Jeffrey Epstein’s ‘philosophy’ wasn’t deep — it was dirty



Anyone can search the currently available Epstein files and see what turns up. As a professor at Arizona State University, I searched for my own school. I did not expect to find so much ASU-related material.

One reason: ASU employed Lawrence Krauss, paying him a substantial salary to write books arguing that the universe created itself from nothing.

Epstein’s philosophy collapses under its own weight because it begins with a lie about God.

That claim is its own story. You will object, rightly: “But we can’t get something from nothing.” Krauss replies, “By ‘nothing’ I mean quantum foam.” And you respond, “Then the title misleads. You don’t mean nothing. You mean quantum foam.”

Krauss also became close with Jeffrey Epstein. In one exchange, Krauss wrote: “I really do love you deeply as a friend Jeffrey. I don’t think I know anyone else who so honestly cares about me, and I don’t think I can ever truly express how wonderful that feels. Thank you. The cruise was a great reset.” In other messages, they discuss science and religion.

That is what caught my attention. As I read Epstein’s comments about religion — and listened to his interview with Steve Bannon on similar themes — a picture began to form of how Epstein made sense of the world and, more chillingly, of himself.

How a monster sleeps

A question hangs over every moral horror: How does a moral monster live with himself? Even if we limit ourselves to the explicit immorality in the files — without speculating about coded language or hidden networks — how did he sleep at night? What silenced his conscience?

Several pieces fit together.

In the ASU-related material and in interviews, Epstein does what I have often seen among intellectuals: He retreats into abstraction. He speaks about the history of ideas, mathematics, and cutting-edge research in a way that floats above concrete people and particular moral obligations.

That retreat protects a self-image. He can pose as the enlightened patron of science, funding humanity’s progress. That image sits in grotesque contrast with the cruelty he inflicted on actual human beings.

Abstraction as a moral anesthetic

This pattern tracks with Paul Johnson’s thesis in “Intellectuals”: Intellectuals who talk about serving “humanity” often treat individuals in their orbit badly. Grand claims become a shield. The rhetoric of progress becomes moral insulation.

Think of the professor who preaches liberation while using DEI programs to impose racial essentialism and ideological coercion. He can tell himself he is helping “the marginalized” even as he harms colleagues and students in the real world.

Or consider the pop star who repeats slogans like “no one is illegal on stolen land.” The moral performance happens at the level of abstraction. The carelessness happens at the level of reality.

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Epstein’s ‘unknowable’ God

Epstein goes further by trying to dissolve moral accountability at the metaphysical level.

He argues that physicists once believed reality could be fully captured by mathematics. Now, he claims, we understand reality is irrational. Mathematics can only approximate what he calls “the limit,” but the limit itself remains unknowable. Some call that limit “God.”

But if God is unknowable, then God becomes irrelevant to our calculations about life and moral choice.

At one point, Epstein frames this as a male-female divide. The male mind, he says, runs on logic and mathematics. Reality, however, does not fit that paradigm. Reality is fundamentally irrational and accessed through feminine intuition. Ultimate reality, in his telling, is best understood as the divine female.

Humans, in Epstein’s view, are beasts with frontal lobes sophisticated enough to rationalize their impulses.

He may have believed he was elevating the feminine. The framework reads more like a metaphysical excuse: reason fails, therefore the standard fails.

The tension between reason and intuition is ancient. Epstein narrows “reason” to a single project: reducing the world to material causes through mathematics. When that project does not deliver what he wants, he does not abandon reductionism. He abandons reason.

Francis Schaeffer described this move in godless intellectual life: When autonomous reason cannot sustain itself, the thinker does not repent. He escapes into irrationality. Intuition becomes the alibi. Mystery becomes permission.

Religion as therapy, not truth

In conversation with Krauss, Epstein defends a kind of religion, but not biblical religion.

Krauss, echoing the New Atheists, treats religion as an evolutionary leftover — maybe useful in an earlier age, unnecessary for modern man. After all, modern man allegedly knows universes can create themselves out of nonexistence.

Epstein pushes back, but only to reduce religion to psychological management. Religion concerns the “inner world,” he suggests, while science and mathematics concern the outer world. We cannot ignore the inner world. Its purpose is peace. Anxiety and depression signal inner disorder; religion restores equilibrium. That, for Epstein, becomes religion’s function.

