Sin is often reduced to a list of bad behaviors, but this conversation reframed it as a rupture in relationship and a distortion of identity. Join Jeremy Jeremiah, Mario Andrew, and Cloud of Witnesses special guests Father Deacon Anthony, an ordained deacon in the Antiochian Orthodox Church, and associate marriage and family therapist, Jacob Sadan (https://jacobsadan.com/) in this frank and inspiring discussion of sin.

Drawing from early Christian teaching and cognitive behavioral therapy, our guests showed that actions flow from thoughts and feelings, and those are shaped by how we name what is happening inside us. If we see ourselves as inherently evil, despair follows; if we deny fault, pride grows. The older Christian vision holds a paradox: we are made very good in God’s image, yet wounded by passions and habits that pull us from life. That paradox calls for clarity, not condemnation. Naming the wound without becoming the wound is the beginning of healing.

A vivid metaphor carried the dialogue: the black spot on the skin. We can ignore it, try to cut it out ourselves, identify with it in shame, or bring it to the physician. Only the last path actually heals. The physician, Christ, works through the church’s rhythms—fasting, prayer, confession, feasting—because rhythm regulates what is dysregulated. Like a garden, the soul shows its beauty when tended with boundaries and care. The point isn’t legalism but formation: seasons that humble pride, awaken joy, and train our loves. In this frame, guilt is not a curse; it is the pain signal that says, return to the Doctor. Shame, on the other hand, fuses sin to identity and locks the soul in a closed room.

Psychologically, the cycle is simple and stubborn: beliefs spark feelings, feelings drive behaviors, behaviors reinforce beliefs. If I believe I must fix myself alone, I will overreach, fail, and destroy self-trust. Addiction lives in that gap between imagined control and actual powerlessness. The first step to freedom is admitting limits and sorting what I can change from what I must surrender. Confession becomes a structured pause to observe the inner world: what happened, why it happened, and what to do next. Spoken aloud to a trusted guide, the most terrifying truths lose their sting and regain their meaning as invitations to growth.

Finally, community matters. A church that engages body and senses, offers communion and confession, and pairs diagnosis with prescription becomes an arena where grace meets effort. Outside that arena, there are no crowns because there is no contest. Inside it, accountability interrupts self-deception, and mercy makes change plausible. The way forward is not self-loathing or self-excuse but love, truth, and rhythm: see the spot, feel the healthy sting of guilt, ask for help, and return to the practices that tame the garden. We are beloved and broken, not worthless or sovereign; healing happens where we stop pretending to be judge and return to being patients of the true Physician.

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The question seems simple: did Protestants ever agree on the Lord’s Supper? The answer, drawn from history and confessions, is messy. The early church spoke with one voice about a true, real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, a conviction shared across geography and centuries. Then the Reformation fractured that consensus. Luther defended real presence with fire, appealing to Christ’s words as plain and binding; Calvin insisted on a true spiritual presence without a change of substance; Zwingli argued for a powerful memorial devoid of presence in the elements. These are not minor tweaks; they are different maps of reality, worship, and church. The implications ripple through how we pray, preach, and gather. Special episode for our brother @theprotestantgentleman Dillon Baker.

Luther’s stance, preserved in the Augsburg Confession, reads with startling clarity: the body and blood of Christ are truly present and distributed to those who partake. For him, the promise of Christ anchored the sacrament; God acts, we receive. This wasn’t speculative metaphysics; it was pastoral assurance built on Christ’s words. Yet even within that stance, Luther rejected philosophical explanations he considered overly rationalistic, choosing instead to guard the mystery. For many today seeking historical Protestant roots, that text offers a bold continuity with the ancient church’s devotion, placing emphasis on Christ’s promise rather than human mood or memory.

Calvin pushed in another direction. The Westminster Confession, reflecting Reformed insight, rejects any change in the substance of bread and wine. Christ is truly received, they say, but not by the mouth; He is given to faith by the Spirit. This attempt to safeguard both biblical language and philosophical coherence introduced a careful distinction: presence without material change. It aimed to avoid what they saw as superstition while retaining sacramental grace. Yet the same document criticizes views it considers contrary to Scripture and even to common sense, sharpening lines against both Roman Catholic teaching and Luther’s insistence. The Reformed vision sought transcendence through the Word, Spirit, and faith rather than in the elements themselves.

