You Will Know Them By Their Deeds

The Ark Builder

I think of Noah — not as a religious figure but as an archetype for a specific kind of person in a specific kind of moment.

Noah did not predict the flood on a broadcast. He did not build an audience around the coming water. He built an ark. The credibility was not in the announcement. It was in the preparation already underway when the moment arrived. And he built it without knowing exactly when the rain would come — only that it would, and that the building mattered.

There is a lot of building happening right now. Community infrastructure for the world after the shift. Wellness architecture that meets the clinical reality of what mass paradigm transition does to human bodies and minds. Disclosure journalism that operates from inside the movement it documents, with primary source access no institutional outlet could replicate or would permit. Seats at tables where some of the restructuring is being actively discussed — financial, institutional, humanitarian. Plans developing for years, independently, now coalescing into a coherent whole in ways that feel less like coincidence and more like timing.

I share this not to impress. I share it because this is what building looks like when you believe the rain is coming. You do not wait for the announcement. You start with the wood.

What I Believe and Why I’m Telling You

I am a Catholic by formation and a Christian by conviction. I am also a man who has spent decades at the intersection of disclosure research, consciousness exploration, and intelligence-adjacent investigative work. I understand these two things are not supposed to coexist cleanly in the same person. I am here to tell you they do — and that the tension between them, worked through honestly rather than avoided, produces something more durable than either tradition offers alone.

My belief in Christ is not metaphorical. It is not cultural inheritance held lightly. It is the load-bearing structure of my experience, tested under conditions I would not wish on most people and would not trade for anything. When I say that invoking the name of Jesus Christ has, on specific occasions, in specific circumstances, stopped a spiritual attack cold — I am not speaking in allegory. I am reporting what happened.

I say this knowing some readers will nod immediately, because they have experienced something similar and never had language for it in polite company. I say it knowing others will be skeptical. I only ask that you stay with me.

“These things I do, you shall do also — and even greater things than these.”
— John 14:12

Jesus said that. Not the Church. Not a theologian. Jesus. And if you take it seriously — not as spiritual encouragement but as a literal statement of human capacity — it opens a door that most of Christianity has spent two thousand years keeping carefully closed. We are more powerful than we have been led to believe. That is not a New Age claim. It is scripture.

Why the Ceremony Was Not Borrowed — It Was Remembered

Before I tell you what happened that night, I need to tell you something about who I am that most people in my life do not know.

Three generations back, my family carried indigenous blood from multiple nations — Yaqui, Comanche, Cherokee, and another nation from the El Paso corridor. A great-grandmother of that heritage, a woman of the land in south Texas, married an Anglo rancher who worked the King’s Ranch. As a Gomez — a name that carries the full weight of the Mexican-American Southwest, with its Spanish colonial layer over its indigenous foundation — those traditions are not foreign to me. They are ancestral. They are in my body.

I hold a belief I have come to through experience rather than theory: people spiritually align most powerfully with their heritage. Not exclusively — the Spirit moves where it will, and I would never argue that a tradition is inaccessible to someone outside its lineage. But there is a resonance that happens when practice meets ancestry that is different in kind from what happens when practice meets intellectual curiosity alone.

Consider: should someone of Northern European ancestry expect an Ayurvedic protocol — built over millennia for bodies shaped by the Indian subcontinent — to resonate the same way it does for someone whose ancestors lived that tradition? Will a Lakota ceremony land identically for someone whose blood carries the memory of the steppes of Central Asia? The tradition may be beautiful and true. But the body carries its own memory. And that memory responds.

This connects, I believe, to what some call starseed origins or celestial families — the idea that beyond our earthly heritage there is a cosmic one, and that part of what is being activated in this compression window is the remembering of both. The Lakota teaching Mitákuye Oyás’iŋ — we are all related — does not mean we are all identical. It means the web connects us. Each thread is distinct. Each thread carries its own frequency. Each thread matters.

When I sat in ceremony under a sliver moon with fire and intention and a question held close to my heart about how to be a better father and husband — I was not borrowing. I was returning.

The Vision Quest

The Lakota Sundance is one of the most demanding spiritual practices in the indigenous world — a multi-day ceremony of sacrifice, endurance, and communion with the Creator. My spiritual advisor participates every year through the Sacred Sundance Foundation, which preserves this tradition in living practice. What I participated in was a variation: an overnight vision quest built around fire, ceremony, and a small group of people who understood what they were walking into.