Not worship. Not truth. Not repentance. Peace.

That is New Age self-help with a faux religious vocabulary.

A Nietzschean pattern

Put the pieces together and a Nietzschean outline emerges.

Nietzsche described the dialectic between the Apollonian and the Dionysian. The Apollonian seeks order, reason, structure. Yet it can become sterile and suffocating. The Dionysian seeks raw experience — ecstasy, pleasure, intoxication, release. Dionysian revelry becomes not only indulgence but purgation: a controlled environment where darker impulses can be acted out so a man can return to ordinary life and call himself functional again.

God’s moral law is written on the heart. We are not left with "unknowable limits" as our excuse. We are without excuse.

Humans, on this view, are beasts with frontal lobes sophisticated enough to rationalize their impulses.

That is the worldview of the modern pagan: order and chaos, calculation and intoxication, “science” by day and ritualized transgression by night. Add Epstein’s skepticism about knowable truth and his reduction of religion to inner peace, and the method of self-justification comes into focus.

His reported fascination with longevity technologies and strange diets fits too. Death becomes the great enemy. It must be cheated — through science, mythic elixirs, or Silicon Valley innovation.

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Temptation is not his alone

The unsettling part: These temptations are not unique to Epstein.

Many people oscillate between cold rationalism and irrational indulgence. Many treat morality as a social construct and religion as therapy. Many use abstractions to excuse what they would never defend in plain language.

That should drive self-examination, not mere disgust. Are we living inside the Apollonian-Dionysian loop, shifting between self-justifying “reason” and self-excusing “release”?

The lie at the center

Epstein’s philosophy collapses under its own weight because it begins with a lie about God.

God has not hidden Himself. Scripture teaches that His eternal power and divine nature are clearly revealed through creation. His moral law is written on the heart. We are not left with “unknowable limits” as our excuse. We are without excuse.

The claim that reality is fundamentally irrational is not a profound insight. It is an evasion. It is a way to suppress what is plain.

That is why Lawrence Krauss’ self-creating universe and Epstein’s divine female belong in the same category: idols. They exchange the truth for something else — something that grants permission.

Romans 1 describes the pattern of Epstein’s life: the darkened mind, the suppression of truth, the exchange of glory for self-justification, and the descent into sexual corruption. The cure is not oscillation between sterile rationalism and ecstatic purgation. The cure is redemption. The cure is communion with God restored.

We need Christ, who alone frees us from the pagan dialectic — ancient and modern — and grants eternal life, “that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent” (John 17:3).

The archbishop who drove the gospel out of England



At Arizona State University, where I teach, faculty were recently told to “decolonize our curriculum.” On the surface, the directive sounded progressive: Expose power structures, elevate marginalized voices, and promote inclusion. But a closer look revealed something deeper.

“Decolonization,” as defined by many academic theorists, has less to do with confronting material exploitation and far more to do with dismantling the Christian worldview itself.

Leftists celebrate the new archbishop as a victory for progress. Yet the victory coincides with the collapse of the church that achieved it.

In today’s universities, decolonization has become a framework for deconstructing Western civilization — its moral assumptions, its epistemology, and, most of all, its biblical foundations. The movement borrows heavily from Marxism: Everything becomes a struggle between oppressors and oppressed, and redemption comes not through faith but through revolution.

Christianity has long condemned greed, injustice, and oppression. It calls for compassion, justice, and humility. The biblical ethic already provides a moral standard against exploitation. What “decolonization” targets, then, is not exploitation itself but the very source of the Christian moral order: creation, sin, redemption, and divine authority. Strip those away, and what’s left is a vacuum quickly filled by ideology — Marxism, postmodernism, or nihilism disguised as liberation. Think Antifa in the ivory tower.

The church follows the university

That same dynamic now defines the Church of England. The recent appointment of Sarah Mullally as archbishop of Canterbury — the first woman ever to hold the title — was heralded as a triumph for “equity” and “representation.” Yet the decision has fractured the Anglican Communion. Churches in Africa and the Global South have declared they will no longer recognize Canterbury’s authority.

Their leaders insist the move abandons biblical teaching: The pastoral office, they say, is reserved for men — not as a symbol of domination but as a form of service patterned after the Old Testament priesthood and Christ Himself. Scripture, not patriarchy, defines this calling.

