Category: Paranormal

NAGPRA: Worse than book burning–the Time Team shows how to do it right

As I reflect on this continuation of my birthday gift to myself—the deep dive into the Windover Archaeological Site and everything it represents—I can’t help but feel a profound sense of urgency mixed with frustration. My wife suggested we check it out because it tied directly into a project I was working on, and while I had heard about it before, seeing the exhibits up close and then immersing myself in the details through books like Glen H. Doran’s Windover: Multidisciplinary Investigations of an Early Archaic Florida Cemetery (published by the University Press of Florida in 2002) changed everything for me. That visit wasn’t just a casual outing; it was a revelation about what American archaeology could be and what it has become under policies that, in my view, prioritize political narratives over truth-seeking discovery. This is part two of that discussion, building on what I wrote earlier about the dig itself, but now zooming in on why the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act—NAGPRA, which I’ve come to call the “Wolves Act” because of the cultural buzz around Dances with Wolves during its passage—needs to be repealed or fundamentally reformed. We should be following the example of Britain’s Time Team, not letting a 1990 law bury our history, as the developers and politicians did with that Florida pond after just three seasons of excavation.

Let me start from the beginning of my personal connection to this. I remember driving out to the area near Titusville with my wife, the kind of trip where you expect a quiet museum stop but walk away astonished. The Windover site, discovered in 1982 during road construction for a housing development called Windover Farms, turned out to be one of the most significant archaeological finds in the Western Hemisphere. A backhoe operator scooped up skulls, and what followed was a frantic but methodical excavation led by Glen Doran from Florida State University between 1984 and 1986. They uncovered remains of about 168 individuals buried in a shallow pond that had become a natural peat bog, preserving everything from brain tissue—the oldest known in the world at the time—to intricate textiles, wooden artifacts, bone tools, and more. These people lived around 7,000 to 8,000 years ago in the Early Archaic period, long before what we think of as “Native American” tribes like the Cherokee or Seminole even formed as we know them today. The preservation was phenomenal because of the pond’s anaerobic conditions; it was like a time capsule from a world we barely understand.

Reading Doran’s book afterward felt like stepping into that excavation myself. It’s a multidisciplinary masterpiece—environmental analysis, radiocarbon dating, paleoethnobotany, DNA studies from the brain tissue, mortuary patterns, the works. They found the oldest woven fabrics in the Southeast, complex cordage, and evidence of sophisticated lifeways that challenge the simplistic “hunter-gatherer” stereotypes. My wife and I stood there in the museum exhibits, looking at replicas and displays (some now limited or relocated due to modern restrictions), and I kept thinking: This is North America’s equivalent of discovering a lost civilization, yet it barely registers in our national consciousness. Why? Because right around the time the final analyses were wrapping up, NAGPRA dropped in 1990 like a political hammer. The law was signed by President George H.W. Bush on November 16, 1990, after being introduced in the House by Democrat Mo Udall of Arizona. It sailed through on voice votes, with strong Democratic backing amid a wave of activism and cultural sentiment fueled by movies like Dances with Wolves, which painted indigenous peoples as noble victims of American aggression. I was living through that era, very aware of the buzz in Washington. I wasn’t a Bush fan—I voted against him, worked against him in the ’92 election, even flirted with the Reform Party because I saw him as a RINO continuing the same globalist, sovereignty-eroding policies Democrats had long championed. This wasn’t some Republican innovation; it was a bipartisan surrender to a narrative that America’s foundations were built on theft and needed constant atonement.

NAGPRA’s stated goal was to protect Native American graves, repatriate human remains and cultural items from museums and federal agencies to lineal descendants or culturally affiliated tribes. On paper, it sounds reasonable—addressing real historical wrongs like grave robbing in the 19th century. But in practice, and especially for ancient sites like Windover, it’s been devastating. The remains at Windover predate any known modern tribal affiliations by millennia. DNA studies from the site (what little could be done before restrictions tightened) showed haplogroups tracing back to ancient Asian migrations, but nothing that tied them neatly to today’s federally recognized tribes. Yet the law forces institutions like Florida State University to consult tribes, inventory collections, and often repatriate or rebury without full study. FSU has issued NAGPRA notices for some collections, and the process drags on, limiting further research. The pond was partially backfilled after the initial dig; half the cemetery remains untouched, not because the science was done, but because funding dried up amid the political winds. Developers and archaeologists knew what was coming, so they rushed what they could. Today, if a similar site were found, it might never see the light of day beyond a quick salvage operation before reburial. That’s not science; that’s erasure disguised as respect.  It’s equivalent to modern-day book burning, only the material is destroyed before we even have a chance to discover it. 

I’ve seen this pattern before, and it screams deliberate policy to undermine American sovereignty. Democrats have long used “victim” groups—indigenous peoples, in this case—as levers to dismantle narratives of Western expansion and self-reliance. NAGPRA wasn’t born in a vacuum; it was part of a broader 1990s push that included open-border sentiments and identity politics. The same era gave us policies questioning every aspect of American settlement, from land use to energy. Bush signed it, sure, but as a continuation of the previous administration’s trajectory. I stepped away from the GOP at the time because it felt like the party was complicit in weakening the republic from within. This law doesn’t just repatriate; it creates a framework in which federal recognition of tribes governs everything on or near federal lands, which is a huge chunk of the country. It turns archaeologists into bureaucrats navigating tribal consultations instead of digging for truth. And for sites with no clear affiliation—like the 8,000-year-old Windover bones, which likely belonged to pre-Clovis or early Archaic peoples who other groups later displaced—it effectively halts inquiry. How do you return remains to a tribe that didn’t exist yet? You don’t; you bury the evidence and pretend the history starts with the groups Democrats designate as “indigenous.”

This ties directly into the speculation about giants and multiple cultures in the Ohio Valley and Mississippi River mounds that I’ve pondered for years. Old newspaper accounts and 19th-century reports from the Smithsonian and others described oversized skulls and skeletons in Adena and Hopewell mounds—evidence, some say, of earlier populations. Modern archaeology dismisses much of it as exaggeration or hoaxes, but the pattern is suspicious: NAGPRA and similar policies make it risky even to revisit those claims with new tech like DNA. If there were prior cultures—perhaps Solutrean influences from Europe or other migrations predating the Beringia model—it challenges the singular “Native Americans as eternal stewards” narrative. Pre-Clovis sites like Buttermilk Creek in Texas (15,000+ years old) and genetic evidence of multiple waves into the Americas already poke holes in the old Clovis-first theory. Yet NAGPRA’s cultural affiliation rules often default to modern tribes, erasing the complexity. It’s the same playbook as border policies today: open the gates, label critics as aggressors, and rewrite the founding story to justify dismantling sovereignty. Democrats didn’t invent this overnight; it’s been their trajectory—using “aggrieved” groups to fracture the American experiment.

Compare that to what’s happening in Great Britain with Time Team. If you’ve never watched it, do yourself a favor—episodes are all over YouTube now, even after the show ended its main run on Channel 4. Hosted by Tony Robinson with archaeologists like Mick Aston, Phil Harding, and Carenza Lewis, it was a phenomenon from 1994 to 2014. They’d show up at a site—often tipped off by locals or metal detectorists—spend three days digging with geophysics, volunteers, and experts, then reveal everything from Roman villas to Neolithic tombs to medieval villages. No endless permits bogged down by politics; English Heritage and local councils supported it. The archaeologists became celebrities, the public ate it up, and it funded real research while turning history into entertainment. They published scientific papers too—more than some university departments. Stonehenge, Hadrian’s Wall, Roman baths: Britain celebrates layer upon layer of its past, from Mesolithic to medieval, without erasing any group. Bones from Iron Age, Bronze Age, or Roman contexts are studied for diet, disease, migration—not reburied to appease a modern political framework. It’s respectful scholarship that builds national pride, not guilt. I’ve been to England; their heritage sites are tourist magnets, economic engines, and educational goldmines. Archaeologists there are rock stars, not bureaucrats.

