos han descrito cómo la discrecionalidad fiscal se ha utilizado para proteger a familias poderosas, incluso en asuntos vinculados a círculos de propiedad de los San Diego Padres, mientras que el SRA se declara inexistente para todos los demás. El contraste es evidente: proteger a los poderosos, silenciar a los vulnerables.

Tras una lesión cerebral traumática catastrófica en 2005, el patrón se intensificó. A pesar de ser residente legal de EE. UU. adoptado por los canales adecuados por un oficial militar de alto rango, se me negó sistemáticamente el apoyo institucional. Durante décadas, la única ayuda permitida fue Medi-Cal/Molina y asistencia alimentaria—y en 2025, incluso eso fue retirado.

Aun así, me reconstruí. Fuera de la matriz académica y médica, forjé una carrera legítima—casi veinte años como DJ de bodas y profesional de producción de eventos. Sin embargo, las mismas huellas institucionales me siguieron a espacios que deberían haber sido inmunes. La presión se adaptó; no se detuvo.

Estos hechos no son aislados. Forman una cadena documentada de más de tres décadas de interferencia, represalia y mala conducta institucional coordinada. La investigación continua muestra un nexo consistente: cultura de investigación centrada en UCSD, alineación de agencias, y una supresión total del discurso sobre SRA incompatible con la seguridad pública y el debido proceso.

Por eso existe La Inquisición de 1542.

Y por eso el próximo sello—mi expediente federal RICO de más de 30 años, con origen en UC San Diego y que se extiende a instituciones interconectadas—está a punto de abrirse. El expediente abarca sabotaje académico, presión estatal, violaciones de derechos civiles y el silencio impuesto en torno al abuso ritualizado—no como horrores aislados, sino como continuaciones de un mismo patrón de crimen organizado.

La lucha ya no es opcional.
Está documentada.
Es acumulativa.
Y ahora es pública.

If you strip away the veneer of “independent Bible teacher,” Steve Gregg slots almost perfectly into the Calvary Chapel mold. His method of verse-by-verse exposition, his casual radio Q&A persona, his itinerant teaching across churches of all stripes—these mirror the Calvary Chapel brand DNA:
Non-denominational by name, denominational by practice. The movement loves to brand itself as “simply Christian” while functioning as a tightly aligned network. Gregg embodies that posture—avoiding denominational labels yet operating comfortably in their pulpits.
Ecumenical drift disguised as balance. Calvary Chapel’s power has always been to blur the lines—absorbing charismatic energy, Baptist conservatism, and evangelical pop-culture cool into one package. Gregg has mastered the same “blurring act,” presenting competing views as if neutrality were virtue. The effect: doctrinal edges are dissolved in real time.
Prophet of the moment, not prophet of the Lord. Instead of drawing hard lines, he reassures audiences that “many sincere Christians disagree” and “the Bible isn’t always clear.” This is not illumination but sedation—people come away pacified, not awakened. It is a prophet’s posture stripped of fire, functioning as anesthesia.
The result? A ministry that feels safe across the evangelical spectrum, yet functions as a gateway to ecumenism. Instead of calling out compromise, Gregg normalizes it by endless “options-lists,” treating heresies and historic faith alike. In this sense, he is not standing against the current but surfing it—a perfect Calvary Chapel clone, even if he never took their badge.

Why call him the “Gandalf clown”? Because his role is myth-maker and pacifier at once.
Like Gandalf, he positions himself as the wise guide, the seasoned traveler through many realms of doctrine. His followers see him as the man who has “read it all” and can hand down measured interpretations.
But unlike a true prophet who draws the sword of the Word, he waves a staff of smoke—grand storytelling, calm voice, reassuring neutrality. The result: people are lulled, not stirred. The “wizard aura” hides a clownish effect: the congregation laughs, nods, and goes home unchanged.
In practice, he is a central piece in the sleep-machine: not outside of Calvary Chapel, but in symbiosis with its ecumenical instinct. His “balanced” approach validates their core compromise: unity at the cost of truth, breadth at the expense of depth.
Thus, the Gandalf-clown banner isn’t caricature—it’s diagnostic. He is the mascot of this moment: the wizard-sage who turns out to be a jester, mesmerizing the crowd into accepting a world with no drawn lines. Instead of calling the church to repentance, he lulls it into spiritual slumber while standing at the very crossroads of evangelical ecumenism.