Zwingli’s memorial view drew still sharper boundaries: the Supper is a sign and remembrance, a communal pledge of loyalty and gratitude. Here, the focus shifts from divine action in the elements to the church’s act of obedience and memory. The table becomes a proclamation of the gospel rather than a locus of Christ’s bodily presence. This view resonated with those wary of idolatry and eager to stress the sufficiency of faith. Yet critics asked whether such symbolism thins the mystery and reduces sacrament to lecture, exchanging presence for reminder and gift for gesture.

Why the divergence? One claim in the conversation is that sola scriptura, untethered from a living interpretive authority, multiplies interpretations. The Reformers shared a high view of Scripture but not a shared hermeneutic about sacramental language. When “This is my body” meets different commitments about sign, substance, and promise, meanings diverge. The result is denominational lines drawn at the table itself. Confessions not only teach; they exclude. Augsburg rejects contrary teachings. Westminster calls other views repugnant. Such language reflects the stakes: worship sits at the center of identity, and the Supper is worship in its most intimate form.



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Jeremy Jeremiah, Cloud of Witnesses, reacts to and answers the call from: bayliebelieves, Baylie Clarke, (https://www.tiktok.com/@bayliebelieves) viral video.

Jeremy quotes directly from 19th Century documents, original source, discourses by Joseph Smith and Brigham Young to demonstrate that the LDS faith is anything but Christian (by any stretch of the imagination). Joseph Smith and Brigham Young taught that God the Father was once finite, and was once "a man" just like you or me.

The conversation turns on a single hinge: does Latter-day Saint theology align with historic, orthodox Christianity? We explore this by defining terms, citing primary sources, and testing claims against scripture. The starting point is the Trinity, not as a word-game, but as a boundary-setting confession about who God is. Classical Christianity says God is one being in three persons, sharing one divine essence, without confusion of persons. That means the Father is not the Son, the Son is not the Spirit, yet each is fully and eternally God. This guardrail matters because it protects both God’s oneness and the real distinction among Father, Son, and Spirit, and it anchors the meaning of the incarnation as God the Son taking on human nature without ceasing to be what he eternally is.

From there, the critique of LDS claims comes into focus: the Mormon teaching that God the Father was once a man who progressed to godhood, and that humans may likewise be exalted as gods as taught clearly for years by Joseph Smith and Brigham Young (Mormonism's first two so called prophets). The episode reads from Joseph Smith’s King Follett Discourse and Brigham Young’s Journal of Discourses to show how these ideas are presented within early LDS leadership. The claim is not a stray footnote; it is a thread that runs through the sources. If God was once finite, then divine eternality and aseity are compromised. Historic Christianity insists that God is uncreated, without beginning, dependent on nothing beyond himself. If deity is an achievement, the word “God” loses its unique, absolute meaning and turns into a rank one can attain.

The discussion then tests LDS proof texts. Stephen’s vision in Acts 7 is cited and corrected: Stephen sees the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God, which fits the Christian confession that no one has seen the Father in his essence, yet the Son reveals the Father. The host clarifies essence and person using simple analogies: two humans share humanity yet remain distinct persons; similarly, the divine persons share one divine essence while remaining truly distinct. This is not modalism and not three gods; it is the mystery of one God in three persons, confessed in the creeds and rooted in scripture.

A second axis is the incarnation. Jesus did not “become God”; he became man. The eternal Son took on flesh through Mary, remaining what he was while assuming what he was not. If one imports the idea that the Father once gained godhood, the logic pressures the incarnation into a story of divine ascent rather than divine condescension. Historic Christianity resists this inversion: salvation is not climbing into deity by degrees, but being united to Christ by grace, participating in God’s life without becoming gods by nature. The difference between deification in classical theology and exaltation in LDS teaching is not semantic; it concerns whether God is eternally God and whether creaturely nature can ever cross the Creator–creature line.


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A short viral video can carry a heavy lesson. In this conversation, we react to a clip of a man cheerfully taking a dab before heading into worship, then trace why that mindset feels so normal in a culture where access, approval, and algorithmic affirmation are everywhere. Josiah, now over three years sober, speaks from the inside: how weed became a crutch, how he convinced himself it was harmless, and how a vague, individualized faith left him without friction. The quiet part is said out loud—when church becomes a crowd and “check the box” routine, almost anything can be baptized as personal freedom.

