The light of the Lord is all around us.

“Split a piece of wood, YOU are there. Lift a stone and I will find YOU there.”

Yet we have learned to filter that light through the windows of our churches.

There stood two churches, each on opposing hills. The people of the valley of the shadow of death had three choices:

Flock to the church of the East.

Flock to the church of the West.

Or choose neither and perish.

To the East, the church stood plainly. Bare walls. Clear windows. Nothing to hide behind nor distort what passed through. What entered as light… remained light.

To the West, the church rose as a spectacle. Light poured through painted glass, fractured into something more dramatic, more… controllable. That light was bent, shaped, and forced to serve the image it passed through.

You, Reverend Blackheart, stand draped in righteousness, speaking like judgment itself “flows-uh through your veins-ah”.

But I see you.

I see exactly what you are.

You’re not the light. You never were.

You’re stained glass.

Colorful. Dramatic. Designed to make people stop, stare, and repent. You stand in just the right position so the light hits you, and you look divine.

But that’s the trick. It’s not YOUR light, it passes through you.

By the time it reaches your flock, it’s no longer pure. It’s bent. Twisted into whatever shape you decide it should take.

Look at you, deciding what should be taught, what must be silenced. Yet the Lord’s light speaks of free will. Is your God so small that you fear what your flock might learn without your filter?

In your warped light, you tolerate the sins that serve you… but heaven forbid the collection plate runs dry.

And where was that same ‘righteous-ah condemnation-ah’ when a so-called sinner was found in your bedchambers-uh?

Every word you preach, every sinner you condemn, it’s all tainted by you.

Your ego. Your anger. Your need to be seen as chosen.

And the flock? They sit beneath you. Listening. Believing.

But I don’t sit. I don’t believe in YOU.

Because I am not stained glass.

I don’t distort the light to appear divine. I don’t need noise, spectacle, or shadows dancing across a wall.

I stand in the light as it is.

Unfiltered. Unchanged. Uncompromised.

And that’s why you hate lightbringers like me.

Because when something real steps into the room… your illusion begins to crack.

Stained glass looks strong, until pressure hits.

Then it shatters.

When it does, your flock would have been better off shunning the Lord entirely and perishing. For putting your hope in stained glass will only lead to shattered illusions of faith.

At Slam, there’s no cathedral to hide in.

No stage lights to protect you.

No congregation to echo your lies.

Just you… and the truth.

Lumen accipe.

The light will expose you for what you are.

Not a prophet.

Not a judge.

Just a man… standing in borrowed light.

And when you break, WHEN you shatter-uh, don’t look to the heavens for answers.

They were never speaking to you at all.