EN ESPANOL

Si le quitas la capa de “maestro bíblico independiente”, Steve Gregg encaja casi perfectamente en el molde de Calvary Chapel. Su método de exposición verso por verso, su tono casual de preguntas y respuestas en radio, su itinerancia enseñando en iglesias de todo tipo: todo eso refleja el ADN de marca de Calvary Chapel.
No denominacional de nombre, denominacional en la práctica. El movimiento se vende como “simplemente cristiano” mientras funciona como una red estrechamente alineada. Gregg encarna esa postura: evita las etiquetas denominacionales pero opera cómodamente en sus púlpitos.
Deriva ecuménica disfrazada de equilibrio. La fuerza de Calvary Chapel siempre ha sido borrar las líneas: absorber la energía carismática, el conservadurismo bautista y el “cool” de la cultura pop evangélica en un solo paquete. Gregg ha dominado el mismo “acto de difuminar”, presentando posturas competidoras como si la neutralidad fuera virtud. El efecto: los bordes doctrinales se disuelven en tiempo real.
Profeta del momento, no profeta del Señor. En lugar de trazar líneas firmes, tranquiliza a las audiencias con que “muchos cristianos sinceros discrepan” y que “la Biblia no siempre es clara”. No es iluminación sino sedación: la gente sale pacificada, no despertada. Es una postura profética despojada de fuego, que funciona como anestesia.
¿El resultado? Un ministerio que se siente seguro en todo el espectro evangélico, pero que funciona como puerta de entrada al ecumenismo. En vez de denunciar el compromiso, Gregg lo normaliza con interminables “listas de opciones”, tratando por igual a las herejías y a la fe histórica. En este sentido, no está resistiendo la corriente: la está surfeando—un clon perfecto de Calvary Chapel, aunque nunca haya llevado su insignia.

¿Por qué llamarlo el “Gandalf payaso”? Porque su papel es a la vez creador de mitos y pacificador.
Como Gandalf, se posiciona como el guía sabio, el viajero curtido por muchos reinos de la doctrina. Sus seguidores lo ven como el hombre que “lo ha leído todo” y puede entregar interpretaciones mesuradas.
Pero, a diferencia de un verdadero profeta que desenvaina la espada de la Palabra, él agita una vara de humo—gran cuentista, voz calmada, neutralidad tranquilizadora. El resultado: la gente es arrullada, no estremecida. El “aura de mago” oculta un efecto de payaso: la congregación se ríe, asiente y se va a casa sin cambio.
En la práctica, es una pieza central de la máquina del sueño: no está fuera de Calvary Chapel, sino en simbiosis con su instinto ecuménico. Su enfoque “equilibrado” valida su compromiso nuclear: unidad a costa de la verdad, amplitud a expensas de la profundidad.
Así, la bandera “Gandalf payaso” no es caricatura: es diagnóstica. Es la mascota de este momento: el mago-sabio que resulta ser un bufón, hipnotizando a la multitud para que acepte un mundo sin líneas trazadas. En vez de llamar a la iglesia al arrepentimiento, la adormece espiritualmente mientras permanece en la encrucijada misma del ecumenismo evangélico.

The tent rises again—painted in warm carnival colors, pitched over Babylon’s rubble, the same old show dressed as something “new.” At the center stands Steve Gregg, the Gandalf-clown ringmaster of the Chuck “Chuckie” Smith Traveling Syncretist Theater. The costume changes, the beard grows, the tone softens, but the doctrine underneath stays welded to the same machine: a painless, plastic gospel engineered to merge everything into one big spiritual soup.
Syncretism pretending to be discernment.
Universalism masquerading as “balance.”
A circus disguised as theology.

Around him orbit the side-acts, each performing their specialty:

Lonnie Frisbee – Hippie Clown
“I brought the flowers, the hair, the acid-trip visions, the free-love vibe. I turned counterculture rebellion into revival kitsch — and they called it the Spirit.”

Chuck Smith – Ringmaster Clown
“Step right up! I’ll package the Jesus Freaks into a church franchise, build a network, sell it as holiness while running the tent like a business.”

Steve Gregg – Academic Clown
“I’ll hold the commentary, the lectures, the debates. I’ll never separate fully, just keep the circus respectable with intellectual gloss.”

Greg Laurie – Stadium Clown
“All in black, lights and cameras on me. I juggle stadium spotlights, make decisions look like discipleship, and call it a harvest.”

Kathryn Kuhlman – Theatrical Clown
“Flowing robes, swoons, drama on stage. Every gesture exaggerated, every sigh turned into spectacle. Showbiz packaged as anointing.”

Together they form the ensemble of a new Babylon—religion without repentance, unity without truth, a tower mortared with compromise. These acts—hippie mysticism, theatrical spirituality, stadium-concert evangelism, academic relativism, and franchise Christianity—blend into one performance: a theological circus designed to entertain, not sanctify.

This system sells comfort, not conviction.
It trains people to treat Scripture like a buffet line: take this, ignore that, blend whatever feels good, avoid whatever wounds the flesh. It manufactures “nuance” as a shield for avoiding obedience. And it adorns itself with friendly rhetoric—“We don’t divide,” “We seek balance,” “We embrace all traditions”—while quietly dismantling the boundaries God Himself established.