The irony is painful. The very church that once sent missionaries to Africa now lectures African believers on theology — in the name of “decolonization.” British progressives who claim to defend the oppressed now reject the self-governing authority of African churches, imposing instead a white, European moral framework they no longer believe in.

The logic of ‘liberation’

The academic rationale behind this mirrors what I see on campus. In decolonization theory, patriarchy is treated as a system of control, and dismantling it becomes an act of liberation. But the Christian vision of leadership never equated masculinity with power. It defined male pastoral authority as a burden of service, not a privilege.

This distinction matters. In pagan antiquity, priestesses wielded ritual power at Delphi and other shrines, while biblical religion defined priesthood in terms of obedience and sacrifice. Christianity’s inheritance of that pattern was countercultural — not oppressive. To erase that distinction under the banner of equality is to mistake service for subjugation and hierarchy for injustice.

The irony of ‘progress’

Leftists celebrate the new archbishop as a victory for progress. Yet the victory coincides with the collapse of the church that achieved it. Attendance across England has cratered; belief is evaporating. The light they claim to be spreading has gone out.

Meanwhile, Christianity burns brightly in the very regions now scolded for their “backwardness.” African churches remain faithful, growing, and theologically vibrant — a continuity stretching back to Augustine of Hippo, the African theologian whose writings shaped European Christianity for a millennium.

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If decolonization truly sought to redistribute power, it would look to Augustine’s model: a church grounded in scripture, not ideology; global, not provincial; rooted in divine order, not social theory.

The lesson

When my university asks me to “decolonize” my teaching, I ask in return: into what? If the answer is Marx, Freud, or Foucault — the very European thinkers who replaced faith with power analysis — then the process is just another colonization under a different name.

But if the goal is to return to the Bible’s vision of creation, fall, redemption, and service under Christ, then by all means, decolonize. Reclaim what ideology stole. Because the alternative is what we now see in England — a church that traded revelation for relevance and ended up preaching nothing at all.

Christians should take heed: The light leaving Canterbury won’t stay confined to England.

From prison to pier: The unlikely wisdom of a catfisherman



Back in the 1990s, not too long after my college days were over, I often made the couple-hour drive to the Texas coast to do some bay fishing. Sometimes I went with friends, and other times I went alone. The Copano Bay State Fishing Pier was my favorite destination — a former highway bridge spanning the mouth of Copano Bay. Any fish swimming in or out of Copano Bay swam beneath that pier.

On this particular trip, I went by myself. I set up my poles and chair under a light and had a successful night of fishing for speckled sea trout. In the wee hours, I returned to my car, pointed it east, reclined the driver’s seat for a few hours of sleep, and with the rising sun, I returned to the pier for a little more fishing before heading home.

‘If I hadn’t gone to prison, I might even be dead now. Who knows.’

The fish were no longer biting, so I kept moving farther out on the now-empty pier until settling in at the end. Lost in thought, I was surprised by a big strike on the line. While reeling in, I realized I now had company. A weathered man of indeterminable age was watching me.

The fish turned out to be a hardhead catfish, a junk fish that steals bait and is armed with a wicked dorsal fin. I removed the hook and threw the fish back into the bay.

“Why’d you throw it back?” the stranger asked.

“Just a hardhead,” I replied.

“What’s wrong with a hardhead?”

“Lousy eating.”

“Ever ate one?

“No.”

“Then, how can you know? Shouldn’t you try one first?”

I laughed and told him I probably should try one someday, but for now, I’d keep pursuing trout and flounder. Still serious, he asked me, “Ever gone hungry?”

“No,” I replied, to which he didn’t respond.

He then returned to his poles, which were leaning against the rails behind me and a little way down the pier. Not too long after, I hooked another hardhead. The stranger was watching me. I was not going to keep this fish, but it seemed that offering a hardhead catfish to him was a pathetic form of charity. I’d rather have caught a respectable fish or just given him a trout from the cooler in my car.

“Want it?” I asked. He took it and thanked me as he dropped it in his bucket.

“One more, and my dad and I will have enough for supper.”

“Here with your dad, are you?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Left the women behind?” I tried to joke.

“Not exactly. Mom’s dead, and my ex left me a long time ago.”