The episode digs into prelest, the ancient word for spiritual delusion. It names the subtle fog where we crown our impulses as insight and confuse a buzz for peace. We explore why “Scripture doesn’t name marijuana” becomes a convenient shield, and how eisegesis—reading our desire into the text—lets us weaponize “God made plants” to dodge sober judgment. The question is not botany; it is the state of the heart and mind we bring to Christ. If worship asks for a clear conscience and a sober mind, does a self-induced altered state fit anywhere near the chalice?

From there we contrast scaffolds. In many megachurch settings, low demands and soft edges feel welcoming, but they also make it easy to hide. Orthodoxy introduces a different rhythm: confession to a spiritual father, fasting as preparation, public gestures of mutual forgiveness, and weekly self-examination before communion. These practices do not exist to shame but to heal. They put light on the interior life and make denial harder. Accountability is not surveillance; it is a structure that makes repentance normal and restoration possible.

Josiah shares the psychology of relapse math: one glass of wine can become the excuse that justifies the next hit. He draws a clear boundary for himself without projecting it onto everyone else, naming how different bodies and histories require different guardrails. Yet he also calls out the difference between a Saturday night overstep and an intentional plan to walk into worship high. The former still needs repentance, but the latter tries to redefine sobriety as spirituality. That is not mercy; it is confusion dressed as freedom.

We widen the lens to a medicated society where dispensaries sit on corners and pharmacies inside grocery stores. No one stands outside temptation. The point is not to rank sins but to seek healing that touches both soul and body. Here Orthodoxy’s insistence that grace is tangible matters: communion, chrismation, and the ascetic life do not offer a magic switch, but they do offer medicine that works on the person as a whole. Healing is a long obedience, not a dopamine hack; it is the slow renewal of desire under the care of the Church.

Where does this leave the listener wrestling with weed, shame, or mixed messages? Begin with honesty. Ask for help. Let a trusted pastor or spiritual father test your self-story, because we are all the worst judges of our own case. Practice small acts of preparation—prayer, fasting, confession—that make communion more than a line you join. If you need stricter boundaries, take them without apology. Joy grows in clarity. Sobriety is not a downgrade from experience; it is the condition for seeing God and loving your neighbor without a haze.

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A quiet shift begins when a lifelong member of the Churches of Christ realizes that his faith life, rich in study and careful exegesis, struggles to move from mind to heart. Brandon Marlow's story traces the Restoration Movement’s ideals—erase denominational lines, do Bible things in Bible ways, and speak where Scripture speaks. Those guiding slogans shaped a culture suspicious of creeds, titles, instruments, and anything not “authorized.” The result formed disciplined habits, robust Bible study, and close-knit congregations. Yet the same strengths could narrow imagination and flatten mystery. A low view of the Holy Spirit’s personal activity and an intellectual approach to faith left little language for awe, beauty, or sacrament. Brandon describes how good intentions produced a protective fence, but often fenced out wonder.

His turning came when he stepped into preaching during a pastoral vacancy. Wanting holiness to match responsibility, he searched for time-tested disciplines: daily prayers, fasting rhythms, and a pattern of worship that stretches the soul. He found them in Orthodoxy. Prayer books spoke soberly about judgment and mercy, teaching him to remember ultimate things every day. Memorizing whole psalms, not just proof texts, reoriented his inner life. Icons startled him. Venerating the Ascension icon, his heart rose in praise, not just his mind in assent. He realized devotion is learned by doing—beauty tutors love, and ritual teaches reverence. Where logic said “believe,” the Church taught him to behold, adore, and belong.

Scripture did not shrink; it deepened. Listening to Orthodox homilies, he felt less “interpretation” and more unveiling. Texts clicked into place as part of a living Tradition, the same bloodstream that nourished the Fathers he had once mined for citations. C.S. Lewis had cracked the door years earlier, proving that Christian wisdom could move the affections without verse labels in every line. Meeting the Fathers as pastors—Ignatius, Polycarp, and more—showed him a church that loved, bled, and prayed as one body. Their worlds made sense of bones cherished as gold, not as superstition, but as love made tangible in the saints who fed, blessed, and shepherded their flock.