Why can’t we do that here? Japan has underwater sites off the coast of Osaka; China guards its ancient tombs but still excavates selectively. Even in the volatile Middle East, guys like Joel Kramer on his Expedition Bible YouTube channel navigate borders, checkpoints, and regimes to document sites from Sodom to Shiloh. His book Where God Came Down is a masterclass in persistence amid obstacles. The Biblical Archaeology Society and Biblical Archaeology Review fight for dig seasons in Israel despite political minefields—hostile neighbors, military oversight, and permit battles. Yet they publish voraciously because the region’s history is too vital to bury. In the U.S., we have a free country, capital markets, and vast untouched potential—from Florida ponds to Ohio mounds to underwater sites off the coasts—and we tie our hands with NAGPRA. Developers bulldoze sites quietly to avoid red tape; museums shelve collections. The Windover team saw the writing on the wall and wrapped up just as the law hit. The 2002 book exists as a snapshot of what was possible pre-NAGPRA; post-law, that level of open inquiry is gone.

This isn’t abstract. It harms research into who we really are as Americans. Western expansion wasn’t just conquest; it was building on layers of human history, some of which involved the displacement of earlier groups by later ones—just like everywhere else on Earth. Suppressing that validates a one-sided story used to push globalist agendas: open borders, energy restrictions framed as “respecting the land,” and centralized control. The same forces behind NAGPRA cheer solar mandates while demonizing natural gas and erasing our industrial heritage, just as they erase pre-Columbian complexity. I’ve said it before in my writings and streams: Rumble and independent platforms are game-changers because legacy media conceals this. There’s no evidence of giants or advanced pre-Native societies, they claim—yet policies prevent the digs that could prove or disprove it. Old Smithsonian reports from the 1800s detailed large skeletons in mounds; modern DNA from Hopewell and Adena sites shows continuity with later Native groups but also hints of admixture. Why not let the marketplace of ideas decide through open science?

Imagine an American Time Team. Archaeologists as celebrities on the Discovery Channel, live digs at mound sites or Florida bogs, public volunteers, and tourist revenue fund more work. Stonehenge draws millions; why not make Windover or Serpent Mound a Disney-level attraction with VR reconstructions, exhibits, and ongoing excavations? We have the capital, the freedom, the talent. Instead, we have rogue developers destroying sites, and universities complying with repatriation, which halts study. FSU still holds some Windover materials, but NAGPRA inventories and consultations limit what can be done. Rachel Wentz’s popular book Life and Death at Windover captures the human story—families, health, rituals—but even that feels like a last gasp before the freeze.

Repealing or reforming NAGPRA for remains older than, say, 5,000 years—where affiliation is impossible—would be a start. Treat ancient bones like science treats Ötzi the Iceman in Europe: study, learn, share. Respect living tribes’ concerns for recent remains, but don’t let it blanket 15,000 years of migration and replacement. England’s approach proves you can honor the dead without erasing history. Their Time Team episodes on Roman occupation or Neolithic life don’t undermine modern Britain; they enrich it. We need that here—full stop.

My effort in writing this and in pushing these ideas on my platforms stems from that museum visit and the book that followed. It’s personal: I want my kids and grandkids to know the full story of this continent, not a sanitized version designed to undermine the republic. The Windover discovery was a window—a fantastic, irreplaceable one—into a sophisticated past. NAGPRA closed it. Democrats knew what they were doing in 1990, riding the Dances with Wolves wave to frame America as a perpetual aggressor. Republicans like Bush went along. It’s the same game as today’s policies. We deserve better: open archaeology, public celebration, evidence wherever it leads. Let’s make American digs rock stars again. The Time Team model isn’t just British; it’s what humanity needs. And it starts by repealing the laws that bury our past to serve political ends.

Footnotes

1.  Glen H. Doran, ed., Windover: Multidisciplinary Investigations of an Early Archaic Florida Cemetery (University Press of Florida, 2002). Core source for site details, artifacts, and analyses.

2.  Rachel Wentz, Life and Death at Windover: Excavations of a 7,000-Year-Old Pond Cemetery (personal accounts and bioarchaeology).

3.  Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, Pub. L. 101-601 (1990). Legislative history via Congress.gov; signed by GHW Bush.

4.  Time Team episodes, Channel 4 (UK), available on YouTube; see also English Heritage reports on public archaeology impact.

5.  Joel P. Kramer, Where God Came Down: The Archaeological Evidence (Expedition Bible publications); YouTube channel documents border and access challenges.

6.  Biblical Archaeology Review archives detail permit struggles in the Holy Land due to geopolitics.

7.  Pre-Clovis and migration studies: e.g., Waters et al. on Buttermilk Creek (Science, 2011); ancient DNA papers in PNAS and Nature on multiple waves.

8.  Historical mound reports: 19th-century Smithsonian and newspaper accounts (contextualized in modern critiques); DNA from Hopewell sites (Ohio History Connection studies).

Bibliography for Further Reading

•  Doran, Glen H., ed. Windover: Multidisciplinary Investigations of an Early Archaic Florida Cemetery. University Press of Florida, 2002.

•  Wentz, Rachel. Life and Death at Windover. University Press of Florida (related publications).

•  U.S. Congress. Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA), 25 U.S.C. 3001 et seq. (1990).

•  Robinson, Tony, et al. Time Team series (1994–2014). Channel 4; scientific outputs summarized in Current Archaeology and English Heritage reports.

•  Kramer, Joel P. Where God Came Down. Expedition Bible, 2022 (approx.).

•  Biblical Archaeology Society. Biblical Archaeology Review (ongoing issues on global dig challenges).

•  Waters, Michael R., et al. “The Buttermilk Creek Complex and the Origins of Clovis at the Debra L. Friedkin Site, Texas.” Science, 2011.

•  Mills, Lisa A. “Ancient DNA from the Ohio Hopewell.” Ohio History Connection research.

•  ProPublica/NBC investigations on NAGPRA implementation (2023 reports on repatriation delays and impacts).

•  Additional: Federal Register notices on FSU NAGPRA inventories (2021+); Archaeological Conservancy site profiles on Windover.

Rich Hoffman

More about me

Click Here to Protect Yourself with Second Call Defense https://www.secondcalldefense.org/?affiliate=20707

About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an aerospace executive, political strategist, systems thinker, and independent researcher of ancient history, the paranormal, and the Dead Sea Scrolls tradition. His life in high‑stakes manufacturing, high‑level politics, and cross‑functional crisis management gives him a field‑tested understanding of power — both human and unseen.

He has advised candidates, executives, and public leaders, while conducting deep, hands‑on exploration of archaeological and supernatural hotspots across the world.

Hoffman writes with the credibility of a problem-solver, the curiosity of an archaeologist, and the courage of a frontline witness who has gone to very scary places and reported what lurked there. Hoffman has authored books including The Symposium of Justice, The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business, and Tail of the Dragon, often exploring themes of freedom, individual will, and societal structures through a lens influenced by philosophy (e.g., Nietzschean overman concepts) and current events.

The Smoking Gun of Windover: What NAGPRA was meant to conceal

I have been reflecting deeply on this as April 9th rolls around—my birthday—and I decided this year I would give myself something truly personal, something that excites me at the core of my being and ties together years of my own research, political observations, and that relentless drive to uncover truths that the system tries to bury. It is not some flashy gift or a day off from the work I do for everyone else; instead, it is this deep dive into what I consider one of the most important archaeological revelations of our lifetime, a site that serves as a smoking gun for so many historical narratives that have been twisted, politicized, and deliberately constrained. I am talking about the Windover archaeological site in Central Florida, that extraordinary bog cemetery near Titusville, just up the road from the Kennedy Space Center, where an accidental discovery in the mid-1980s peeled back layers of prehistory in ways that challenge everything we have been taught about the peopling of North America, the sophistication of ancient cultures, and the very foundations of modern political narratives about land, history, and who truly belongs here. I have poured over the rare academic book that documented it all—Windover: Multidisciplinary Investigations of an Early Archaic Florida Cemetery, edited by Glen H. Doran and published by the University Press of Florida in 2002—and it has become my birthday present to myself because it represents a narrow window into truth before the doors slammed shut with laws like NAGPRA. I invite everyone who reads this to share in that excitement with me, because this is not just dusty bones in a pond; it is evidence of a sophisticated society that predates the standard Beringia migration story by thousands of years in meaningful ways, and it exposes how politics, not science, has been driving the suppression of our deep past.  