I want to pause for readers who are Catholic or evangelical and feeling resistance at the word ceremony in this context. Consider what a priest does before entering the sacrament. He fasts. He prays. He uses incense, chanting, liturgical rhythm, and specific words spoken in specific order to shift his consciousness toward the sacred. He is doing what every spiritual tradition has always done — using the body as a vehicle for access to the divine. The indigenous ceremony uses different tools toward the same destination. If you believe the Holy Spirit is present in a cathedral in Rome, there is no honest theology that argues He cannot be present around a fire under the stars in the American West.

I prepared for a week. Fasting. Intention setting. I carried one question in: how do I become a better father and husband, and what path am I supposed to walk to honor the mission I feel I have been given.

That was my intention. What happened was something else entirely.

When My Defenses Went Down

I was deep in my own work — that quality of interior stillness that opens when you have prepared properly and surrendered the outcome — when a friend in the group began to come apart. He was under spiritual attack. I know how that sounds to a reader who has not experienced it. I also know exactly what it looks like when it is happening to someone you trust in a setting like that. This was real. He felt as though he was being choked. He could not move through it alone.

I broke my own work to help him. For over an hour I stayed present with him, working to bring him back. By the time he was stable, I had given what I had. My defenses were down.

I found out later — and this detail still sits cold in me when I think about it — that someone had been deliberately placed in our group. We had made the gathering known within our local community. Someone who operated from the other side of the spiritual ledger had found out and sent a representative. When I broke my work to tend to my friend, I became the next target.

Before the entities came, this person made himself known to me. He looked at the small cross I was holding. He laughed.

“You think that tiny cross will save you? You think your God can do anything?”

I was exhausted. I looked at him sideways. I said: yes. The love of my family will protect me and save. And in my mind, I thought, so will this cross.

I held the cross toward him. He recoiled. And slowly scuttled off away to the legion of ill repute where he came from – meaning that he went back to his corner of the large space.

Then the flood came.

Two Hundred Beings and the Name That Opens the Door

I got on my knees. I held a photograph of my family to my chest — my wife, my children, the people I had entered that ceremony to serve better. And I began to repeat, out loud, for as long as it took:

“The love of my family will save me. Lord Jesus Christ will save me.”

What happened next I can only describe as accurately as language allows, and I ask you to receive it as testimony rather than theology.

I felt that I had become a portal. A light that beings in this realm could perceive and move toward. They came — not in a way I can fully translate into linear description — and as each one arrived, I addressed it directly:

“I forgive you. I thank you for the lesson you have taught me. I release you with unconditional love. I ask Lord Jesus Christ to assist you to your perfect place — for it is not for me to judge.”

I did this for what felt like more than an hour. My estimate afterward was that I released over two hundred beings that night. My sense was that I had been a light they could find — that some had been held in this realm, unable to move on, and that what I offered was a doorway. Not because I was special. Because I was willing. And because I had called on the name that opens doors.

I want to be precise about what I am and am not claiming. I am not claiming power of my own. I am claiming something about what unconditional love and the name of Christ do when you mean them completely — when there is no performance in it, no audience, only a man on his knees in the dark holding a photograph of his family, with nothing left to offer except forgiveness and a request that something larger than himself handle what he could not.

That is not a technique. That is a theology. And it worked.

What This Has to Do With the Moment We Are In

The United States government has just published declassified UAP files at war.gov. The President used the words “alien and extraterrestrial life” on the official government record. Every sincere believer in every tradition is now going to be confronted with a question they were not prepared for: does this break my faith, or does it deepen it?

I believe it deepens it. Here is the bridge I want to offer.

The Book of Enoch — present in the Ethiopian Orthodox canon and referenced by both Jude and Peter in the New Testament — describes the Watchers: beings who interacted with humanity in the ancient world. Every major ancient civilization left a record of non-human intelligences present in human history. The mainstream Christian response has been to treat these as mythology or to ignore them entirely. The disclosure moment now forces a third option: to take them seriously as history.

If humanity was seeded, shaped, or intervened upon by beings from beyond this realm — and the evidence for that possibility is now entering the official record — that does not diminish the Creator. It expands the scope of creation. The Father’s house, Jesus said, has many mansions. Perhaps some of those mansions are occupied by beings who have held this planet in their care across timelines most of us cannot yet perceive. Perhaps the dark forces have always understood something the institutional Church has not allowed itself to examine: that the war Jesus walked into was not metaphorical. Which means the other side is real. Which means what I encountered that night was real. Which means the name that stopped it is real.

That is not a crisis for faith. That is faith confirmed on terms larger than the Sunday school version ever permitted.

What I Came Back With

The ceremony delivered exactly what I asked for. Just not in the form I expected.

