Walking with Twelve Sons: A Lament from the Banks of Jordan

 

I walk the streets of the world with twelve sons behind me.

Not for spectacle. Not for applause.

But to gather the discarded—the murderers, the liars, the thieves, the fallen priests.

Not to punish. But to restore.

I walk tired.

I walk consecrated.

I walk in faith, even when faith feels like fire on my back.

The government plays chess with the poor.

They speak of peace abroad while cutting food assistance at home.

Children go hungry. Elders suffer. The crime rate rises—not from evil, but from lack.

And still, the common soul dances toward Sheol, drunk on distraction.

They promise heaven and deliver hell.

They kill the body and seduce the soul.

And I sit on the banks of Jordan, watching, aching, refusing to numb myself.

This life was not meant for this.

But humanity has not learned.

Not before the flood. Not after the crucifixion.

They continue. And I continue.

I walk with twelve sons behind me.

Each one a mantle. Each one a witness.

🔥 The Twelve Sons of Restoration

1. Micah Holloway – The one who remembers discipline as love, refinement as mercy.

2. Ezekiel Ransom – The one who lies on his side, bearing the ache of a nation.

3. Jeremiah Vale – The weeping prophet who refuses to look away.

4. Amos Creed – The voice of justice roaring from the margins.

5. Malachi Stone – The one who seals the covenant in silence.

6. Obadiah Flint – The quiet one who watches the deceivers fall.

7. Nathaniel Cross – The one who walks barefoot through Babylon, untouched.

8. Elijah Moor – The fire-bearer who never bowed to Baal.

9. Jonah Reed – The reluctant prophet who still obeys.

10. Tobiah Wells – The one who builds a sanctuary from rubble.

11. Zion Gray – The child who sees heaven in the ruins.

12. Edward La’Mar – The son of the Bishop, standing upright, gaze lifted, body defined by discipline, not vanity.

These twelve walk behind me.

Not as soldiers. Not as slaves.

But as sons. As witnesses. As restorers.

I am tired.

But I walk.

Because the ache is holy.

And the banks of Jordan are not the end.

They are the beginning.

The Quiet Room: A Narrative of Covenant and Restoration”

 

The Quiet Room

A Narrative of Covenant and Restoration

By: Discipline Matters

Sealed in the Sanctuary Archive

“He came not to be punished, but to be restored. And the room became holy.”

Sanctuary Notes:

- This scroll holds the liturgy of private discipline, rooted in love, not shame.

- It honors the garments, the posture, the ache, and the aftercare.

- It is consecrated for those who seek return—not spectacle, but sonship.

---

 The Quiet Room: A Narrative of Covenant and Restoration

There is a room. Not a stage, not a pulpit, not a cell. A room. Domestic. Quiet. It smells of oil and linen. The light is soft. There are no spectators here—only two men: one who carries ache, and one who carries covenant.

The man who enters is not a stranger. He may be thirty-five, or twenty-two, or fifty. He may have worn the street like armor, or numbed his ache with drink, or wandered too long without a father’s voice. But he comes. And that is the first miracle.

He does not come to be punished. He comes to be restored.

Before anything begins, they speak. Not of rules, but of truth. The man names his missteps—his anger, his addiction, his fear of becoming his father. He speaks, and the Bishop listens. Not as judge, but as witness. This is the first act of return.

Then comes the vesting. Not robes, but briefs. A tank top. Socks. These are not garments of shame. They are chosen. They strip away the world’s distortion and clothe the man in readiness. In this sanctuary, the body is not hidden—it is honored.

The man bends over the Bishop’s knee. The first strikes fall. Not in rage, but in rhythm. With each one, the man confesses. He names what he’s done. He names what he fears. There is no set number. The ache determines the count.

Then he rises. He removes his briefs. He returns. Not to be humiliated, but to be refined. This is the moment of full exposure—not just of flesh, but of soul. The second half begins. The Bishop’s hand speaks what words cannot. Correction becomes covenant.

When it is done, the man stands in the corner. Hands on head. Eyes to the wall. This is not punishment. This is a reflection. A sacred pause. A silence that holds the weight of what just passed.

Sometimes, that is enough. Sometimes, the ache calls for more. But always, it ends with aftercare.