I first came across references to this site years ago in my own independent studies of ancient American history, the kind of reading I do late at night after dealing with local politics here in Butler County, Ohio, or after watching the national scene unfold with all its layers of deception. Back then, I was already skeptical of the official timelines pushed in academia—the neat little story that indigenous peoples crossed the Bering land bridge around 15,000 to 20,000 years ago, spread south as hunter-gatherers, and that everything before European contact fits neatly into that box with tribes like the Iroquois, Lakota, or Sioux representing the “original” inhabitants. But Windover blew that open for me in a way nothing else had. Discovered accidentally in 1982 or early 1984 when a backhoe operator for a housing development called Windover Farms scooped up a human skull while digging in a small peat bog pond, it quickly became clear this was no recent crime scene. County medical examiners dated the remains as ancient, and that led to Florida State University anthropologist Glen Doran stepping in as principal investigator. From 1984 through about 1987, his team excavated roughly half of this half-acre pond cemetery under challenging wet-site conditions, uncovering the remains of at least 168 individuals—men, women, and children, from infants to elders around 60—buried in a deliberate, logical manner that suggested a thoughtful, organized society. What made it extraordinary was the preservation: the acidic yet neutral-pH peat bog acted like a natural time capsule, keeping not just bones but also soft tissue intact. We are talking brain tissue still present in 91 skulls, some with cellular structure preserved enough for DNA extraction; skin on the bodies; even the last meals still identifiable in their stomachs. They had clothing woven from plant fibers—some of the oldest and most complex textiles ever found in the New World, requiring looms or advanced weaving techniques that nobody expected for an “Archaic” period people 7,000 to 8,000 years ago. Wooden artifacts, bone and antler tools, a bottle gourd—evidence of a culture far more advanced than the simple hunter-gatherer label academia slaps on prehistory.  

An amazing book!

I have that Doran book—it is a thick, technical volume, the kind produced in limited academic runs, probably only a few thousand copies worldwide, and I feel fortunate to have one because it captures every multidisciplinary angle: environmental analysis, radiocarbon dating pinning the site firmly to around 6000-5000 BC, mortuary patterns showing bodies often placed with poles or stakes to keep them submerged, facing north with heads turned west in what looks like a deliberate ritual orientation toward the setting sun and perhaps some spiritual reverence. The people themselves were robust; average adult males stood about five feet nine inches, taller and healthier than many later prehistoric groups, with some individuals pushing six feet or more based on femur lengths and bone density—enough to fuel those early newspaper reports of “giants” in North America before institutionalized science dismissed them as hoaxes or exaggerations. There is no wild conspiracy in Doran’s work; it is straight, careful archaeology by scientists who genuinely loved the field and rushed to document everything because they sensed the political tides turning. Half the cemetery was left untouched, and today the site sits under a plaque in a wooded subdivision, a National Historic Landmark with no further major digs. That is the tragedy I keep coming back to, and it is why Windover feels like the smoking gun for me. 

What hit me hardest when I dug into the details—and this is where my own political experience from years fighting school levies, local corruption, and national narratives in Ohio gives me a unique lens—is how perfectly timed this discovery was before the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) slammed the brakes on American archaeology. NAGPRA passed Congress on November 16, 1990, right after the Windover excavations wrapped up and right around the cultural frenzy sparked by Dances with Wolves, that Hollywood epic romanticizing the Sioux and framing Western expansion as pure theft of indigenous land. I have studied how bills get written, who lobbies them, and the closed-door intentions behind them, and NAGPRA was loaded with progressive language designed to solidify a specific narrative: America as stolen property from “Native Americans” defined by a very shallow historical scope. It required consultation with tribes for any remains or cultural items, mandated repatriation, and effectively shut down large-scale digs because developers and archaeologists alike knew that uncovering bones could halt projects, tie up land in legal battles, and invite tribal claims. Developers started burying finds quietly rather than reporting them, and grant money in academia dried up unless you played along with the official story. Windover happened in that narrow window before the law fully kicked in—Doran and his team worked fast, funded in part by the curious developers themselves, who paused their subdivision to allow proper science—and the result was this irreplaceable snapshot of an 8,000-year-old culture that does not neatly fit the Beringia-to-modern-tribes pipeline. 

The DNA analysis of the preserved brain tissue is what really undermines the premises on which NAGPRA was built. Studies showed genetic markers linking these Windover people to ancient Asian populations via the Beringia route, as expected—haplogroups like A, C, D, and even the rare X that pops up in some Native contexts—but crucially, they do not align closely with any living Native American tribes or even many known prehistoric groups. It suggests either their lineage died out, experienced a severe bottleneck, or represents a distinct early population that predates or diverged from the groups we retroactively label as “indigenous.” I am not here to take anything away from what we have been calling Native American communities or their cultural heritage; I respect the reverence for ancestors. But when you have remains this old—older than the pyramids, older than Mesopotamian civilizations in some contexts—and DNA that does not match the shallow 300-400-year tribal samples used to justify repatriation claims, who exactly do you hand them back to? The law assumes a direct, unbroken chain to contemporary tribes, but Windover proves the timeline, and the populations were far more complex. These were not simple hunter-gatherers; they had advanced textile production, implying looms; thoughtful burial rituals suggesting religion or cosmology; trade networks possibly reaching far beyond the region (given certain materials); and a settled community life in a resource-rich Florida environment when sea levels were lower and the coastline extended miles outward. Villages and mounds now submerged offshore hint at even broader Archaic networks. This site forces a reevaluation: the “Native American” designation under NAGPRA was built on politically convenient assumptions that ignored deeper prehistory, and that ignorance was weaponized to challenge the legitimacy of Western expansion and the founding of the United States itself. 

I see this as part of a larger pattern I have observed in my own work on politics and history—the way organized systems, often with roots in spiritual battles that play out in the terrestrial realm, rewrite narratives to maintain power. My upcoming book, The Politics of Heaven, dives straight into this because sites like Windover provide the hard evidence that legends, mythology, and even biblical accounts of ancient sophistication are not fairy tales. Think about it: these people knew how to weave delicate fabrics thousands of years before we associate such technology with the Indus Valley, Mesopotamia, or Egypt. They cared for their sick and dead in a mass cemetery with ritual precision. Their stature and health suggest a robust population living in a stable society. And all of this at a time when the Ice Age was ending, sea levels were rising, and cultures we now call “Atlantis” in Platonic accounts or other global flood myths were supposedly migrating and seeding knowledge worldwide. Plato described Atlantis as an advanced civilization destroyed by catastrophe, with survivors spreading to Egypt, Britain, the Americas—places where we find sudden leaps in sophistication that do not fit the slow Beringia crawl. Windover fits as one piece of that puzzle: evidence of pre-Mesopotamian complexity right here in North America, with possible ties to shamanic or spiritual practices seen in even older Near Eastern sites. Take Qesem Cave near Tel Aviv in Israel, for example—an ancient site showing early humans (or pre-modern hominins) with innovative tool use, controlled fire, and communal activities dating back hundreds of thousands of years, far predating the standard timelines and hinting at organized, intelligent societies communicating with or revering something beyond the material world. Similar patterns appear in Natufian or shamanic contexts in the Levant around 13,000-10,000 BC, with ritual fires and early communal structures. These are not isolated; they point to a deep, sophisticated human history that institutional science, constrained by funding and politics, has been reluctant to explore fully. 