The Eucharist became the center of gravity. In his upbringing, communion was precious yet rushed, migrating from homemade bread to sealed cups as the table drifted to the side. Reverence thinned as routine took hold. In Orthodoxy, he discovered preparation before, prayer during, and gratitude after. The chalice, spoon, and altar were holy because the Lord gives himself there—Body and Blood, Presence not symbol. Approaching the chalice for the first time felt like approaching fire. He stepped forward in obedience and love, realizing this is why Christ died: communion. From there, everything else reframed—ascetic practices, feasts and fasts, the calendar that walks believers through the life of Christ, and the solidarity of Holy Week that exhausts, burns, and resurrects a community together.

From “people of the book” to people of the Book and the Table, he discovered that truth is not only argued; it is adored, sung, tasted, and shared. The heart learns by worship as much as the mind learns by words, and both find their home when Scripture meets Sacrament in the life of the Church.

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Conversion stories often get reduced to neat headlines, but the road from New Age spirituality to historic Christianity is usually messy, humbling, and deeply human. In this conversation, Michaela Nikolaenko @MichaelaNikolaenko lays out a candid record of life inside tarot, yoga, psychedelics, and an adulterous relationship that spiraled into a series of demonic encounters. The scenes are visceral—faces morphing, oppressive presences, and a stark battle of wills that ended with a shaky, embarrassed prayer to Jesus. That plea wasn’t tidy, but it was decisive. What followed was a slow reconstruction: throwing out occult tools, breaking off a relationship that was corroding the soul, and letting Scripture set guardrails when fear of the dark felt nearer than hope. This is where the healing began: not with spectacle, but with obedience.

Her path to a church wasn’t linear. She tried a Catholic parish for holy water, sat with Mormon elders chasing answers about a “great mother,” and explored non-Christian traditions to avoid surrendering her favorite sins. None of it resolved the dread. A Protestant friend finally said, “Just come to church.” There she saw families, order, and women who would look her in the eyes and say the hard thing kindly: God isn’t sending you someone else’s spouse. Confession began informally in living rooms before it matured into sacrament. The Bible became less a slogan and more a survival guide. If she walked its way, the demonic stopped walking through her door.

Yet she still needed peace about Jesus himself. It arrived as a dream: a suffocating abyss like hell, then a burst of light warming her body, air in the lungs, the face of Christ breaking through. That experience wasn’t a lifestyle brand; it was rescue. Enter Orthodoxy, where the lives of the saints—Mary of Egypt, Moses the Black, Anthony the Great—normalized spiritual warfare and recovery. Reverence replaced adrenaline. The liturgy felt like work, sometimes literally painful, but that was the point. Worship isn’t entertainment; it is labor of love that shapes desire. Emotional highs faded; steadiness grew. The church calendar, fasts, and feasts became a map for ordinary holiness.

Practically, Michaela is now building resources for seekers leaving occult practices: short guides on tarot, moon rituals, psychedelics, and their spiritual costs through an Orthodox lens. The tone isn’t sneering. She respects the honest desire that drove her to search in the wrong places and insists that God used even that confusion to guide her home. She urges listeners to read the Apostolic Fathers—Ignatius, Polycarp, the Didache—and to use accessible summaries when primary texts feel dense. The goal isn’t trivia; it’s rootedness. Along the way, we pressed into real-life questions: navigating reverence without chasing constant “feels,” and simple dating wisdom for Orthodox men—groom, work, pursue, and be brave. The final word is simple and ancient: come and see. Online content can spark curiosity, but only a parish can teach you to breathe again.

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From Megachurch Disillusionment To Hope.

Josiah the inquirer sits down with Cloud of Witnesses, Mario Andrew and Jeremy Jeremiah.

A skull on a thumbnail, bells in the background, and a monk’s voice quoting Saint Isaac changed everything. Josiah didn’t set out to find ancient Christianity; he just needed something more honest than a forced smile and a quick fix. What he discovered was not an edgy aesthetic for its own sake, but a fearless way of naming reality: remember death, confront the passions, and be made new in Christ.