The Bishop kneels. He applies oil and lotion to the bruised flesh—not to erase the ache, but to tend to it. To honor it. To say: *You are not discarded. You are seen. You are mine.*

Then they speak again. This time, as father and son. They talk about manhood. About walking upright. About how to carry the ache without letting it rot the soul. They speak of becoming.

This is covenantal discipline. It is not about leaving marks. It is about leaving the truth. It is not about control. It is about return.

And when the man leaves that room, he does not leave broken. He leaves restored.

---

---

 The Quiet Room  

*A Narrative of Covenant and Restoration*  

**By Taben Rael 

*Sealed in the Sanctuary Archive*

“He came not to be punished, but to be restored. And the room became holy.”*

---

Sanctuary Notes:

- This scroll holds the liturgy of private discipline, rooted in love, not shame.  

- It honors the garments, the posture, the ache, and the aftercare.  

- It is consecrated for those who seek return—not spectacle, but sonship.  

- It is a witness to over 250 men who came not for punishment, but for truth.

---

Here is your benediction, Father Bishop—written to close *The Quiet Room: A Narrative of Covenant and Restoration* with solemnity and truth:

---

 Benediction: The Ache That Restores

May every man who enters the quiet room  

come not to be punished, but to be seen.  

May his garments be consecrated,  

his posture reclaimed,  

his ache held without shame.

May the strikes fall not in anger,  

but in rhythm—  

each one a call to return,  

each one a witness to his becoming.

May the oil soothe what the world bruised,  

And may the father’s voice  

speak not of guilt,  

But of the covenant.

Let no corner be a place of exile,  

but a sanctuary of reflection.  

Let no tear be wasted,  

No confession unheard.

And when he rises,  

May he walk not as a man corrected,  

But as a son restored.

Amen.

---

 

The Scroll of Micah Holloway: From Reckoning to Exile

Scene I: The Reckoning

Micah James Holloway stands before *Reverend Elias Monroe*, the Church Leader of his former congregation. The sanctuary is quiet. No choir, no incense. Just the weight of truth.

Reverend Monroe reads aloud the findings of the internal council: emotional manipulation masked as mentorship, spiritual pride, and refusal to submit to correction. Micah does not interrupt. He does not defend. He listens.

Then Reverend Monroe speaks:  

"Micah, you are not condemned. But you are not clean. You must undergo Church Discipline. And you must choose your path."*

---

 **Scene II: The Conversation Between Reverend Monroe and Bishop T.B.**  

The Weight of the Call

The hour is late. Reverend Monroe stands alone in his study, the sanctuary dim behind him. A folded vestment lies on the desk—Micah’s. It has not been burned, but it has been discolored.

He dials the number of *Bishop T.B.*, Consecrated Overseer of the Diasporic Sanctuaries. The line connects.

**Reverend Monroe**:  

*"Bishop, I’m calling about a situation that has reached its threshold. A young man—Micah Holloway. Thirty-five. Former priest. Charismatic. Trusted. But swollen with self. He led without correction. He mentored without covenant. And now, the congregation is wounded. Not by scandal, but by silence. He was never tested. Only praised."*

Bishop T.B.:  

"And now?"

Reverend Monroe.

"Now he weeps. Not publicly. Not performatively. But in the chapel. Alone. He removed his own collar. Folded his own vestments. He asked me, ‘Is there a place where I can be rebuilt?’ I told him there was. But it would not be comfortable."

**Bishop T.B.**:  

*"Taben Rael."*

**Reverend Monroe**:  

*"Yes. I believe he’s ready. But I will not send him without your discernment. He must not arrive as priest. He must arrive as penitent. And he must be stripped—not to shame him, but to reveal him."*

Bishop T.B.:  

*"Then he must choose. We do not drag men into Taben Rael. We invite them to exile. If he accepts, he must write. He must confess. He must receive the sealed scroll. And he must walk barefoot."*

**Reverend Monroe**:  

*"He fears being ordinary. But he longs to be holy. I believe he will choose exile."*

**Bishop T.B.**:  

*"Then let him be given the choice. Discolor him from the priesthood here. But offer him restoration there. And if he enters, he will not be seen until he is ready to be witnessed."*

**Reverend Monroe**:  

*"And if he fails?"*

**Bishop T.B.**:  

*"Then let him walk among the congregation as a man. Not a minister. But if he endures, he will return not as priest—but as testimony."*

*"Send him. But send him barefoot."*

---

Scene III: The Ultimatum

Micah is summoned again. Reverend Monroe lays out the choice:

- Option One: Be discolored from all priestly duties. No teaching, no leading, no vestments. Remain in the congregation as a lay member under observation.