Here in North America, we have the same suppression at work, only dressed up as “reverence for indigenous rights.” Cahokia Mounds near St. Louis is another example I have studied closely—a massive Mississippian city around 1000-1400 AD with more people than London at the time, featuring the famous Birdman tablet and legends of Thunderbirds that echo across Native oral histories. Yet St. Louis was literally built on top of it, and we still vaguely associate it with later tribes despite clear discontinuities. Mound builders, Adena, Hopewell—earlier cultures with advanced earthworks and trade—get shoehorned into the same narrative, ignoring how each generation builds over the previous one, claiming territory like animals marking trees. Human nature drives this, but laws like NAGPRA freeze it artificially at a politically useful point: 1492 onward, with Europeans as the sole thieves. The reality, as Windover shows, is layered theft and migration going back millennia—groups taking from older groups, sophisticated societies rising and falling. If we had unrestricted digs, we could map this properly, learn from mistakes, and avoid repeating cycles of conquest and cultural erasure. Instead, the law—passed in that post-Dances with Wolves glow of guilt—created incentives to hide discoveries, starved archaeology of funding for controversial sites, and prioritized a narrative that undermines the Christian-influenced Western foundation of America. I know how these bills are crafted from my own experiences fighting local and state politics; the closed-door intentions are rarely about dead ancestors and always about power, land claims, and reshaping history to favor certain ideologies.

Glen Doran himself, who passed away in 2021, and his colleagues captured their frustration between the lines in that book. They knew NAGPRA was coming; they rushed the work because they understood the profession was about to be handcuffed. The peat chemistry, the pollen, the paleoethnobotany, the DNA—all of it documented before the repatriation machine could intervene. Yet even today, the remaining half of the pond sits largely untouched, and broader Florida bog sites or offshore mounds from lower sea-level eras go unexplored because developers fear land seizures and archaeologists fear grant denials or tribal vetoes. This is not reverence; it is concealment. I love true archaeology—the kind done in England on shows like Time Team, where they dig openly, analyze bones without mandatory handover, and let evidence speak. Here, the human need to know has been subordinated to politics, which is why Windover feels like such a miracle: it slipped through just before the gates closed. It validates folklore, Plato’s hints at Atlantis, global trade networks in deep antiquity, and even the idea that our origin stories—whether biblical, mythological, or shamanic—involve advanced pre-flood or pre-catastrophe civilizations that revered higher powers, appeased spirits, and built societies with ritual purpose. The Windover dead faced north, heads west toward the sunset—symbolism that screams cosmology, not random burial. They were not “cavemen”; they were part of something older and wiser than we have only breadcrumbs of now.

This all ties directly into the spiritual warfare I explore in my work—the fallen entities at war with creation itself, imprinting their influence on earthly power structures to erase God’s narrative and replace it with controlled ignorance. Laws like NAGPRA are not neutral; they serve to keep humanity deficient in knowledge, allowing modern political orders to maintain authority built on false premises. Western expansion brought a Christian viewpoint and free civilization that disrupted older pagan or shamanic systems, but if deeper evidence shows sophisticated pre-Columbian (and pre-Beringia in practice) cultures with their own complexities, the “stolen land” story loses its moral absolutism. Everyone stole from someone; history is layered conquest. The real crime is preventing inquiry that could reveal this, because it threatens the power base. Windover proves it in my eyes: 8,000-year-old brains yielding DNA that does not fit the 1990 legal template, textiles requiring technology we associate with much later eras, and a cemetery showing care and ritual in a society predating known tribes. It is the perfect example for my book because it shows how politics cascades from heavenly rebellion into terrestrial control—concealing evidence so the deficient knowledge keeps people dependent on the current narrative.

I have met enough people in politics over the years, from Tea Party rallies to local commissioners, to recognize when good intentions get co-opted by larger agendas. Archaeologists like Doran wanted knowledge; the system wanted control. That is why I judge these things rigorously in my own life and work—if you cannot manage truth at the foundational level, you cannot lead effectively elsewhere. Windover demands we repeal or heavily reform NAGPRA, not to disrespect anyone but to prioritize the human need to know over artificial constraints. We need more digs, more funding for wet sites in Florida and beyond, and more open analysis of offshore mounds from Ice Age coastlines. Only then can we bridge the gap between legend and evidence, avoid repeating past mistakes, and understand our true place in the deep timeline. This site, with its preserved last meals, woven fabrics, and unclaimed DNA, hints at Atlantis-like migrations, shamanic connections to the spirit world (echoing Qesem Cave’s early innovations or Cahokia’s Birdman symbolism), and a history far richer than the shallow one politicized in 1990.

As I celebrate another year on this earth, I find real joy in holding this truth close. It reinforces why I fight the battles I do—not just local levies or national elections, but the deeper war for accurate history. The Windover people were real, sophisticated, and part of something vast. Their story survived by accident in the bog, preserved long enough for us to glimpse it before the political machine intervened. That is my birthday gift: the excitement of knowing more is out there if we demand the freedom to look. I will keep pushing in my writings, my podcast, and my life because evidence like this changes everything. Share it, study it, and let it provoke the larger discussion it deserves. The republic, and humanity’s understanding of itself, depends on refusing to let politics bury the past any longer.

Footnotes

1.  Primary source details on discovery, excavation, and findings from Glen H. Doran’s edited volume and supporting analyses.

2.  DNA results and non-alignment with modern tribes were summarized from peer-reviewed studies referenced in site reports.

3.  NAGPRA legislative history and timing relative to Windover drawn from official records and archaeological critiques.

4.  Stature and artifact sophistication (textiles, rituals) from bioarchaeological chapters in the Windover investigations.

5.  Broader connections to global prehistory (Qesem Cave, Cahokia) informed by my independent cross-referencing of Paleolithic and Mississippian sites.

6.  Political motivations behind NAGPRA are tied to the cultural context of 1990 (Dances with Wolves) and observed patterns in bill-making from my experience.

Bibliography for Continued Reading

•  Doran, Glen H., ed. Windover: Multidisciplinary Investigations of an Early Archaic Florida Cemetery. University Press of Florida, 2002.

•  Wentz, Rachel K. Life and Death at Windover: Excavations of a 7,000-Year-Old Pond Cemetery. Florida Historical Society Press, 2012.

•  National Park Service. “Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act.” Official NPS overview and regulations.

•  Plato. Timaeus and Critias (translations discussing Atlantis).

•  Various reports on Qesem Cave: Barkai et al., publications on Lower Paleolithic innovation in Israel.

•  Pauketat, Timothy R. Cahokia: Ancient America’s Great City on the Mississippi. Penguin, 2010 (for Birdman and mound-builder context).

•  Biblical Archaeology Review and related journals on Near Eastern shamanic/ritual sites predating Mesopotamia.

•  My own forthcoming The Politics of Heaven for expanded spiritual-political synthesis.

•  National Geographic and Florida Museum archives on Windover preservation and public exhibits.

Rich Hoffman

More about me

Click Here to Protect Yourself with Second Call Defense https://www.secondcalldefense.org/?affiliate=20707

About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an aerospace executive, political strategist, systems thinker, and independent researcher of ancient history, the paranormal, and the Dead Sea Scrolls tradition. His life in high‑stakes manufacturing, high‑level politics, and cross‑functional crisis management gives him a field‑tested understanding of power — both human and unseen.

He has advised candidates, executives, and public leaders, while conducting deep, hands‑on exploration of archaeological and supernatural hotspots across the world.

Hoffman writes with the credibility of a problem-solver, the curiosity of an archaeologist, and the courage of a frontline witness who has gone to very scary places and reported what lurked there. Hoffman has authored books including The Symposium of Justice, The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business, and Tail of the Dragon, often exploring themes of freedom, individual will, and societal structures through a lens influenced by philosophy (e.g., Nietzschean overman concepts) and current events.

Make Sure to Judge and Judge Often: Kristi Noem and Pam Bondi couldn’t get the job done–find someone who can

I have been watching the second Trump administration unfold over the first few months of 2026 with a mixture of hope and growing frustration, the kind that comes from someone who has spent years in the political trenches here in Butler County, Ohio, and across the country. When President Trump tapped Pam Bondi for Attorney General, I thought it was a strong move. I had followed her work as Florida’s Attorney General, where she showed real backbone against some of the progressive nonsense that was infecting state governments. She talked a tough game on television—promising to go after the Russia hoax crowd, the January 6 committee members who turned a legitimate protest into a political persecution, the FBI insiders who abused FISA warrants, and the broader network of Democrats who had spent years twisting the law to target conservatives. I believed she had the smarts and prosecutorial experience to drag some of these cases to a close finally. But as the weeks turned into months, I saw the same old pattern: lots of sound bites, plenty of tough talk, but not nearly enough action. Cases that should have been fast-tracked sat gathering dust. Indictments that the American people desperately needed to see—real accountability for those who weaponized government—never quite materialized. By early April 2026, I wasn’t surprised when Trump made a change. I respect Pam Bondi, and I still think she’s intelligent, but if you’re not getting the job done at that level, you have to go. The Department of Justice is a swamp all its own, filled with careerists who know how to slow-walk everything, and it takes a special kind of resolve to push through. I believe Trump is doing a good job overall, but these personnel decisions matter. You can’t have people in the highest offices who talk the talk but can’t deliver results when the country is counting on real justice.