Syncretism isn’t an accident; it’s a business model.
Blur doctrines and everyone feels welcome.
Never take a stand and you’ll never take fire.
Float above precision and no one can test what you teach.

That’s the con.
That’s the sleight of hand.
That’s the circus Gregg headlines.

The danger isn’t the flamboyance—it’s the subtlety. Babylon doesn’t always shout; sometimes it whispers verse-by-verse while draining the text of its force. Sometimes it quotes Scripture while denying its demands. Sometimes the clown nose is invisible—but the performance behind it is real.

The Herald Lens calls it plainly:
A universalist theater of theological sedation, preserving the comfort of the audience at the expense of truth. Light entertainment dressed as wisdom. A circus tent pitched on sacred ground.

The call remains:
Come out of Babylon.
Step out of the carnival lights.
The gospel of Christ is not a circus act—
it is a consuming fire.

EN ESPANOL

La carpa se levanta de nuevo—pintada con colores cálidos de carnaval, levantada sobre los escombros de Babilonia, el mismo viejo espectáculo disfrazado de algo “nuevo.” En el centro se encuentra Steve Gregg, el payaso-Gandalf maestro de pista del Teatro Sincretista Ambulante de Chuck “Chuckie” Smith. El disfraz cambia, la barba crece, el tono se suaviza, pero la doctrina por debajo sigue soldada a la misma máquina: un evangelio plástico e indoloro diseñado para mezclarlo todo en una gran sopa espiritual.
Sincretismo disfrazado de discernimiento.
Universalismo presentado como “equilibrio.”
Un circo disfrazado de teología.

A su alrededor giran los actos secundarios, cada uno con su función:

Lonnie Frisbee – Payaso Hippie
«Yo traje las flores, el cabello, las visiones de ácido, la vibra del amor libre. Convertí la rebelión contracultural en kitsch de avivamiento —y lo llamaron el Espíritu.»

Chuck Smith – Payaso Maestro de Pista
«¡Pasen y vean! Empaquetaré a los Jesus Freaks en una franquicia eclesiástica, construiré una red, la venderé como santidad mientras administro la carpa como un negocio.»

Steve Gregg – Payaso Académico
«Yo sostendré los comentarios, las conferencias, los debates. Nunca me separaré del todo; solo mantendré el circo respetable con un barniz intelectual.»

Greg Laurie – Payaso de Estadio
«Todo de negro, luces y cámaras sobre mí. Malabarizo los reflectores del estadio, hago que decisiones parezcan discipulado, y lo llamo cosecha.»

Kathryn Kuhlman – Payaso Teatral
«Túnicas que fluyen, desmayos, drama en el escenario. Cada gesto exagerado, cada suspiro convertido en espectáculo. Showbiz empacado como unción.»

Juntos forman el elenco de una nueva Babilonia—religión sin arrepentimiento, unidad sin verdad, una torre edificada con el mortero del compromiso. El misticismo hippie, la espiritualidad teatral, el evangelismo-concierto, el relativismo académico y el cristianismo-franquicia se mezclan en un solo performance: un circo teológico diseñado para entretener, no santificar.

Este sistema vende consuelo, no convicción.
Entrena a la gente a tratar las Escrituras como un buffet: toma esto, ignora aquello, mezcla lo que te guste, evita lo que hiere la carne. Fabrica “matices” como escudo para no obedecer. Y se adorna con frases amables—“No dividimos,” “Buscamos equilibrio,” “Abrazamos todas las tradiciones”—mientras derriba silenciosamente los límites que preservan la pureza del evangelio.

El sincretismo no es un accidente; es un modelo de negocio.
Cuando difuminas las doctrinas, todos se sienten bienvenidos.
Cuando nunca tomas una postura, nunca sufres por ella.
Cuando haces parecer que todas las posturas son igual de válidas, nadie puede acusarte de error—porque tu posición nunca es lo suficientemente precisa como para ser probada.

Ese es el truco.
Esa es la prestidigitación.
Ese es el circo que Gregg encabeza.

El peligro no está en la extravagancia—está en la sutileza. Babilonia no siempre ruge; a veces susurra. A veces enseña “verso por verso” mientras drena al texto su filo. A veces cita Escritura mientras niega sus exigencias. A veces la nariz de payaso es simbólica—pero la actuación es real.

El Lente del Heraldo lo nombra sin rodeos:
Un teatro universalista construido sobre sedación teológica, preservando la comodidad del público a expensas de la verdad. Entretenimiento ligero disfrazado de sabiduría. Una carpa de circo colocada sobre terreno sagrado.

El llamado es simple:
Sal de Babilonia.
Aléjate de las luces del carnaval.
El evangelio de Cristo no es un acto circense—
es un fuego consumidor.