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When Fidelity Feels Like Betrayal
Tonight, I sat with the ache again. Not the ache of failure, but the ache of faithfulness. The kind that whispers, *“You could be more visible if you were less reverent.”* The kind that makes you wonder if staying true to sacred discipline means turning your back on opportunity, collaboration, even relevance.
I’ve watched studios drift. I’ve held back images that couldn’t carry the weight of ritual. I’ve written stories that refused to exploit pain—and in doing so, I’ve felt the silence grow louder. Not because I’m wrong. But because I’m faithful.
And sometimes, fidelity feels like betrayal.
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The Ache of Staying True
There’s a loneliness that comes with consecration. When you choose restoration over spectacle, covenant over content, you begin to feel the distance. Not just from the world, but from those who once walked beside you. Collaborators fade. Invitations stop. The algorithms don’t know what to do with sacred things.
And yet, I keep writing. I keep refining. I keep holding the line.
Because this work—this blog, these stories, this theology—isn’t a career. It’s a covenant. And covenants aren’t built for applause. They’re built for altars.
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The Seduction of Spectacle
Spectacle is easy. It’s loud. It’s marketable. It doesn’t ask for nuance or covenant—it asks for reaction. And in the world of storytelling, spectacle often masquerades as depth. Pain becomes performance. Discipline becomes domination. Restoration is replaced with revenge.
I’ve watched how quickly sacred things get repackaged for consumption. A paddle becomes a prop. A posture becomes a pose. A ritual becomes a scene with no aftermath, no reflection, no joy. And the audience applauds—not because they understand, but because they’re entertained.
But I didn’t come to entertain. I came to consecrate.
My stories aren’t written to exploit ache. They’re written to honor it. To stretch it. To let it breathe until it becomes covenant. That’s not spectacle. That’s sanctuary. And sanctuary doesn’t trend.
There’s a reason studios drift. There’s a reason algorithms ignore. Because restoration is quiet. It’s layered. It’s slow. It doesn’t sell like spectacle does. But it heals in ways spectacle never could.
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The Waiting Images
There’s a scene I’ve been holding. Not because I don’t believe in it, but because I refuse to rush it. It’s been sitting on the back burner, waiting for the right visual—one that can carry the weight of ritual, posture, aftermath, and restoration. Not just an image, but a witness.
I’ve tried to manifest it. I’ve described the paddle, the attire, the stance, the covenant that follows. But the tools fall short. They render discipline as punishment, posture as performance, aftermath as silence. And I refuse to let that be the final word.
Because this image isn’t just for me. It’s for the bruised who need to know that correction can be sacred. It’s for the brothers who’ve never seen joy follow ache. It’s for the sanctuaries that have forgotten how to restore.
So I wait. Not passively, but prayerfully. I refine the scene. I stretch the symbolism. I hold the line between realism and reverence. And in that waiting, I remember: fidelity isn’t fast. It’s faithful.
The image will come. When it’s ready. When it’s true. When it can carry the covenant without collapsing into spectacle.
Until then, I write. I consecrate. I wait.
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A Covenant, Not a Career
I didn’t start on the altar. I started on the stage.
I endorsed the spectacle. I posted the scenes that drew clicks. I stood beside productions that confused pain with power. Not because I didn’t care—but because I hadn’t yet seen the cost. And when I did, I stepped away. Not with bitterness, but with reverence. Because fidelity isn’t about where you begin. It’s about where you choose to stand when the ache becomes unbearable.
I didn’t start this blog to build a brand. I started it to build an altar. A place where ache could be named, where discipline could be restored, where joy could follow ritual like a sunrise after a storm. And every time I choose fidelity over visibility, I remember: this is not a career. It’s a covenant.
A covenant with the bruised. With the brothers who’ve never seen restoration. With the sacred spaces that have been emptied by spectacle. With the stories that refuse to be diluted.
So yes, sometimes fidelity feels like betrayal. To the systems. To the collaborators. Even to the self that longs to be seen. But it’s not betrayal. It’s the priesthood. It’s prophecy. It’s the long obedience in the same direction.
Tonight, I write not to be heard, but to be faithful. Not to be liked, but to be true. Not to be followed, but to follow the ache until it becomes joy.
And if you’re reading this—if you’ve ever felt the silence grow louder when you chose reverence over relevance—know this:
You are not alone. You are not wrong. You are not drifting.
You are faithful. And that is enough.
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Why Taben Rael Exists**
Taben Rael exists because the bruised deserve more than silence.
Because discipline without restoration is violence, and restoration without ritual is incomplete.
Because Black men deserve sanctuaries that do not shame their ache, but honor it.
Because covenant must be seen, not just spoken—etched into posture, paddle, and aftermath.
Because joy must follow correction like sunlight after thunder.
Because the sacred must be layered—not rushed, not diluted, not sold.
Taben Rael exists for the ones who were told they were too broken to be restored.
For the ones who were disciplined without dignity, and left without covenant.
For the brothers who need to see that ache can be holy, and joy can be earned through reverence.
For the storytellers who refuse to trade realism for spectacle.
For the sanctuaries that dare to begin again.
Taben Rael is not a setting. It is a sanctuary.
Not a scene. A covenant.
Not a brand. A benediction.
It exists because fidelity still matters.
And because restoration is still possible.
Amen.
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