This whole situation with Bondi got me thinking deeper about what it really takes to succeed in this environment, and it brought me straight to Kristi Noem. I have always liked Kristi Noem. I thought she did a great job as governor of South Dakota. Her policies weren’t bad at all—I agreed with her on border security, crime, education, and pushing back against the radical transgender agenda that’s confusing so many kids. She had that independent Western spirit that resonated with many of us. I loved the campaign ads where she was riding horses around Mount Rushmore in a cowboy hat; it captured something authentic about American strength and freedom. When Trump brought her into the administration and eventually placed her at Homeland Security, I was optimistic. She seemed like the kind of no-nonsense leader who could secure the border and dismantle some of the chaos the previous administration had allowed to persist. But then the personal scandals hit, and everything changed. Reports surfaced about an affair with Corey Lewandowski, one of Trump’s longtime aides. I have met Corey Lewandowski several times over the years. He’s a sharp, charismatic guy who throws himself completely into the fight. He shares that same passion for the cause that many of us feel. When you’re away from home a lot, traveling constantly, surrounded by people who understand your mission at the deepest level, it becomes really easy to make bad judgments. I know how it happens. The adrenaline is high, the hours are long, and suddenly you’re sharing late-night strategy sessions with someone who gets the fire in your belly like your spouse back home sometimes can’t. It’s human nature, but it’s still bad judgment. You should be able to fight off temptation, especially when you’re married. I have been married to a good woman for a long time, and I know it takes work, especially when life gets busy, and the spotlight pulls you in different directions. But that’s exactly why character matters so much at the top.

What made the Noem situation even messier was what came out about her husband, Bryon. Nearly forty years of marriage, kids grown, grandkids in the picture, and suddenly the public learned he had been sending sexually charged pictures of himself online—cross-dressing, some boob fetish, the kind of private behavior that, once exposed, destroys trust on every level. I don’t think it was a complete surprise to everyone around them; neighbors in South Dakota apparently called it an open secret. Kristi expressed shock, but the damage was immediate and devastating. Her husband’s actions left her vulnerable, and the combination of the reported affair and the family embarrassment became too much under the national microscope. I believe she was devastated by it all. When you put yourself out there the way she did—national media, international travel, constant public appearances—the little cracks in a marriage get magnified. You’re gone too much. The empty nest, which should be a time to reconnect with your spouse, becomes filled with politics, rallies, and crises. It’s hard to maintain an intimate relationship when you’re living in the public eye every day. I have seen this pattern before with people who rise fast in the Tea Party or MAGA movements. They come into office with big ideas and good intentions, but the pressure and temptations of Washington or high-level administration roles test them in ways they never expected. Some handle it; many don’t. That’s why I hold people to a rigorous standard on their personal lives, especially when they seek high office. If you can’t keep your marriage straight, if you can’t manage your own household, there’s something wrong that will eventually show up in how you handle the bigger responsibilities.

I remember talking to JD Vance early on, back when he was making the rounds pitching himself to folks like me in Ohio. I had read Hillbilly Elegy and appreciated his story, but I wasn’t fully sold yet. I looked him in the eye and asked him directly: “You’re heading to Washington in your 40s with all this attention. How are you going to handle the temptations? Are you going to fight for justice, or are you just going to become another pastry in the lucrative swamp?” He didn’t flinch. His wife, Usha, was right there—super nice, super sweet, super solid. You could tell they genuinely liked each other, not just for the cameras. The way they interacted, even when the event was over and no one was watching, told me a lot. They share a real affection and partnership. That matters to me. I have seen the same thing with George Lang here in Ohio—his wife Debbie is a rock, a good person who keeps him grounded. Michael Ryan in Butler County has that same solid family foundation, which is one reason I support him so strongly. I could say the same thing about Congressman Warren Davidson and his wonderful wife, Lisa.  These are the kinds of people I trust in positions of power because they have proven they can manage the most important thing first: their own home. Trump himself has learned this lesson across his marriages. Melania has been a steady, classy presence for him, someone who understands the pressure and stands by him without needing constant validation. It takes time to figure these things out, especially in a high-profile life, but once you do, it becomes your armor against the temptations that come with power.

With Kristi Noem, I think the combination of the affair and her husband’s public embarrassment created a perfect storm. She had put herself out there so visibly that any weakness became ammunition for the enemies. Lewandowski is a nice, charismatic guy, and when you share that highest-level passion for the mission, it’s easy to cross lines you shouldn’t. I don’t condone it, but I understand how it happens. The marriage was already strained by years of public life. When your spouse isn’t as engaged or interested, and you’re out there chasing big goals, loneliness can creep in. But that doesn’t excuse the bad judgment. If your home life is dysfunctional—if your husband is caught cross-dressing and sending fetish photos online—then how can you possibly lead something as critical as Homeland Security without becoming a liability? The bad guys are always watching. They look for any crack to exploit. Noem’s situation wasn’t just personal; it raised real questions about judgment, vulnerability to blackmail, and the ability to focus under pressure. I still like her as a person. I think she has good intentions and did a lot of positive things in South Dakota. But when the scandals broke, Trump had no choice but to move her out. The administration can’t afford that kind of distraction at the top. It’s not about being perfect—but about having the discipline to keep your house in order so you can focus on the nation’s house.

I have thought a lot about why these kinds of failures happen so often in politics, especially at the federal level. It starts with the nature of the job itself. You’re constantly in the spotlight. Public relations, media appearances, international travel—it all pulls you away from the simple, intimate things that keep a marriage strong. When the kids are grown, and the grandkids are pulling at your heart, that space in your life gets filled with the next campaign event or policy fight. It becomes easy to seek validation or connection with people who share your daily battles. Corey Lewandowski and Kristi Noem apparently found that connection in each other. I have met Lewandowski enough times to know he’s passionate and committed. But passion without boundaries leads to trouble. The same thing happened in countless administrations before this one. History is full of leaders whose personal indiscretions undermined their public work. In the Trump era, with the media and Democrats armed and ready to pounce on any weakness, the margin for error is razor-thin. That’s why I believe we need to rigorously evaluate people’s family lives before giving them these roles. If you can’t protect your own family, if you can’t keep your marriage intact despite the pressures, then you’re not equipped to protect the country or deliver justice for the American people.

Look at what happened with the January 6 defendants. Many of them sat in jail for over a year while the January 6 committee ran its circus and the media turned a protest into an “insurrection” narrative. I believe those responsible for the selective prosecution and the weaponization of government should face real consequences. The FBI, the DOJ under previous leadership, and the congressional Democrats who pushed the narrative all deserve scrutiny. Yet under Bondi, those big cases didn’t move with the urgency I expected. I still support Trump’s overall direction—he has been really good on many fronts—but I want to see people in key positions who can actually prosecute the real criminals and get results. The same standard applies to every cabinet role. At Homeland Security, we needed someone who could secure the border without personal scandals becoming distractions. Noem’s situation showed how quickly good intentions can be derailed by poor personal management.

I have met a lot of these people over the years. I have talked with Tea Party and MAGA leaders who rose fast and then struggled under the weight of Washington. Some come out stronger; others fall apart. That’s why, when I get the chance to speak with a candidate or someone rising in the ranks—as I did with JD Vance—I ask the personal questions. I want to know how they handle temptation when the lights are off and no one is watching. I look at how they treat their spouse when the event is over, and the crowd is gone. Do they genuinely like each other? Do they share a real partnership? That tells me more than any policy paper ever could. JD Vance passed that test in my eyes. His wife is solid, and you can see the mutual respect and affection. George Lang and his wife, Debbie, show the same thing. Michael Ryan has that foundation, too. These are the people I trust to stay focused when the pressure hits. Trump has clearly learned this over time. He knows he needs people who can handle the spotlight without their personal lives becoming liabilities. Melania has been a great example of that steadiness for him.