“Where are you staying?” I followed, trying to make light conversation.

“We got us a trailer in Fulton. Dad’s sleeping in.”

About then, I caught another hardhead and again offered it to the stranger. He took it and then asked if he could throw his line on my side of the pier. I was happy to oblige, since catching hardheads wasn’t providing me any satisfaction.

“Where’re you from?” he asked.

“Austin,” I answered. “How about you?”

“All over, I guess. Huntsville for most of my adult life.” (Huntsville is home to the Texas State Penitentiary.)

“Work at the prison?” I asked.

“No. I was incarcerated there.”

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At that moment, I realized it would not only be tacky to pursue the line of conversation (“So what were you in for?”), but I also did not want to discuss a criminal’s record — alone at the end of a long, empty pier. Not knowing whether he was a car thief or a murderer, I could assume the best, quickly concede that the trout just weren’t biting, pack up, and go. It suddenly felt unsettling to recall I’d slept alone in my car at the pier.

The quiet was a little awkward, so he spoke. “You’re from Austin. You a Longhorn fan?”

“I am. I went to UT a couple years ago,” I replied. He made an expression of acknowledgement but didn’t respond.

“Don’t hold it against me,” I joked.

He now responded, “Hell, you were smart to get an education. The third time they sent me to Huntsville, I didn’t know if I was ever coming back out. I decided to use their library. Either I’d die in prison a smart, old man, or I’d learn enough to get by on the outside if I was ever released.”

“I suppose there’s plenty of time for reading." (“Third time?!” I was thinking.)

“Time for lots of stuff if you put your mind to it. That last time, I decided to set some goals for myself while I was there.”

“Goals for life after prison?”

“Yeah. And in prison.”

“Like what?”

“I didn’t want to be just another drug dealer staring at TV.”

(“Just another drug dealer,” I thought. Whew.)

“What were your goals, then?” I asked.

“Learn the law. Learn who helps the guys who want to stay clean after prison. Help those guys avoid coming back. Keep myself away from the gangs and the really bad guys. Make friends with guys who’d look out for me. Guys who study do OK in prison. I got by OK.”

I was no longer afraid of him, and he was comfortable talking about prison, so I was now curious to learn a little more about him. “So you thought you might not get out this last time?”

“Three drug convictions was a life sentence in the ’70s. All I sold was marijuana.”

“How’d you get caught?”

“Bein’ stupid.” He felt no need to elaborate beyond that.

I thought about how devastating it would be to be locked up for so many years of early adulthood. “Does it make you bitter?” I asked.

“Sometimes I want to, but you can’t let it. It’ll eat at you like a cancer. And you know what, the law was clear back then, and I broke the law. I may not have agreed with it, but I understood the consequences. If I hadn’t gone to prison, I might even be dead now. Who knows.”

“What do you do now?” I asked.

“I mow lawns, some handyman jobs, but mainly, I just look out for my dad. We can live pretty cheap.”

He went back to fishing and caught himself a hardhead. He threw it in his bucket, then started packing up to leave the pier.

“You know,” he said, “my biggest regret isn’t those lost years. It’s how it hurt my folks. They had to always try to avoid talking about family. They stopped going out much. It hurts to have to say, ‘My boy is in prison in Huntsville.’ Mom died while I was in prison, and I missed her funeral. I’ve paid my debt to society. I think I’ve overpaid. By looking out for dad, I can try to repay a more important debt.”

As he started to walk back toward land, he smiled at me and said, “If you’re ever hungry, you oughtta try a hardhead.”

I’ve caught a lot of hardhead catfish since then, and I’ve thrown every one back. But catching a hardhead always recalls the gentle ex-convict whose path in life briefly intersected with mine one morning on a South Texas pier.

Race is not righteousness — Jesus died for our sin, not our skin



For as often as the phrase “Christ is King” trends on social media, it seems like a growing number of self-professing Christians have forgotten that it was sin — not skin — that kept Jesus on the cross.

Millions of Americans gathered this past Easter Sunday to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Apart from that ultimate sign of self-sacrifice, we would still be in bondage to sin and face the penalty for indulging it — spiritual death and eternal separation from God. That’s because, according to the Bible, we are all born in sin and remain spiritually dead unless we turn from our sin and place our hope and trust in Christ.

