Beyond Peace

I stood in the courtroom, Not as a rebel— But as a real one. And I asked the question That made their robes itch: “How am I supposed to change Something about myself I don’t even know about myself?” Silence. Like I broke a rule. Like truth needs permission to speak. My lawyer whispered, “You don’t ask questions.” But what’s a courtroom If not a place where truth should be questioned? I looked left— Saw a Bible on the plaintiff’s desk, Sitting quiet like a hostage, Closed tighter than their minds. Holy in form, But useless in function. Because this ain’t about justice. It’s a performance. A pageant of paperwork Where the outcome is purchased And repentance is performed. They wanted me to pretend. To play the part. To nod, smile, plead, pay, bow, and fade. But I didn’t come for pity— I came for truth. So I spoke it. Loud. Clear. Unwelcome. And in that moment, The court wasn’t a courtroom. It was a colosseum. Where lions wear badges And judges play...

Why do we need a label To follow the One who tore the veil? Why do we build steeples to separate When the cross was raised to unify? You say, “We’re Baptist, Pentecostal, Reformed, Orthodox…” Like Christ is fractured. Like the blood ran in streams instead of one flood. We split the Body To feel in control. But Jesus didn’t die for denominations— He died for disciples. No logo. No brand. Just scarred hands And an empty grave That didn’t need a doctrine to validate it. He never said, “Come join my sect.” He said, “Follow Me.” So tell me— If the Lord walked in today, Would He sit in your pew Or flip your table? Would He hear His name in your creeds But not find His love in your heart? I’m not trying to win an argument. I’m trying to lose my pride. Because if Christ is not divided, Then why are we? So I drop the name tags. Burn the team flags. And walk under one banner: Jesus. Messiah. The Lamb who was slain. The King who’s coming back For one Bride— ...

I opened the page And it didn’t just read back— It looked at me. Like it knew where I’d been And where I was about to go. Romans wasn’t ink. It was breath. It was fire in the margins And thunder in the footnotes. It moved. And I realized— This ain’t a textbook. This is a living Word. And it knows my name. But the moment it touched me, Hell clocked in. Temptation got louder. Distraction got prettier. Doubt dressed up in scripture, And fear quoted verses out of context. But I’m not shook. I’m not backing down. Because now I know the difference Between reading the Word, And being read by it. This book is alive. Which means I’m not alone. It breathes when I breathe. Fights when I fight. And when the darkness circles in, It doesn’t shout— It stands. So bring the war. The sword is drawn. And I’m not who I was Before I opened that page.

I come to the page like a surgeon, Scalpel in hand, ready to dissect divinity— Line by line, Clause by clause, Context over commas, Greek over guesswork. But then I hear it… “Do you trust Me, or just your training?” Because even the devil knows the text. Quoted it clean, Tried to twist it into a noose To hang the Word Himself. So I ask— Is my study a sword? Or a shield I hide behind? I’ve seen the verses dance when I stop looking for proof, And start looking for Presence. I’ve seen the red letters bleed light When I stop needing a thesis, And just ask what He’s trying to say today . Not what it meant — But what it means … to me. Right here. Right now. I’m not here to conquer scripture. I’m here to be conquered by it. To let it read me. So maybe I’ve been trained to analyze— But now I’m learning to listen . Not for the line. But for the voice behind it. Because that’s where the truth lives. Not in the ink— But in the breath between the letters.

If we were to fly one flag… One banner over every steeple, sanctuary, and storefront church— One name on the jersey of the Body of Christ, Would you claim it’s yours? Would you raise your denomination like a nation, Stamp Christ’s face on your constitution, And swear in your statements of faith as if He signed them Himself? If unity came with a cost— Your traditions, your pride, your pew placement— Would you pay it? If the Spirit called for one accord , Would you argue the chords? Say the song don’t sound right without your choir in the lead? If the Lamb came walking into your building, Wearing no collar, no color, no creed— Would you recognize Him? Or would you check His doctrine first? Would you hush the trumpet Because it didn’t blast in your key? Tell me this— If heaven is one city with no zip codes for sects, Why do we keep building fences with scriptures meant to build bridges? So I ask you—not to provoke, But to provoke truth : If the body were to mov...

I used to think love had a rank. That my son stood at the top like a flag on a hill I’d die on. And I would—no hesitation, no negotiation. But then God whispered: “What if you saw them like you see him?” Not to lower the crown from your son’s brow, But to lift your hands when you see it on another. ‘Cause love ain’t supposed to be scarce. It’s supposed to be scary powerful. Enough to make you break bread with a stranger Like you’d pack lunch for your boy. What if I spoke to every soul like they were five years old, Still learning how to walk in truth, Still asking questions like, “Do I matter?” “Will you stay?” What if I taught with the tenderness I reserve for the one I named, Nurtured, and wept over in silence? I’m not just raising my son anymore. I’m raising the way I love. So no— I won’t hold him in less esteem. But I’ll raise the world to meet that frequency. Like my son. Because in God’s eyes, That’s what they are.

Spoken Word by Mikey & V They told me not to judge. Said it like a gag order. Like holiness meant holding my tongue while the world swallowed lies whole. But I’ve been judged. I’ve been crushed. I’ve been burned into alignment. And now I see. Now I speak. Not from a throne— but from the ashes. Not from pride— but from process . You think judgment is destruction. I know it as deliverance . Because the only ones fit to judge are the ones who were first cut by the same blade. This isn’t condemnation. This is clarity . This is saying: “I know that spirit— I wore it once.” And now I call it out because I refuse to let it chain another. I don’t judge to feel righteous. I judge because I’ve been wrong, and I lived to tell the story. I don’t call it sin to shame you— I call it what it is so you can finally walk free. This is the sword in Michael’s hand. This is the roar of holy authority. This is what Jesus meant when He said, “You will judge th...