Kristi Noem’s story is a cautionary tale, but I don’t write her off completely. She made many positive contributions, and I believe she wanted to do good for the country. The dysfunction in her home life—whether it was her husband’s online behavior or the strains of long absences—created vulnerabilities she couldn’t overcome in that high-pressure role. When the affair with Lewandowski became public knowledge, and the photos of her husband surfaced, it all became too much. The family unit is supposed to be the first line of defense. When that breaks down, enemies exploit it, the media feasts on it, and the mission suffers. I think Trump did the right thing by making the change. The administration needs people who can deliver without unnecessary drama. It’s not easy living under that kind of scrutiny.  That’s why maintaining strong family relationships is non-negotiable for me when evaluating leaders. If you can’t keep your own house in order, you won’t keep the nation’s house in order.

There is a deeper philosophical layer here that I have often reflected on. In a world where power attracts temptation like moths to flame, character becomes the ultimate filter. Let’s support people who want to do good things, even if they stumble, but when they seek the highest levels of administration, the standard must be higher. Bad judgment in personal matters signals deeper issues—weakness under pressure, inability to prioritize, vulnerability to manipulation. Noem’s case, like others before it, shows that you can have the right policies and the right rhetoric, but without personal discipline, the weight of the office will expose every crack. Trump has surrounded himself with some strong people who seem to understand this. JD Vance, with his solid marriage, gives me confidence. Others in the orbit who keep their families first will likely endure. For those who don’t, the door eventually closes, as it did with Bondi when results lagged and with Noem when the personal scandals exploded.

I still believe in the broader mission. Trump is moving the country in the right direction on many fronts, but personnel is policy. We need fighters who can actually prosecute the January 6 cases, hold the deep state accountable, secure the borders, and resist the cultural pressures that have weakened us. That requires people with the character to resist temptation when it comes knocking in hotel rooms and late-night meetings. It requires marriages that can withstand the absences and the spotlight. It requires leaders who understand that their first responsibility is to their own household before they take responsibility for the nation’s. I have seen too many good people with big ideas falter because they couldn’t manage the personal side. Kristi Noem had a lot going for her, but the combination of the Lewandowski affair and her husband’s embarrassing public behavior created a situation she couldn’t survive in that role. Pam Bondi talked a good game but couldn’t deliver the decisive actions needed. Both cases reinforce the same lesson: in high-stakes politics, especially in a second Trump term, where expectations are sky-high, character and execution must go hand in hand.

As I look ahead, I hope the administration continues to learn from these early stumbles. Bring in people who have proven they can handle pressure without personal meltdowns. Reward those who keep their families strong and their judgment sharp. The country needs real justice, secure borders, and leadership that doesn’t hand ammunition to the opposition on a silver platter. I still support Trump’s vision because I believe he is fighting for the right things. But I also believe he needs warriors around him who won’t crumble when the temptations or scandals hit. That’s the standard I apply when I evaluate anyone seeking my support, whether it’s here in Ohio or at the national level. Manage your home well, resist the easy temptations, deliver results, and you’ll have my backing. Fail at the personal level, and no amount of policy agreement will make up for it in the long run. Politics at the top is brutal, and only those with strong foundations survive. I have seen it up close, and that’s why I judge so rigorously. The republic deserves nothing less.

Footnotes

1.  Observations on Pam Bondi’s tenure drawn from public reporting on DOJ activities in early 2026 and Trump administration personnel changes.

2.  Details of Kristi Noem’s governorship and policies based on her public record in South Dakota, including border and cultural issues.

3.  Reports on the Lewandowski-Noem relationship and Bryon Noem’s online activities appeared in major outlets in early 2026.

4.  Personal conversations with JD Vance referenced from local Ohio political events.

5.  Broader reflections on family, temptation, and leadership informed by years of observing Tea Party and MAGA figures.

Bibliography for Continued Reading

•  Noem, Kristi. Not My First Rodeo: Lessons from the Heartland.

•  Vance, J.D. Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis.

•  Lewandowski, Corey. Let Trump Be Trump: The Inside Story of His Presidency.

•  Trump, Donald J. Crippled America and subsequent campaign materials.

•  Various reporting from The Daily Mail, New York Post, and Fox News on 2025-2026 administration personnel stories.

•  Biblical references: Proverbs 4:23 (“Guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it”).

•  Local Ohio political coverage on figures like George Lang and Michael Ryan from Butler County and state sources.

Rich Hoffman

More about me

Click Here to Protect Yourself with Second Call Defense https://www.secondcalldefense.org/?affiliate=20707

About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an aerospace executive, political strategist, systems thinker, and independent researcher of ancient history, the paranormal, and the Dead Sea Scrolls tradition. His life in high‑stakes manufacturing, high‑level politics, and cross‑functional crisis management gives him a field‑tested understanding of power — both human and unseen.

He has advised candidates, executives, and public leaders, while conducting deep, hands‑on exploration of archaeological and supernatural hotspots across the world.

Hoffman writes with the credibility of a problem-solver, the curiosity of an archaeologist, and the courage of a frontline witness who has gone to very scary places and reported what lurked there. Hoffman has authored books including The Symposium of Justice, The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business, and Tail of the Dragon, often exploring themes of freedom, individual will, and societal structures through a lens influenced by philosophy (e.g., Nietzschean overman concepts) and current events.

The Layered Foundations of Civilization and the True Meaning of Easter: Why Christianity Supplanted the Blood Cults of the World and Why Good Friday Is Indeed Good

I’ve said it many times before, and I’ll keep saying it because the evidence keeps piling up in every direction I look: civilizations don’t spring up out of nowhere like some secular fairy tale taught in modern classrooms. They build directly on top of previous civilizations, often literally stacking their cities, temples, and rituals atop the ruins of what came before. That’s why digging through the archaeological record to prove deep-time assumptions is so difficult—layers upon layers of human endeavor, each one trying to make sense of the same spiritual warfare that has raged since the beginning of recorded time. The same principle applies to our holidays, especially Easter. What we celebrate today isn’t some pristine invention of the early Church; it’s a Christian overlay on ancient pagan traditions, and that layering isn’t a bug—it’s the feature that makes the whole thing work psychologically and culturally for humanity’s long-term survival.  

This past Holy Week of 2026, as the world marked another Easter amid the chaos of our times, I found myself explaining this story over and over again to a new generation—mostly people under thirty—who are staring at the mess handed down by their parents and grandparents. Secular society led those older cohorts astray with promises of endless pleasure, moral relativism, and “progress” that stripped away any real foundation. These young people don’t like what they inherited. They’re drinking less, they’re not as sexually driven in the destructive ways previous generations were sold, and they’re turning to Christianity in numbers I haven’t seen in my lifetime. It’s not just some fleeting reaction to current events, though the assassination of Charlie Kirk last September certainly played a role in waking some of them up. Kirk and Turning Point USA had been reaching that exact demographic with a message of truth, responsibility, and American exceptionalism rooted in Judeo-Christian values. When radicals lashed out and killed the messenger, they didn’t kill the message—they turned Kirk into a symbol, almost a modern martyr in the eyes of many. That’s the danger of assassinating ideas: they don’t die; they multiply. But Kirk’s success wasn’t accidental. A whole cohort was already listening, already rejecting the secular void, and looking for something solid to stand on. Christianity is providing that anchor, just as it has for millennia.

Let’s get specific about Easter, because the question keeps coming up from these young seekers: Why the bunnies? Why the eggs? How does any of that connect to Christ’s resurrection? The answers take us straight back to those layered civilizations I mentioned. The Easter bunny and Easter eggs didn’t originate in the Gospels. They trace back to Germanic and broader European pagan traditions tied to spring fertility rites—reverence for the changing seasons where life bursts forth after winter’s death. Bunnies, with their legendary reproductive vigor, became symbols of vitality and new life. Eggs, obviously, represent rejuvenation—the perfect vessel from which new life hatches. Painting them was humanity’s way of imprinting our creative stamp on that divine process. These rituals migrated and blended across cultures, just as trade routes and migrations carried ideas from the Near East to Europe and beyond. The Christian tradition didn’t erase them; it baptized them, layering the resurrection of Christ—the ultimate victory over death—onto these older spring celebrations. That’s how holidays work. They evolve, but the core psychological need remains: to mark renewal, confront mortality, and seek meaning in the cycle of life and death.  