No argument reveals a smaller mind than the impulse to link sin to skin for ideological gain.

Messages circulating on X often sound wildly different, but many follow the same script. On any given day, you’ll find someone — often claiming to be Christian — warning that a specific group poses a unique threat to the American way of life.

Some wrap their claims in the pseudo-academic language of “race realism” and genetic determinism. Others frame it as cultural criticism. But the message stays the same: Those people over there are the real problem.

Years ago, I noticed this pattern in how some black progressives invoked slavery and Jim Crow to argue that “whiteness” itself is an inherently evil force driving racism.

Today, a growing number of white conservatives fire back with crime statistics, claiming black Americans are inherently violent.

Meanwhile, a rainbow coalition of agitators — including Hispanics and Asians — spends its time urging followers to “notice” Jewish control of everything from pornography to U.S. foreign policy.

Different faces, same poison.

Ethnic and political tribalism has convinced many Americans that moral decay is always someone else’s fault. It’s not our problem. It’s their problem.

They chase any story or video that reinforces their worldview and dismiss anything that challenges it. A white police officer involved in a fatal shooting of a black man becomes proof that policing itself is systemically racist. A black teenager who commits a crime becomes a symbol of supposed racial dysfunction — not an individual but a statistic.

Many in this mindset obsess over IQ scores and genetic theories. But no argument reveals a smaller mind than the impulse to link sin to skin for ideological gain.

Christ’s death on the cross should convict every one of us to examine our own hearts. The moment you start measuring your worth by someone else’s failure, you’re already losing the moral battle. Comparative righteousness is a foolish and dangerous game.

The parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector in Luke 18 illustrates the danger of self-righteousness. Pharisees prided themselves on strict adherence to the law, so it’s no surprise that the one in Jesus’ story thanked God for his supposed moral superiority. He fasted, tithed, and avoided obvious sins. He was especially grateful not to be like the tax collector — a judgment that, on the surface, seemed justified.

But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!”

Jesus shocked the crowd with the conclusion: It was the tax collector — not the outwardly religious Pharisee — who went home justified. He drove the point home with a final line that still cuts: “Everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”

The world would look very different — better, even — if more people, especially Christians, followed the example of the tax collector instead of the Pharisee.

Every person, family, and community carries its own burdens. Certain sins may show up more often in some groups than others, but that only looks like moral deficiency when we stop measuring ourselves against God and start judging others as the standard.

That’s why I advocate an “inside-out” approach to social commentary. I focus first on the issues that are common, pressing, and personal. Telling hard truths is difficult enough. It’s even harder when the messenger comes off as an outsider taking shots rather than someone who cares enough to speak from within.

Conservatives have every right to criticize America’s cultural collapse — but they should think twice before using China’s Xi Jinping to deliver the message. And if even Vivek Ramaswamy can’t offer light criticism without backlash, maybe it’s not just the left that has a problem hearing the truth.

The inside-out approach beats the alternative. It forces us to confront our own flaws instead of obsessing over everyone else’s. The outside-in method puts the sins of others under a microscope, while hiding the mirror that would show our own.

That’s why I don’t understand black pastors in neighborhoods torn apart by gang violence who spend their sermons denouncing “white supremacy” or DEI. Those things may be worth discussing — but they’re not why kids are dying in their streets.

Likewise, a white pastor in Wyoming would do much more good addressing his state’s sky-high suicide rate — often involving firearms — than speculating on how rap music and absent fathers are ruining black teenagers in Chicago.

Nothing’s wrong with offering honest insights about what plagues other communities. Tribalism shouldn’t stop us from grieving or rejoicing with people who don’t look like us. But the problem comes when we frame both vice and virtue in ethnic terms.

The apostle Paul didn’t tailor his warnings about idolatry, greed, lust, or murder based on ethnicity. His message was universal because the human condition is universal.

That’s why Christians must always remember: Jesus died for our sin, not our skin.

Baby Jesus stolen from nativity scene, but thief returns it just in time for Christmas with remorseful apology



A baby Jesus Christ figurine was stolen from a nativity scene in Colorado. However, the alleged thief felt supreme guilt over his improper actions and returned baby Jesus just before Christmas with a touching apology for his sins.

