Unfolding the Map: A Testimony from a Son of God.

A personal Testimony…

Sometimes I see things online that bother me—like a person simply reading scripture. And maybe at first glance, that doesn’t seem like something that should bother anyone. But when I lean in, when I listen, when I discern, I hear something deeper.

They read it as if it was written in English—as if the English translation were the original voice of God. There’s a tone in their voice, a cadence that echoes not humility but confidence. Not reverence, but pride. As if what they’re reading requires no unfolding, no digging, no hunger to understand. And that’s where the ache hits.

Because I know—we know—that the English Bible is a folded map. A condensed, filtered, sometimes doctored rectangle of what was once an ancient, multidimensional revelation in Hebrew and Greek. The original tongues weren’t flat—they were alive, architectural, poetic, woven with layers of breath and intent. But the English? It’s been folded for convenience. For institutions. For control.

What’s lost in that folding isn’t just words. It’s life.

And when I hear someone confidently reading the folded map as if it’s the whole picture, I don’t feel pride. I feel grief. Because I know they don’t know. And worse, they don’t know that they don’t know. That they’re indoctrinated. Like an animated zombie reading the folded they were institutionalized to. 

I began to ask myself: is this grief rooted in pride? Am I judging these people?

And here’s the answer God gave me: no. This is not judgment. This is discernment. This is what happens when the Spirit in you groans at the sight of ignorance being paraded as authority. It’s what happens when your soul cries out because others are choking on crumbs while you’ve tasted the Bread of Life in its fullness. It’s not condemnation. It’s the pain of having seen the unfolded map and knowing others are living on a photocopy.

And then another realization hit me—one even heavier.

Indoctrination is a form of infection.

It doesn’t just affect what people believe. It infects how they process reality. It replaces the Breath of God with prepackaged doctrine. It substitutes the Living Word for dead repetition. And it spreads like a virus through pulpits, seminaries, traditions, and Sunday routines. It numbs the senses and creates zombies—people who walk, talk, and even quote scripture, but who no longer hear, feel, or discern.

And let’s be real—it’s hard to talk to zombies.

When someone is under the umbrella of Christianity’s indoctrination, they’re not covered in grace. They’re covered in blindness. They’re not being transformed. They’re being reformatted to look alive while remaining spiritually dead. It’s not the life of Christ flowing through them—it’s the loop of religion keeping them animated.

The zombies have numbers. They fill churches. They build platforms. They quote verses. But they are not the sons of God.

The Pneumocrysts—the true sons—are not many. But they are mighty.

We are spiritually, hereditarily, biologically, and royally born from above. Not by man, not by tradition, not by a sinner’s prayer—but by transfusion. We didn’t receive a new belief. We received a new bloodline. The seed of God is in us. We are walking temples, breathing scrolls, living flames. We don’t just know the Word. We are the Word in motion. We don’t carry the anointing. We are vessels of the Anointed One Himself.

So I asked myself, how do you convince someone they’re a zombie?

And I answered: you show them a mirror.

Because in the mirror, they’ll see exactly what they look like.

Not how they feel. Not how they sound when they quote scripture. But how they actually are.

When they look into the eyes of a Pneumocryst—when they encounter someone who’s alive in a way they’ve never been—something happens. The illusion breaks. The reflection stares back at them. Pale. Hollow. Rehearsed. Still quoting, but no longer convincing. Still active, but no longer alive.

You don’t need to argue with a zombie. You just have to exist in front of them long enough for the mirror of your presence to speak.

The breath in you becomes the contrast. The clarity in you becomes the evidence. The purity in you becomes the confrontation.

Because zombies don’t know they’re dead—until they’re forced to see what life actually looks like.

Everything changes at that moment.

This is why I can’t go back. Not to the label. Not to the building. Not to the system. I am no longer under the umbrella of Christianity—I’ve stepped into the downpour of the divine.

And I know that grace falls through the cracks. I know there are Pneumocrysts still hidden inside the walls of churches. God sees them. He calls them. But He’s also calling them out.

So I speak.

Not to condemn.

But to awaken.

Not because I think I’m better.

But because I know what it means to breathe.

This isn’t pride. This is sonship. This is the voice of one who has been infected with life.

And to those still asleep:

Look in the mirror.

Do you see breath?

Or do you see animation?

Because if you’re alive… we’ll know.

And if you’re not… it’s not too late to wake up.