I had carried in a question about how to be a better father and husband. The attack, the night on my knees, the hour of releasing what I could not hold — all of it was the answer. Because what came to light in that crucible was not something imposed on me from outside. It was something I had been carrying for years and had never looked at directly: the stubbornness, the unresolved anger, the feelings I had allowed to calcify into armor. The ceremony did not give me those things. It showed them to me clearly, in a light I could not look away from.

I forgave myself. I let them go. I became a better father and a better husband. Not perfectly. Not overnight. But genuinely and durably — in the way that only comes when you have seen the thing clearly and chosen to release it rather than carry it further.

I also asked for forgiveness myself. And I received what I can only describe as the greatest gift I have ever been given. I will not elaborate on that. Some gifts lose something in the explaining. But it was real, it was complete, and it changed the trajectory of everything that followed.

What the night also gave me — and this I did not expect — was a quality of resolve I had not possessed before. The threats did not shake my faith. They clarified it. There is a knowing that only comes from being tested under real pressure — not the intellectual assent to belief, but the embodied certainty that when everything else falls away, when you are on your knees in the dark with nothing left to offer, the name holds. That knowing cannot be given to you. It can only be earned in the moments where you need it most and reach for it anyway.

The Jesus I Have Come to Know

My understanding of Christ has continued to deepen since that night, shaped by teachers I am fortunate to have known personally — people who have spent decades in traditions that carry information the institutional church lost, suppressed, or simply never had access to. There has been study too: H. Spencer Lewis’s The Mystical Life of Jesus, drawn from Essene records and Rosicrucian archives, covering the years the Gospels do not account for. The Tibetan records of a teacher called Issa who walked those mountain paths during the long silence between the Temple and the ministry. These are not fringe sources to anyone who has followed this thread seriously. They are doors. And behind each door are rooms that make the institutional portrait of Jesus look like a thumbnail of a much larger painting.

I keep those rooms somewhat private — not from embarrassment, but from respect. Some of what I have been given came from teachers who shared it in relationship, not in publication. The detailed accounts, the specific records, the conversations that would make a sincere seeker’s heart race — those are stories for another time, in another context, with readers who have already crossed certain thresholds. I hold them with the same care I would hold anything given to me in trust.

What I will say is this: the Jesus I have come to know through that study and through those teachers is entirely consistent with the Jesus I encountered on my knees that night. Not the meek figure of a domesticated religion. Not the plaster saint of the institutional church. A man — and more than a man — who walked through every dark room the human condition contains and came out the other side with a message so simple and so total that two thousand years of organized religion have not been able to reduce it to nothing.

Love. Faith. And the giving up of one’s ego in service to others.

That is the teaching. The Essene community understood it. The Tibetan masters recognized it when Issa walked among them. The beings who hold this planet in high regard understand it. And a man in a dressing gown on his knees in the dark, holding a photograph of his family, proved it to himself in a way no doctrine could have delivered.

It works. In every room. At every level. On every timeline.

We Are All Related — And We Are All Children

As I write this, the President is in China. Two civilizations that have shaped the world in ways most people do not fully understand are sitting across a table from each other, navigating a clash of culture, interest, and cosmology that has been building for decades.

That is fine. Clash is not catastrophe. Different traditions, different memories, different frequencies — the web holds them all. Mitákuye Oyás’iŋ. We are all related. Not identical. Not interchangeable. But related at a level deeper than any political or cultural boundary can reach.

The disclosure moment is going to surface every one of those differences — every tradition’s claim about human origins, every religion’s account of the non-human beings in its own texts, every culture’s memory of the time before the forgetting. There will be conflict in that surfacing. There always is when the foundations shift.

What I hold onto — what the night in that ceremony gave me and nothing has taken away — is this: the love is real. The name is real. The power available to a human being who chooses love over fear, forgiveness over judgment, and connection over isolation is more than we have been permitted to understand.

When the man laughed at my tiny cross and asked if my God could do anything — and then recoiled when I raised it — he was not responding to the size of the cross. He was responding to what was behind it. What has always been behind it. What no disclosure event, no UAP file, no revelation about human origins, and no clash of civilizations can diminish.

We are going through something. It is real. It is large. And it will pass.

What we see on the other side will be, in large part, what we build toward now. What we envision. What we choose to become in the interval between the old story and the new one.

Build the ark. Hold the love. Use the name when you need it.

It works.

— Gerry

Gerry Gomez is an investigative journalist, creative director, and hybrid war correspondent who has spent a decade documenting the convergence of financial, media, and geopolitical forces shaping the current global transition.