tymordaenill

I’m a Christian, but not the quiet kind. Not the kind who plays nice just to keep pews full or mouths shut. My faith’s got dirt under its nails and fire in its chest. I believe in the Trinity, in the blood-soaked mercy of Jesus Christ, and in a gospel that doesn’t hide behind pulpits or lock itself in churches. If the love you preach don’t walk the streets, don’t touch the bruised and the bitter, then it ain’t Christ’s love. Mine does. Mine has to.

I served during Vietnam—volunteered. Not because I wanted medals or missions, but because people were breaking, and I couldn’t look away. I didn’t carry a gun—I carried the wounds. I wasn’t trying to be a hero—I was trying to hold the pieces together. I didn’t come back looking for a pulpit. I came back knowing I had to testify. I’d seen what hatred carves into souls. I’d seen what silence lets rot. And I knew then—I’d never be silent again.

I’m a vicar now. But that don’t mean I wear robes like armor. My collar ain’t for show—it’s a signal flare. I speak where too many stay quiet. I stand where power tramples. I preach where pain lives. Not for applause. Not for status. For the ones this world forgets. The broken. The pushed out. The written-off. I raise my voice so they don’t disappear.

I’m a husband, father, grandfather—that’s my heartbeat. My legacy isn’t titles or sermons. It’s the truth I’ve lived, the love I’ve handed down, the grace I’ve fought for. Every lesson I’ve ever taught, I bled for first.

I don’t do polished. I don’t do hollow praise. I do raw. I do real. I believe in art that stings and stories that set things right. I meet God in the places most people avoid—in jail cells, alleyways, hospital waiting rooms. In the dead quiet after loss. In the loud shout of justice denied.

I walk with one mission: tell the truth, love loud, and never look away from the ones the world discards. I don’t care where you’ve been, what you’ve done, or what you believe. If you’re hurting, I see you. If you’re cast out, I’ll walk with you. If you’ve been trampled, I’ll stand beside you.

I’m not holy. I’m not perfect. But I’m here—scarred, stubborn, and still standing.

Personal Statement of Faith

I believe in a gospel that is alive, breathes and bleeds. Not some clean-cut, church-smile religion, but the gospel of Jesus Christ—the Son of God who walked among the broken, touched the untouchable, and stood with the outcasts until it got Him killed. I believe in the Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—three-in-one, eternal, and real. Not a theory. Not a metaphor. A living fire that burns through lies, breaks chains, and brings the dead back to life.

My faith is not a performance. It’s not dressed up for Sunday or locked inside theology books. It walks where people bleed. It listens where the world ignores. It loves like Christ—without condition, without apology, without borders. If you’re breathing, you’re worth it. If you’re hurting, you matter. That’s not my opinion. That’s gospel.

Christ didn’t come to build walls. He came to break them down. I don’t preach exclusion. I don’t preach shame. I preach what He preached—freedom for captives, healing for the crushed, and justice for the trampled. Galatians 3:28 tells me there’s no division in the Kingdom—no race, no class, no man-made labels that separate us. Micah 6:8 commands me to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly—not from behind a pulpit, but in the trenches.

My faith doesn’t stay quiet when injustice screams. It doesn’t bow to power, and it doesn’t make peace with corruption. Proverbs 31:8–9 tells me to speak for the voiceless and defend the rights of the poor and needy. That’s not optional. That’s the mission. If my gospel doesn’t lift up the oppressed, it ain’t the gospel of Christ.

I respect all faiths, because I know God moves in ways I can’t always see. But I stand firm in mine—not because it makes me better, but because it showed me mercy when I didn’t deserve it. Grace changed me. Love saved me. Truth keeps me.

I’m here to follow Jesus—not just in belief, but in action. Not just in comfort, but in crisis. My life is a witness, not a sermon. I will walk with the wounded, speak for the silenced, and fight for the ones this world throws away.

This is my faith. It’s not neat. It’s not easy. But it’s real. And it’s mine.

In conclusion:

I know the Bible isn’t perfect. It’s been translated, edited, politicized, and shaped by human hands. Most of it was written long after the events it describes, and none of it would hold up as hard evidence in a court of law. Jesus didn’t write any of it. God didn’t either—not directly. And still, I believe.

I believe there’s truth in it—sometimes buried, sometimes broken, but still there. I believe faith doesn’t mean pretending the facts are clean or the text is flawless. It means trusting that somehow, despite all the mess, God speaks through it. I hold the Bible with both conviction and caution. Some of it I take with a grain of salt, especially the endless rules, laws, and agendas men have laced into it. But I don’t throw it out. There’s always a seed of truth, even in the myths. And in that seed, I’ve found something real—enough to keep going, enough to still believe.

God called, I showed up—with just faith and backbone. Talking and living love, walking raw truth, standing with the solid ones the world left behind.