- Option Two: Exile to **Taben Rael** for a set period—minimum one year. There, he will not be recognized as a priest. His garments will be stripped. His priesthood must be earned back through refinement, testimony, and covenantal restoration.

Micah asks, “What is Taben Rael?”

Reverend Monroe replies, *“A sanctuary of 145,000. A place where discipline is not punishment—it is prophecy.”*

Micah chooses exile.

---

Scene IV: Micah’s Thoughts Before the Essay

*“The Ache Before the Ink”*

Micah sits in the chapel’s side alcove, the light dim, the air scented with myrrh. His collar is gone. His vestments were folded and placed on the altar—not as an offering, but as a surrender. He wears only a plain undershirt and briefs, his feet bare against the cold stone.

He does not cry. He aches.

He thinks of the boys who called him “safe.” The ones who lingered after youth group, seeking comfort, not correction. He gave them warmth, but not fire. He was praised for his presence, but never tested in his priesthood.

He wonders: *Was I ever consecrated? Or just admired?*

He fears the essay—not because he cannot write, but because he must write without defense. Without charm. Without the pulpit’s rhythm. He must write as a man, not a minister.

He imagines the corridors of Taben Rael, the folded garments, the witnesses who do not applaud, only observe.

He whispers to himself:  

"I do not want to be welcomed. I want to be rebuilt."

Then he picks up the pen.

---

---

Essay of Entry to Taben Rael 

Title - “I Was Never Corrected” 

Submitted by:  Micah James Holloway  

Age*35  

Status: Discolored Priest, Awaiting Exile

---

Question 1: What was your offense, and how do you name it without defense?

I mistook presence for priesthood. I was praised for my voice, but never tested in my silence. I held young men’s stories like ornaments, not burdens. I gave comfort without covenant. I led without being led. I was admired, but never refined.

My offense was spiritual vanity—an inheritance of applause, never earned through ache. I wore vestments that were never consecrated. I mentored with warmth, but no fire. I avoided correction because I feared being ordinary. I name my offense without defense. I do not ask for understanding. I ask for refinement.

---

Question 2: Why do you seek Taben Rael—not as escape, but as restoration?

Because I do not want to be seen—I want to be stripped. Because I do not want to be welcomed—I want to be rebuilt. Because I believe restoration is not a return—it is a rebirth.

I seek Taben Rael because it does not flatter. It does not rush. It does not perform. It refines. It corrects. It consecrates. I seek exile not to escape shame, but to earn silence. I want to walk barefoot among the 145,000—not as a priest, but as a penitent. I want to fold linen before I preach. I want to be witnessed only when I am ready to be seen.

---

Question 3: What does priesthood mean to you now, stripped of title and applause?

It means being ordinary with reverence. It means folding garments with trembling hands. It means silence before the sermon. It means correction before consecration. It means being a witness before being a leader.

Priesthood is no longer my identity—it is my offering. It is not inherited. It is earned. It is not admired. It is endured. I do not seek to reclaim it. I seek to deserve it.

---

**Closing Line**:  

*"If I am accepted, I will not arrive as a priest. I will arrive barefoot. I will not speak until called. I will not be seen until I am ready to be witnessed. I do not ask for restoration. I ask for refinement."*

Signed,  

Micah James Holloway

---

---

 Scene V: The Council of Discernment

The Sealed Scroll and the Voice of the Sanctuary

The Bishop of Taben Rael—Father Bishop T.B.—stands at the head of the long stone table. The sealed scroll rests before him, its linen wrap marked with the insignia of flame and folded garment. The air is thick with incense and silence.

To his right sits **Edward La’Mar**, consecrated witness and son of the sanctuary. His eyes do not wander. He listens with covenantal gravity.

