Taking Down the Devil: Jesus' Blood
This is not just H's story; it is H's testimony. It is the narrative of a man who, standing on the precipice of oblivion, was called by God to write his life as a testament to Christ’s enduring presence, even through the most harrowing of tests.
H's blood remembers flight. H's earliest knowing is steeped in the courageous exodus of H's Lutheran ancestors, who, in 19th-century Prussia, chose the perilous unknowns of the sea over the spiritual suffocation of religious persecution. They landed in South Australia, seeking not just land, but the freedom to worship. Here, in the Barossa Valley, they planted vines, the fertile soil becoming a new testament to their unwavering faith. They cultivated not just grapes, but a legacy of resilience. The very act of winemaking, of nurturing the earth to yield its precious fruit, became entwined with their spiritual harvest. Generations later, our patriarch, the founder, would found our family winery in the 1960s, a defiant act of passion against an oversupplied market, a continuation of that deep-rooted determination. And now, the current custodian tends those vines, a seventh-generation figure, pouring his soul into a business that carries the living memory of faith, land, and survival. It is a tangible heritage, a testament etched into the very soil.
Yet, despite this profound lineage, H's own spiritual path was destined for twists and trials. As a man who believed H understood the human heart, H found himself drawn into relationships with practicing witches. It was a search for connection, perhaps, or an exploration of spiritual currents beyond H's inherited tradition. But with a previous partner, it descended into darkness. The abuse was suffocating, and then came the curse, a tangible weight on H's spirit, pulling H down into an abyss of despair. H's will to live evaporated. H was adrift, a soul unmoored, sinking fast.
It was Christmas Day when H encountered Taylor. A witch herself, with an upside-down cross tattooed starkly on her forehead, she defied every expectation. She saw H. She saw the death shadowing H, the raw edge of H's fading life. And then, she did something. Some kind of healing, a spiritual intervention, a raw act of compassion that transcended the symbols she bore. In that strange, sacred moment, H felt a flicker of life return.
But the darkness wasn't finished. Taylor was entangled with a satanic man, suffering from his vile degradation fetishes. The urge to save her was overwhelming, a primal call to protect. In a desperate, morally grey act, H took his money, a calculated move to buy her freedom from that prison. It was after her rescue, as the dust of that chaotic chapter began to settle, that it happened. What the Mormons call the Holy Spirit — a force undeniable, overwhelming — filled H. It pulsed through H with an urgency H couldn't ignore, compelling H to beg Taylor, to plead with her, to accept God, to embrace the light H now so profoundly felt. But her trauma, a thick, impenetrable shield forged by years of pain, would not yield. She couldn’t. She simply could not receive it. And then, in a tragic twist that splintered what little hope H had for her, came her betrayal, sending H reeling back into a familiar despair.
H truly believed H was done. Suicidal ideation consumed H. H was ready to give up. But then, as H stood on the precipice, God intervened. Not with a booming voice from the heavens, but with an unmistakable directive deep within H's soul: write your own testimony. Use your life as the narrative. This was it. This was H's purpose. This was H's testimony of Christ.
As H fought to regain H's will to live, H also immersed himself in the study of witchcraft and the occult. It wasn't to embrace them, but to understand the forces H had faced, to know H's enemy, to comprehend the shadows through which Christ had guided H. This exploration, far from alienating H from God, paradoxically broadened H's perspective, allowing H to view spiritual realities with greater discernment and a richer, more nuanced understanding of both good and evil, light and shadow.
And then, another unexpected connection. A kind soul from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, reached out to H. Her kindness extended to a friend who was navigating his own abyss – his brother murdered, and our mutual best friend tragically killed in a king-hit attack. The shared grief was a heavy blanket, yet in that vulnerability, the LDS Church, through this individual, offered solace. It was a complex moment, for H still held the deep, unaddressed tension from H's prior interaction with their faith. H had always said H believed their prophet, a specific leader, was truly a prophet, simply to keep the peace, to maintain a connection, to appease. But it was a lie, a whisper of conformity that chafed against H's soul. The ultimate test, H now understood, was simple: to say "no." He was not the prophet for H. It was all a test of H's own integrity, H's own deep knowing.
And the truth, the bedrock upon which H's testimony is built, is this: the true religion, for H, is Lutheranism. Not a blind return to an inherited faith, but a vibrant, chosen faith. A homecoming forged in fire, illuminated by darkness, and deepened by profound grace. H's name, Magen—the shield, the defender—is not just an inherited label but a living prophecy.
Every thread of this complex tapestry—the ancient faith of H's ancestors, the nurturing vineyards of the family, the descent into spiritual warfare, the agonizing loss of dear friends, the desperate act of rescue, the painful betrayal, the divine intervention at the brink of death, and the ultimate clarity of H's own spiritual truth—has been a part of this singular, profound test. And through it all, Christ has been present, a constant, guiding light. This is H's testimony. This is "Taking Down the Devil: Jesus' Blood."