We trace the unlikely path from hardcore shows to holy tradition, exploring why Orthodoxy can feel “metal” without the nihilism. The conversation dives into Saint Paul’s call to be a living sacrifice, Saint Isaac’s searing inventory of the passions, and the strange relief that comes from a church that looks you in the eye and tells you the truth. Icons and martyrdom aren’t there to shock; they give shape to hope, showing lives that died to the world so that love could live. Along the way we talk Kat Von D, Holy Name, and the kind of inclusivity that rescues, not indulges—come as you are, but don’t expect to stay there.

• first contact with Orthodoxy through a stark video
• megachurch cynicism versus honest talk about death
• Saint Isaac the Syrian on the passions
• Scripture’s call to die to self
• icons, skulls, and martyrdom as truthful symbols
• baptizing subculture without baptizing sin
• real inclusivity as rescue and transformation
• providential friendships and cigar night community
• practical next steps toward catechesis
• lighthearted barber stories to close

What ultimately makes the search real is community: providential friendships, a cigar night, and a Clouded Witnesses feature that turned curiosity into courage. We share practical insights on taking first steps toward Orthodoxy, why asceticism answers modern anxiety, and how subculture can be baptized without baptizing sin. And yes, we close with a few unforgettable barber tales, because joy and humility are part of the medicine.

If you’re hungry for a faith that can hold sorrow and still make it sing, press play, share this with a friend, and tell us the moment that hit you hardest. Subscribe for more journeys, leave a review to help others find the show, and drop your questions—we’re listening.

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From Restless to Rooted: Joshua Williams on Calling, Repentance, and a Faith That Endures.

What happens when the map you drew for your life no longer fits the road God is actually giving you? In this continuation of our conversation with Joshua Williams, we trace a candid journey through disappointment, redirection, and the quiet practices that turn belief into a way of life. This isn’t highlight-reel faith; it’s the daily, hidden work of following Jesus when the feelings fade and the next step isn’t obvious.

In this episode you’ll hear about:

Calling vs. career: how God reshapes ambition into service and steadies the heart when doors close.

Repentance as renewal: not shame, but the rhythm that keeps love honest and hope alive.

Prayer that holds in storms: learning to pray Scripture when words run out.

Community and accountability: why “just me and Jesus” isn’t enough when you’re tired, tempted, or unsure.

Sacrament and Scripture together: how worship and the Word form a faith that lasts beyond trends.

Suffering without cynicism: carrying grief to Christ and finding courage to begin again.

Why listen: If you’re in a season of waiting, change, or quiet rebuilding, Joshua’s story offers both clarity and comfort—practical ways to keep moving with Jesus when you’re short on answers but rich in questions.

If this conversation encouraged you, subscribe, share it with a friend who needs steadying grace, and leave a quick review with the one practice—prayer, repentance, or community—you’re committing to this week.

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What if the road to Jesus runs through a guru? We sit down with Joshua to trace his unlikely path from a Romanian “enlightenment” school to Orthodox Christianity, and we ask the questions seekers rarely say aloud: Do mystical experiences prove truth, or do they force us to ask which spirit we’re listening to?

Joshua describes leaving the U.S. to “throw himself into the arms of the universe,” clinging to ideas like reincarnation and religious unity while resisting the moral claims of Christ. Inside a syncretic school that blended Hindu and Buddhist concepts, he encountered a compelling teacher, apparent clairvoyance, and a vision of reality where Brahman reigns as impersonal essence. That promise of unity felt expansive—until it demanded he treat personhood, love, and moral responsibility as illusions. We contrast that with the Orthodox claim that God is personal and tri-personal: the Trinity as eternal communion, love that exists before creation, and a God who is everywhere present yet distinct from creation. Rather than absorbing us into a faceless One, God calls us by name and invites real relationship.

Across the conversation, we map the turning points: irritation at the name of Jesus giving way to self-awareness, recognition of authentic Christian witness, and a rethinking of “science versus faith” that leaves shallow slogans behind. We explore discernment of spirits, why power isn’t proof, and how an impersonal metaphysics drifts toward quiet nihilism. Then we look at the Orthodox vision of personhood that grounds meaning: if we’re made in God’s image, our capacity for love is not a cosmic trick—it’s the point.

If you’ve chased enlightenment and still long for a face behind the light, this story will meet you where you are. Listen, share with a friend who’s wrestling with pantheism or syncretism, and leave a review to help others find the show. Subscribe for more conversations that take faith, reason, and experience seriously.

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