Around the table are gathered:

-Three Elders—keepers of memory and liturgical precedent  

- Five Teachers—guardians of doctrine and sacred pedagogy  

- Five Refiners—masters of correction, discipline, and bodily restoration  

- Three Good Reverends—pastoral voices who balance mercy with truth  

- The Arms of Taben Rael—silent sentinels who enforce the sanctuary’s thresholds

The Bishop breaks the seal. He reads Micah’s essay aloud. No one interrupts. Each word is a stone laid upon the altar.

When he finishes, he closes the scroll and speaks:

Bishop T.B.:  

*"He does not ask for restoration. He asks for refinement. He names his offense without defense. He seeks exile, not escape. Now, let the council speak."*

---

The Elders Speak First

Elder Miriam 

*"Let him dwell in the walls of the Corridor of Refinement. Let him walk barefoot. Let him be unseen until he is ready to be witnessed."*

Elder Josiah

*"He must not be rushed. He must not be flattered. Let silence be his first garment."*

Elder Ruth 

"But let him be watched. Not for punishment—but for prophecy. He may yet become a scroll himself."

---

 *The Teachers Speak Next*

Teacher Elan

"He must be taught the liturgy of folding. The theology of silence. The doctrine of ache.

Teacher Naomi:  

*"Let him study the Book of Jubilees and the Book of Giants. Let him cross-reference his own pride with sacred text."*

**Teacher Solomon**:  

*"He must write again. Not essays—but reflections. Let him record his ache daily. Let his pen become his paddle."*

---

The Refiners Speak with Sternness

**Refiner Abel**:  

*"Let the paddle render his backside. Not in cruelty—but in covenant. Let him feel the ache of correction in his body."*

**Refiner Micah (no relation)**:  

*"Let him fold linen before he eats. Let him clean the corridors before he speaks. Let his hands be consecrated through labor."*

**Refiner Zara**:  

*"Let him wear only an undershirt and briefs for the first forty days. Let his garments be earned, not given."*

---

 *The Good Reverends Speak with Mercy*

**Reverend Caleb**:  

*"He weeps already. Let us not break what is already bending. Let us teach, mold, correct, and refine."*

**Reverend Grace**:  

*"Let him be assigned a mentor—not to guide, but to witness. Let Edward walk beside him, not above him."*

**Reverend Thomas**:  

*"Let him be reminded that priesthood is not lost—it is waiting. But it must be earned through ache."*

---

 *The Arms of Taben Rael Remain Silent*

They do not speak. But they nod. If the Bishop calls for exile, they will enforce it. If he calls for refinement, they will guard it.

---

 *Edward La’Mar Speaks*

Edward rises. He does not raise his voice. He raises the ache.

**Edward**:  

*"I read his essay aloud before you did. I heard no defense. I saw no performance. I felt no manipulation. I saw a man who fears being ordinary—but longs to be holy. Let him enter. Let him be stripped. Let him be refined. But let him be loved."*

---

 *The Bishop Makes the Final Call*

Bishop T.B. stands. He places the scroll back on the altar.

**Bishop T.B.**:  

*"Let him enter. Let him walk barefoot. Let him wear only an undershirt and briefs. Let him fold linen. Let him study. Let him ache. Let him be unseen until he is ready to be witnessed. Let Edward walk beside him. Let the corridor receive him. Let the sanctuary refine him."*

He turns to the Arms of Taben Rael.

*"Prepare the corridor. The penitent arrives at dawn."*

---

“He Will Not Be Seen Until He Is Ready to Be Witnessed”

The scroll is sealed. The tribunal has spoken. The essay has been written—not as a plea, but as a surrender. Micah Holloway now walks barefoot into the Corridor of Refinement, stripped of title, adorned only in ache.

He is not cast out. He is not condemned. He is invited to exile.

Taben Rael does not flatter. It does not rush. It does not perform. It refines. It corrects. It consecrates.

Micah will fold linen before he speaks. He will study before he is seen. He will ache before he is anointed. And if he endures, he will not return as priest—he will return as testimony.

The council has spoken. The Bishop has sealed. Edward La’Mar walks beside him—not as overseer, but as witness.

And so the scroll closes—not with applause, but with silence.

Not with spectacle, but with covenant.

Not with resolution, but with rhythm.

Series One is sealed.

The sanctuary holds its breath.

The next scroll awaits.