On Dec. 17, the Fort Collins Police Department notified the public that a baby Jesus figurine had been stolen from the Old Town Square in Colorado, located approximately 60 miles north of Denver.

"I am really sorry. I made a dumb mistake in the moment. It won’t happen again."

"This Grinch tried to ruin Christmas by stealing the baby Jesus from the Old Town Square nativity scene," the Fort Collins Police Department stated.

Police included a photo of the suspect in question in hopes of the public identifying the alleged "Grinch." The suspect in the police screenshot was a teen white male.

On Dec. 19, the Fort Collins Police Department noted that the baby Jesus statuette had been turned in — just in time for Christmas Day.

"The baby Jesus figurine reported stolen from the Old Town Square Nativity scene four days ago was today anonymously dropped off at Poudre Fire Authority Station #1 in Fort Collins, along with an apology note," the Fort Collins Police Department declared in a statement.

The alleged thief begged for forgiveness for his crime, "I am really sorry. I made a dumb mistake in the moment. It won’t happen again."

The Fort Collins Police Department added, "No further information has been obtained about the person who swiped the statuette."

Local firefighters could be seen posing with the baby Jesus Christ figurine.

The statuette does not appear to be damaged based on photos released by local authorities.

The business that maintains the nativity scene proclaimed that it didn't want to pursue charges against the suspect, according to the Associated Press.

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Christ’s birth shines light on Herod’s darkness



The prologue to the Gospel of John announces that Christ’s coming into the world is countered with opposition. The Gospel of Matthew concretizes this hostility in the actions of King Herod, who ruled the land of Judea at the time of Jesus' birth. Herod is portrayed in the Gospels as being cruel and manipulative, and when frustrated in his attempts to find and kill the Christ child, he reacts violently by ordering a massacre of the children of Bethlehem, an event that is commemorated by Christians four days after Christmas on December 28.

Herod’s intrigues in the Gospel of Matthew signal the dark politics that were the norm for much of the world at the time of Christ, and in terms of those politics, Herod is paradigmatic. He came to power through a mixture of force and adept political instincts, overthrowing the Hasmonean dynasty that had ruled Judea for many years. Knowing that his grasp on power was tenuous without the support of Rome (which had conquered Judea in 63 B.C.), he was able to convince the Roman Senate to declare him king of Judea in 40 B.C. He successfully navigated the war between Marc Antony and Octavian, building alliances with both, and, in the aftermath of that conflict, securing his dynastic ambitions. In worldly terms, Herod was a success.

In our own times, tyrants like Herod remain thick on the ground, and the dark politics through which they ascend to and consolidate their power remain.

To secure his reign, Herod would have to legitimize his claims to kingship not just through political alliances but through propaganda. This meant co-opting the messianic expectations of the Israelites by accomplishing things that it was hoped that the Israelite messiah would do — such as extending the borders of his kingdom to those of the ancient kingdom of David and through stunning public works projects, notably the rebuilding the Temple of Jerusalem on a magnificent scale.

All this was expressive not only of his grandiosity but of his keen political sensibilities, as his many projects gained him constituents and provided vitality to the economy. His accomplishments were also making the case that Israel’s messiah had come, justifying Herod’s kingship and dynastic ambitions.

But it was not lost on many that Herod’s messianic pretenses were fraudulent. His reign did not bring the correlation of justice and mercy that was the hope of the Israelites, and his concessions to Rome made many even more suspicious. Herod was unapologetically a tyrant, and his reputation for cruelty is said to have even impressed Roman Emperor Augustus enough for him to comment, upon hearing of how Herod had executed his own sons in response to a palace coup, that it would be better to be Herod’s dog than his son.

This is the Herod that the Gospel of Matthew positions as the opponent of the Christ child, an anti-messiah of dark politics meant to be contrasted with the true Messiah who is the light of the world.

The infant Jesus manifested himself with none of the worldly power or pretense that characterized the likes of Herod, but it is this baby, not the tyrant, who rests under the light of a divinely appointed star. And it is for this child, not Herod, that legions of angels give glory to God. Herod mustered all his power to defy his rival, but his failure was inevitable. His messianic pretenses would be exposed, and at his death, his kingdom would be divided and his accomplishments would be reduced to ruin. Known as Herod the Great in his lifetime, history recalls him as a murderer of children.

