Vigilantia, Faith, and Beyond

Unveiling the Veil: Principalities in the Biblical Context

In New Orleans, the veil is always thin. The air clings to you heavy and thick. Cypress trees weep over still waters. Shadows stretch long across the Quarter, whispering stories older than the city itself. Here, belief in the unseen is not a novelty—it's a native tongue. And those who've lived long in these parts know: just because you can't see something doesn't mean it isn't watching.

Growing up near the edge of the river, just outside Destrehan, I learned early to respect what lurks in the murky places—both in the swamp and in the soul. That reverence followed me into my art and my writing, where light and shadow are never just visual—they're spiritual. And nowhere do those themes rise clearer than in the biblical reality of principalities, those unseen rulers that shape the visible world like a hidden hand in the fog. This is what the Crimson Rada series explores, and the latest in the series, Vigilantia, and the newest novel being written will explain.

The Biblical Presentation of Principalities

In the Scriptures, principalities are not folklore. They are ancient spiritual entities, real, intelligent, and active. Ephesians 6:12 says it plainly: "For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places."

These are not metaphors. They are governing spirits, some fallen, others obedient to God, assigned to regions, cultures, and movements. They inspire wars, ideologies, and chaos. They don't announce themselves. They operate through systems, seductions, and stories. They're the shadow in the frame, the chill in the room, the pull you feel but cannot name.

Down here, we've always known about the war in the unseen. You can hear it in the blues, in the gospel choirs, in the brass funerals that send souls to heaven with a trumpet cry. We know life is more than flesh. We know darkness is more than absence.

Art, Writing, and Principalities

As a painter, I study the way light dances on water, but I'm just as drawn to where the light fades. In my writing, I return to the battle of shadow and sun, good and evil, truth and illusion. Because those battles are not just within us. They're around us. Above us. They are the landscape of the spiritual realm.

Principalities influence how a culture thinks, feels, and even remembers. They ride in on trends, rituals, technologies, and politics. They sit on thrones unseen, pulling strings. And their fingerprints are everywhere, from the high halls of power to the hush of midnight thoughts. 

In the biblical worldview, principalities aren't just abstract evils. They are living powers—ancient, entrenched, and deeply invested in human history.

A Cautionary Tale from the Bayou

Let me tell you a story I once heard - one I believe. It happened not far from Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, down by the Quarter, where the gaslights still flicker like ghosts. A young man, an artist like me, began to paint what he called "the veil." Said he wanted to lift it to peer through into the spirit world. He walked the old alleys at night, lit candles to saints he didn't know, and kept a charm from a voodoo priestess tucked in his boot.

He said the paintings came to him in dreams. He stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. He painted night after night faces no one recognized, figures too twisted for daylight. They say he spoke in voices that weren't his. They say he started calling something by name.

Then, he vanished. Left his studio empty, brushes still wet, eyes painted on the canvas, watching the door.

That's how it happens. You don't need to hold a séance or break into a cathedral at midnight. Sometimes, all it takes is an open door, a careless fascination - reaching toward what Scripture warns us to resist. The veil is not a toy. The veil is a boundary, and some things on the other side do not come in peace.

I still walk past St. Louis Cathedral sometimes, the bells echoing over Jackson Square. It stands tall like a sentinel in a city that dances on the edge of shadow. Inside, saints look down in stained glass silence while candles flicker like prayers on their last breath. That place reminds me: your soul is not just something to nurture, it is something to guard.

Because in a city where the veil is thin, and spirits roam bold, the battle is not just for minds or bodies, it is for souls.

Insight into the Unseen

As I read up on religion, psychology, and philosophy over the years, I began to understand: these spiritual forces are not just influencing cultures, they're influencing you. The way we think, the shame we carry, the compulsions we rationalize, these are often the fruit of something darker, something older. Principalities do not always possess. More often, they persuade. They seduce. They normalize evil and then make you doubt your sense of right and wrong.

This is why vigilance isn't paranoia, it's wisdom. Not every voice in the dark is your imagination. Some speak with ancient tongues. And they know your name.

My journey in faith has taught me that we are not called to fear them. But we are called to be awake. Armed. Rooted in Christ, who has already overcome them. The cross was not just a rescue; it was a dethronement. "Having disarmed principalities and powers, He made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them in it." (Colossians 2:15)

Final Reflection

Down here, where the mist rolls in from the river, and shadows linger on wrought iron balconies, we know better than to say there's no such thing as spirits. We've seen too much. And yet, even here, the temptation remains—to flirt with the mystery, to romanticize the unknown, to call the darkness deep instead of naming it what it is.

But principalities are not playthings. They are real powers with real agendas. And they are watching to see who will open the door.

That's why I write. That's why I paint. To unmask what hides behind beauty. To call light into shadowed places. And to remind us that the actual war is never on the surface. It is beneath, above, and within.

This war pulses through the pages of my novel, Vigilantia. Though I won't spoil its secrets, I'll say this: it is not just a story, it is a summons. A call to see. To resist. To remember what we were made for.

So as you walk through the fog, whether in New Orleans or in your own mind, walk with discernment. Ask who whispers to you. And above all, guard your soul because the veil is thinner than you think. And not everything behind it wants to stay hidden.