This isn’t some dilution of faith; it’s evidence of Christianity’s genius as a sustaining cultural mechanism. Look at the broader pattern. For hundreds of years—two or three centuries at a stretch, over and over—pagan societies rose and fell on the worship of planetary gods: Jupiter, Mars, Saturn among the Romans, borrowed wholesale from the Greeks, who themselves drew from Near Eastern deities. The same archetypes appear globally—uncovering similar pantheons and ritual cycles in Central America, South America, North America, Africa, and even ancient China. These civilizations kept collapsing under their own weight because they were psychologically tethered to blood cults. Human sacrifice wasn’t some fringe horror; it was the currency that kept the spiritual order supposedly in balance. The gods demanded blood—literal blood—to appease their hunger, to ensure fertility, to prevent catastrophe. Aztecs, Mayans, and countless others built entire societies around it. Temples like those of Artemis or Ishtar incorporated ritual prostitution and worse. Phoenician traders may have carried these practices across the oceans, with evidence of sophisticated pre-Beringia trade networks appearing in places like central Florida, near what’s now the Kennedy Space Center. The archaeological record hints at vast, interconnected systems far older and more advanced than the simple migration narratives we’re usually fed.

Christianity broke that cycle. It didn’t just compete with paganism; it psychologically supplanted it on a global scale. The crucifixion and resurrection of Christ presented the ultimate sacrifice—the Lamb of God offering Himself once for all—no more need for endless rivers of human blood on pyramids or altars. The body becomes bread; the blood becomes wine. Communion replaces the cannibalistic feasts that followed ritual killings. This wasn’t abstract theology; it was a pragmatic, world-changing intervention in the human condition. As I’ve explored in my upcoming book The Politics of Heaven, which draws heavily from Ephesians 6:12 and the ancient Book of Enoch, this spiritual war has been raging since the rebellion in heaven. Disembodied spirits—fallen entities hungry for the destruction of God’s creation—have whispered through dreams, drunkenness, hallucinogens like ayahuasca, or modern “possessions” that masquerade as progressive enlightenment. They crave anxiety, death, and the dismemberment of humanity because they are at war with the Creator. Christianity gave humanity the mechanism to say “no” on a civilizational level.

I’ve seen this truth play out personally. Years ago, my wife and I were in the Yucatan on Good Friday. We witnessed an entire town pour into the streets for a passion play—recreating Christ carrying the cross to His death. The whole community participated. It was profound. These were descendants of the very cultures that once cut out living hearts on temple steps and consumed the flesh in communal rites to appease gods who demanded blood to keep the sun rising or the rains falling. The Mayans and Aztecs didn’t do it for sport; they believed it was necessary for cosmic order. The Spanish conquest, whatever its flaws and whatever the secular historians scream about “genocide,” brought an end to that nightmare for the survivors. As I wrote about that experience in my reflections (what some have called Lockers of My Mind in my ongoing personal chronicles), it hit me hard: these people weren’t mourning lost heritage in that moment. They were liberated by it. Christianity replaced the terror with a single, sufficient sacrifice. No more pyramids running red. No more children or captives fed to the gods. Just bread and wine, remembrance, and the promise of resurrection. 

The critics—those secularists, progressives, and anti-human types who pine for “Earth worship” and indigenous revival—love to flip the script. They blame Christianity for slaughtering the Aztecs, Mayans, and every other group during the spread of Western civilization. “Look at all the bloodshed!” they cry. “The Crusades! The conquests! Christianity destroyed vibrant cultures! Peel back the layers, though, and you see the lie. Those “vibrant cultures” were built on industrial-scale human sacrifice. The Aztecs alone killed tens of thousands annually—estimates run into the hundreds of thousands over decades—to feed their bloodthirsty pantheon. Hearts torn out, bodies dismembered and eaten in front of crowds. The same patterns repeated worldwide: temple prostitutes in the cults of Ishtar, ritual killings in Phoenician outposts, even echoes in Roman and Greek practices before Christianity civilized them. The Jewish temple system itself pointed toward sacrifice, which is why tensions persist with some groups still longing for a Third Temple to resume animal (and, in some interpretations, fuller) offerings. Christ’s declaration—“It is finished”—shattered that—one sacrifice to end all sacrifices.

That’s why Good Friday is good. It marks the death that killed death’s dominion through blood currency. Easter celebrates the resurrection that proves the victory. We layer on the bunnies and eggs not to mock the old ways but to redeem them—spring renewal now points to eternal life in Christ, not seasonal appeasement of demons. This psychological shift was revolutionary. It toppled the Roman Empire not by sword alone but by offering a better story: humanity no longer enslaved to the whims of hostile spirits. Kings fell. Empires crumbled under the weight of this truth. And it continues today. Modern blood cults haven’t vanished; they’ve shape-shifted. Abortion clinics as modern altars, the desecration of the body through endless “self-expression,” broken families, and hedonistic pursuits that feed the same entities. Progressives who decry Christianity as oppressive are often the very ones seduced by these whispers, pushing policies that increase anxiety, death, and the consumption of innocence—whether literal or figurative.

I’ve written about this extensively because it’s not just history; it’s the present war. In The Politics of Heaven, I lay out the evidence of this vast conspiracy: giants, disembodied spirits, the ancient playbook from Enoch that explains the hunger for God’s creation. Jonathan Cahn’s work on the return of the gods captures the avatar-like reemergence of these entities in our time—possessing leaders, movements, and even individuals who surrender their integrity. From a quantum perspective, as I sometimes explore in my writings, it makes even more sense. Parallel realities, entangled essences, free will playing out against a backdrop that feels predestined because the spiritual architecture was set long ago. The stars the ancients charted weren’t superstition; they reflected a written order. Evil seeks to maintain its foothold, craving bloodlust because it is wild and destructive. Christianity provided the off-ramp.

Look at the young people today. They see through the secular lie. They’re not buying the narrative that Christianity “robbed” indigenous peoples of their essence. The essence of those cultures—the part worth preserving—was their humanity, which the blood cults were devouring. The heritage that needed eradicating was the one demanding hearts on pyramids. The survivors in the Yucatan that day understood it intuitively as they reenacted the Passion. They had a better life because of the Christian overlay. Pretty colors and sophisticated math in Aztec temples don’t excuse the horror. The same goes for every pagan system that required blood to function.

This is the productive, beneficial impact of Christianity that secular history deliberately obscures. It freed humanity from the cycle. It gave us moral judgment rooted in a single, sufficient sacrifice. It allowed civilization to advance rather than collapse every few centuries under spiritual exhaustion. As I detail in The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business and in my other works, such as The Symposium of Justice and Tail of the Dragon, the same principles apply to individual lives and enterprises: reject the appeasement of evil, embrace truth, and build something lasting. The overman—the Nietzschean ideal I’ve long admired but ultimately grounded in Christian reality—doesn’t bow to the old gods. He overcomes through Christ.

When people ask me why we celebrate Easter despite the “harm” attributed to Christianity, I point them to the Yucatan village, to the global archaeological record, to the undeniable decline of ritual sacrifice wherever the Gospel took root. We celebrate because we are remembering the sacrifice that ended the need for sacrifice. We celebrate bunnies and eggs because they now point to the ultimate renewal. We celebrate Good Friday because it was the day the currency of blood was retired forever for those who accept it. The evil spirits still lurk—they always have, and they always will until the final restoration. But Christianity armed humanity with the ultimate psychological and spiritual divorce from their demands.

The young people turning to faith right now are doing God’s work, whether they realize it fully or not. They’re rejecting the blood cults in modern dress—abortion, cultural suicide, the worship of self that feeds the same entities. They’re choosing life, renewal, and the Kingdom that was always meant to rule.