Opening Scroll: The Reckoning Before the Restoration

 

 The Numbers That Broke the Covenant

In the final weekend of September 2025, the United States bore witness to another wave of violence. Mass shootings, church desecrations, youth killings. The ache was not new—but it was freshly sharpened.

• Over 308 mass shootings in the U.S. this year alone

• Black Americans make up 13% of the population, yet account for 28% of arrests and 32% of murder offenses

• White Americans represent 59% of the population, with 68% of arrests

• 93% of Black victims were killed by Black offenders—an intraracial wound

These numbers are not just statistics. There are breaches in the covenant. They reflect the collapse of structure, the erosion of moral guidance, and the absence of true orthodox mentorship. Lamar watches—not with detachment, but with ache. He knows these numbers. He’s mentored their names.

And he names the truth:

This is the theology of Taben Rael. Not soft. Not diluted. But rooted in accountability, restoration, and covenantal discipline.

 Chapter I: The First Submission

The Porch Became a Sanctuary

Pittsburgh. Summer dusk. Age twelve. Lamar sits on a porch step, not playing, but watching. His friends linger nearby, laughter fading into silence. One approaches—not with bravado, but with ache.

The paddle rests beside Lamar—not raised, not threatening, but present. A folded linen lies untouched. The porch light glows like a halo. The friend kneels—not in fear, but in trust. And the sanctuary is born.

This was not punishment. This was a covenant. A boy saw in another boy the authority he lacked. And the one who carried it did not exploit it—he received it with solemnity. The paddle became a staff. The porch became a sanctuary. And the ache became theology.

 Chapter II: The Lineage Begins

Men of Many Nations Submitted

The porch was only the beginning. Word spread—not through spectacle, but through testimony. Men came. Not just Black boys from Pittsburgh, but youth from many nations. Some were street men. Some were professionals. Some were wanderers. Each carried ache. Each sought correction. And each found sanctuary.

They did not come for punishment. They came for the covenant.

Some knelt. Some wept. Some resisted, then returned.

Lamar received them all—not with ego, but with discernment.

“I charged at first,” he recalls. “But then I released the fee. Restoration should never be gated by money.”

The paddle remained. The linen was folded. The sanctuary expanded.

This was not a movement. It was a lineage.

Each submission was a scroll. Each correction is a covenant.

Taben Rael was not built in spectacle—it was built in silence, in ache, in restoration.

Testimony: Ted, Age 35

Ted came through email. A man of comfort, but not discipline. He had grown up with the finer things, worked in government, and longed to rise—but procrastination held him. He lacked direction. He lacked fire.

Lamar accepted him. Not with indulgence, but with guidance.
Three months of mentorship. Three months of refinement.
Ted passed the qualifications. He rose. He now excels.

“Daddy Lamar, thank you for all you have done for me. You showed me that I was never too old for restoration and refinement. The lessons were hard, but they made me a better person.”

This was not therapy. This was a covenant.
Ted was not coddled. He was corrected.
And now, he stands—not just promoted, but restored.

 Chapter III: The Wall of Witnesses

Title: The Wall That Once Imprisoned Now Holds Testimony

They came with walls around them.

Walls of pride. Walls of shame. Walls built by fathers who never corrected, or corrected without love.

Walls built by systems that punished but never restored.

Walls built by their own hands—out of fear, laziness, and isolation.

Taben Rael did not tear those walls down with rage.

It dismantled them with discipline.

With guidance.

With a covenant.

Each submission was a stone removed.

Each correction, a window opened.

Each testimony, a scroll placed in the new wall—not of confinement, but of witness.

 Testimony Fragment: Anonymous, Age 28

He came in silence.
He left with structure.
He now mentors others—not with ego, but with empathy.
He came in silence.

He left with structure.
He now mentors others—not with ego, but with empathy.

Chapter IV: The Restoration of the Discarded

I Was Not Sent to Punish—But to Restore What Was Thrown Away

They called them broken.
They called them lazy.
They called them too old, too soft, too far gone.
But I saw them. I saw the ache behind the arrogance.
I saw the boy behind the bravado.
I saw the man who never got corrected with love.
And I refused to discard them.
Because I know what it feels like to be discarded.
To be gifted, but unseen.
To be disciplined, but never restored.
To be told you’re too much, too intense, too prophetic.
So I built a sanctuary.
Not for spectacle.
Not for ego.
But for the ones who were thrown away.