In our own times, tyrants like Herod remain thick on the ground, and the dark politics through which they ascend and consolidate their power remain. Even the most secularist regimes present themselves as if they have divine authority or favor.

In our world, as it was in the time of Christ, we are faced with a choice between the true and false messiah. One of the great contributions of Christianity in its yearly celebrations of Christmas is that it taunts the real and would-be tyrants of our world with the story of the birth of the holy child of Bethlehem, casting light into the dark politics of our own time and reassuring us that there is only one true king who will endure, and the rest, like ignominious Herod, are inevitably destined to pass away.

Ex-witch reveals LA’s dark world of sex cults and blood offerings



Jac Marino Chen was just 5 years old when a family member sexually abused her. This tragic event would be the catalyst that launched Jac down a path of darkness most of us can only imagine.

After years of confusion, strange supernatural experiences, and a series of toxic relationships, Jac found herself joining “a cult order called the Golden Dawn where [she] practiced ritual magic in a Freemason lodge.”

“It was there that Jesus Christ met me in that darkness and saved me,” she tells Allie Beth Stuckey.

Now, Jac is on a mission to share her testimony and spread the hope of the gospel.

- YouTubewww.youtube.com

While Jac’s story really begins at age 5, it wasn’t until high school, when she entered into a series of toxic friendships and abusive romantic relationships, that she began learning about the New Age concepts that would eventually lead to her involvement in the occult.

In one particular relationship with a Native American boy, Jac recalls “staying up all night on drugs on the reservation talking about aliens and ancestors and elements” — that is, when things “weren’t violent” between them.

In her next relationship, Jac was introduced to “psychedelic drugs,” “New Age festivals,” “sexual liberation,” “polyamory,” “karma,” and the power of “crystals” and “moonlight.”

These were essentially gateway ideas that led to the occult.

“If you follow the New Age, you’ll find the occult,” Jac tells Allie.

In the midst of getting deeper into dark spiritual practices, one day Jac “saw these tarot cards that were glowing” in a metaphysical shop. Believing she was divinely inspired, she purchased the deck and began to study the cards in depth.

“They ended up being the Thoth tarot deck by a man named Aleister Crowley, and he’s known as the most wicked man who ever lived,” she explains, adding that Crowley “actually popularized a lot of wicked things here in America” — things too vile to even say aloud.

“The next step was joining this Golden Dawn,” says Jac, noting that “Aleister Crowley was in the Golden Dawn — the original Golden Dawn” founded in the late 19th century.

“I was living in L.A. at the time that had a [Golden Dawn] order where they practiced the same magical system.”

When she was invited to the Freemason lodge the order used for meetings, “There was a woman on the top of the stairs waiting for [her] in a full black robe with a hood.”

“I was put in a room. I was also put in a black robe. I had to wear red socks, and I was told not so much to pray but to meditate to prepare myself for this ritual,” Jac recalls, adding that at one point during the ceremony, “There was a sword put to [her] neck” to ensure she would never share the order’s secrets.

What’s perhaps most shocking is that during this time of her life, Jac still thought she was a Christian.

“I thought I was getting closer to Christ because that's what we were told. We would use the name Jesus Christ, but Jesus was someone that you become — someone that you attain to. I just thought I had a deeper understanding of what it meant to be Christian, but I was worshiping demons, and I was becoming more and more depraved sexually,” she reflects.

“I got involved in sex magic,” she confesses, adding that the rituals the order practiced often involved blood, which “is seen as powerful.”

Unsurprisingly, abortion, which Allie and Jac both acknowledged as “child sacrifice,” was another practice celebrated in the occult.

“I didn't get to the point where [child sacrifice] was being practiced,” says Jac. “Praise God that I was saved before then, but if it had started, it would have made sense to me based on what I was fully believing and thought was good.”

“That's what can be so disturbing about this. I thought it was good that you are god of your own body,” she laments, adding that the idea of abortion and using your blood for magical practices was heavily linked to the “women empowerment” and “self-empowerment” movements in our secularized culture today.

Thankfully, the light of the real Jesus Christ was just around the corner for Jac. In a moment of terrifying darkness, God reached down and saved her.

To hear Jac’s incredible story of salvation and learn how she escaped from the occult, watch the episode above.

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