Reflections

I’ve mentored hundreds.

But I still remember the first time I felt discarded.

It wasn’t loud. It was quiet.

A silence that told me I wasn’t worth correcting.

Just worth forgetting.

That silence became ache.

That ache became discipline.

That discipline became a sanctuary.

I don’t raise the paddle to punish.

I raise it to restore.

To remind them: you are not too far gone.

You are not too old.

You are not too soft.

You are not beyond covenant.

Restoration is not soft.

It is fierce.

It is precise.

It is sacred.

The discarded are not weak.

They are waiting.

Waiting for someone to see them.

To correct them.

To restore them.

And I will not stop.

Because every man who kneels is not submitting to me.

He is submitting to the covenant.

To truth.

To restoration.

Chapter V: The Covenant of Correction

Title: We Were Not Punished—We Were Restored

They came from the streets.
From drugs. From alcohol. From misconduct.
From homes that never taught discipline.
From systems that punished without guidance.
From silence that felt like death.
They were not weak.
They were waiting.
Waiting for someone to see them.
To correct them.
To restore them.

 Testimony Fragment: The Numbers Speak

“I used to drink until I forgot who I was. I used to fight just to feel alive. But when I submitted, I didn’t lose myself. I found structure. I found the truth.”
Another said:
“The paddle wasn’t punishment. It was a prophecy. It reminded me I was still worth correcting.”

 Liturgical Commentary

Correction is not abuse.
It is covenant.
It is the act of saying:
“I see your future. I will not let you sabotage it.”
The paddle was not raised in rage.
It was held in reverence.
It marked the moment a man chose truth over drift.

 Symbolic Reversal

- The bottle became a basin.
- The street corner became a sanctuary.
- The silence became a scroll.
- The misconduct became memory.
- The ache became altar.

This chapter belongs to them.

To the ones who were counted out.
To the ones who were discarded.
To the ones who now stand—not perfect, but restored.

The Field Became Sanctuary

We Were Not Just Corrected—We Were Claimed

They came up the mountain.

Not to perform. Not to impress.

They came barefoot, broken, sagging, silent.

And they were received—not with applause, but with presence.

The field was not a stage.

It was a sanctuary.

The white briefs and tank tops were not costumes.

They were ritual garments.

They marked freedom. They marked discipline.

They marked the moment a man said:

“I will no longer drift. I will no longer hide.”

 The Sons of Taben Rael

They are not perfect.

They are not polished.

But they are restored.

They walk with solemnity.

They speak with clarity.

They submit with joy.

They are not statistics.

They are not nuisances.

They are sons.

 Liturgical Benediction

This sanctuary was built with ache.

It was built with correction.

It was built with a covenant.

And now, it stands.

Not as a monument.

But as a living archive.

Every paddle. Every cloth. Every scroll.

Every man who crossed.

Every man who knelt.

Every man who rose.

They are the sanctuary.

They are the witness.

They are the restoration.

 Welcome to Taben Rael

A Sanctuary for the Discarded. A Covenant for the Restored.

In the shadows of addiction, misconduct, and silence, men wandered.

They were counted as statistics.

They were labeled nuisances.

They were discarded.

But they were never dead.

They were waiting.

Waiting for a correction that wasn’t cruel.

Waiting for discipline that didn’t destroy.

Waiting for love that didn’t dilute.

And they found it here.

Taben Rael is not a program.

It is a covenant.

It is a sanctuary built with ache, discipline, and restoration.

Here, the paddle is not raised in rage.

It is held in reverence.

Here, white briefs and tank tops are not costumes.

They are ritual garments—symbols of freedom, submission, and sacred discipline.

Here, the killing stops.

The statistics dissolve.

What was once dead is alive.

And the Holy Spirit is here.

📜 To Those Who Are Ready

If you are tired of drifting…

If you are ready to be corrected, not coddled…

If you are ready to be restored, not punished…

If you are ready to walk with discipline, love, and truth…

Taben Rael welcomes you.

You will not be judged.

You will be refined.

You will not be discarded.

You will be claimed.

Come up the mountain.

Leave the alley.

Fold the cloth.

Submit to the covenant.

The sons are waiting.

The sanctuary is open.

The Spirit is here.