Easter isn’t just a holiday. It’s a declaration of victory layered atop the ruins of every failed pagan attempt to appease the dark. And in 2026, with the world still reeling from political violence and spiritual hunger, it’s more relevant than ever. That’s why it remains one of my favorite holidays. It reminds us that death was defeated, that renewal is possible, and that humanity is far better off because one perfect sacrifice broke the chains that had bound the earth for thousands of years. The bunnies still hop, the eggs still get painted, but now they point to something eternal. Christ is risen. The old cults are overthrown. And that is why we celebrate.

Footnotes

1.  See Jacob Grimm’s 1835 analysis of Eostre/Ostara traditions and modern archaeological confirmations of hare symbolism in Neolithic Europe.

2.  Bede’s Ecclesiastical History (731 C.E.) on the month of Eosturmonath and its assimilation into Christian practice.

3.  Bernal Díaz del Castillo’s eyewitness accounts in True History of the Conquest of New Spain detailing Aztec sacrificial practices.

4.  My own reflections on the Yucatan passion play, expanded in personal writings referenced as Lockers of My Mind.

5.  Jonathan Cahn, The Return of the Gods and related works on spiritual reemergence and avatars.

6.  Ephesians 6:12 and the Book of Enoch as foundational to The Politics of Heaven.

Bibliography for Further Reading

•  Hoffman, Rich. The Politics of Heaven: Evidence of a Vast Conspiracy Involving Giants, Disembodied Evil Spirits, and the Ancient Book of Enoch. (Ongoing project, excerpts available at overmanwarrior.wordpress.com).

•  Hoffman, Rich. The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business.

•  Hoffman, Rich. The Symposium of Justice.

•  Hoffman, Rich. Tail of the Dragon.

•  Bede. Ecclesiastical History of the English People.

•  Díaz del Castillo, Bernal. True History of the Conquest of New Spain.

•  Cahn, Jonathan. The Return of the Gods.

•  Smithsonian Magazine articles on Easter Bunny origins (2022).

•  Various archaeological reports on global pagan deities and trade networks (Phoenician and pre-Columbian contacts).

Rich Hoffman

More about me

Click Here to Protect Yourself with Second Call Defense https://www.secondcalldefense.org/?affiliate=20707

About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an aerospace executive, political strategist, systems thinker, and independent researcher of ancient history, the paranormal, and the Dead Sea Scrolls tradition. His life in high‑stakes manufacturing, high‑level politics, and cross‑functional crisis management gives him a field‑tested understanding of power — both human and unseen.

He has advised candidates, executives, and public leaders, while conducting deep, hands‑on exploration of archaeological and supernatural hotspots across the world.

Hoffman writes with the credibility of a problem-solver, the curiosity of an archaeologist, and the courage of a frontline witness who has gone to very scary places and reported what lurked there. Hoffman has authored books including The Symposium of Justice, The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business, and Tail of the Dragon, often exploring themes of freedom, individual will, and societal structures through a lens influenced by philosophy (e.g., Nietzschean overman concepts) and current events.

The Sex Cults of Artemis: We need to choose a name that sustains not just the body of exploration, but the soul of civilization itself.        

Artemis is going back to the moon, and I’m really not crazy about the name. I didn’t like it when they first came up with it, and I still don’t. It feels like one more concession to a secular worldview that pretends ancient pagan deities are just harmless branding exercises—cool-sounding relics from a long-dead culture that “everybody can agree on.” But history doesn’t work that way. Names carry weight. They carry spiritual baggage. And when NASA reached for a name to replace the glory days of Apollo and send us back to the lunar surface, they chose Artemis, the Greek moon goddess and twin sister of Apollo. On the surface, it sounds clever, a neat mythological bookend. But dig even a little deeper, and you’re wading into the same fertility cults, temple rituals, and appeasement of dark forces that early Christian writers confronted head-on in the Mediterranean world two thousand years ago. I’ve spent years studying this pattern, and it’s the backbone of a book I’m finishing called The Politics of Heaven. What we’re seeing with the Artemis program isn’t just branding. It’s a symptom of a much older struggle between the human spirit and the principalities that have always hungered for our attention, our bodies, and our collective sanity.

Let me start with the obvious. The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, a massive marble edifice that dominated the city and the entire region. Built and rebuilt over centuries, it was more than a tourist attraction or a bank (which it also was—temples doubled as secure depositories). It was the epicenter of a cult that blended Greek mythology with older Near Eastern fertility worship. Artemis herself, in her Ephesian form, was often depicted with dozens of breasts or egg-like ornaments, symbols that modern scholars sometimes try to downplay as “not really about sex or fertility.” Yet the ancient world understood her differently. She was the goddess of the hunt and the wilderness, of chastity in some tellings, yet deeply entangled with the cycles of birth and reproduction, and the raw forces of nature. Her temple drew pilgrims, merchants, and locals who participated in festivals filled with processions, music, dancing, and—according to multiple ancient reports—rituals that involved the offering of human vitality, including sexual acts, to appease the divine.

Christian writers of the period didn’t shy away from describing what they saw. In Acts 19, the apostle Paul’s ministry in Ephesus sparks a riot among the silversmiths who made shrines to “the great goddess Diana” (the Roman name for Artemis). The city clerk calms the crowd by reminding them that Ephesus is the “temple keeper of the great Artemis, and of the image which fell from Jupiter.” That “image” was likely a meteorite revered as a divine gift, tying the cult directly to celestial forces. But Paul and the early Christians saw something far darker at work. They weren’t just opposing statues or tourism revenue. They were confronting a system of spiritual appeasement that had roots stretching back thousands of years to the fertility cults of Mesopotamia—Inanna, Ishtar, Astarte, and their Greek and Roman counterparts. These goddesses demanded sacrifice, often in the form of sexual union performed in or near the temple precincts. Women—sometimes all women in certain cultures—were expected to spend time as temple prostitutes, offering their bodies to strangers for money that went to the temple treasury. It wasn’t “empowerment” or personal choice in our modern sense. It was a collective duty to the gods, a way to ensure fertility for the land, prosperity for the city, and protection from whatever malevolent forces lurked in the spirit realm if the rituals were neglected.

Secular historians and archaeologists today often dismiss these accounts as Christian propaganda or exaggeration. They point out that direct physical evidence—carved reliefs, unambiguous inscriptions—is scarce at Ephesus because the temple was largely destroyed, its stones carted off for other buildings after Christianity became the dominant faith of the empire. Digging seasons in Turkey are short; the site has been layered over by centuries of occupation, and hostile conditions (political, environmental) have limited excavation. But absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence, especially when you’re dealing with practices that were deliberately secretive or oral in nature. We have reports from Herodotus, Strabo, and other classical writers describing sacred prostitution in temples dedicated to similar goddesses across the region. In Babylon, for instance, every woman was reportedly required once in her life to sit in the temple of Ishtar (or Mylitta) and have intercourse with a stranger for a fee. Similar customs are attested in Cyprus, Phoenicia, and parts of Asia Minor. The early Church fathers didn’t invent these stories out of thin air; they were reacting to what they witnessed firsthand on the frontiers of the Roman East.

I believe we can trust those Christian reports precisely because the behavior they condemned persists. It just wears different clothes. Look at modern nightclub culture—the so-called “meat markets” that young people, especially women aged eighteen to twenty-four, are actively encouraged to frequent before “settling down.” Bachelorette parties where sexual impropriety is not only tolerated but celebrated. The progressive push for “sexual liberation” and “women’s rights” frames any restraint as patriarchal oppression. We send our daughters—girls who were playing with Legos and dolls just a few years earlier—into environments of throbbing music, flashing lights, alcohol, and physical grinding that would have been right at home in an ancient fertility festival. They dress in scandalously revealing outfits, present their bodies for public consumption, and are told it’s all harmless fun, a phase to “get out of their system.” The money doesn’t go to a temple treasury anymore, but the spiritual transaction is eerily parallel: the sacrifice of personal sanctity, the abandonment of the body to collective debauchery, the implicit agreement that youth and vitality must be offered up so the rest of society can enjoy peace from whatever unseen forces demand their due.

This isn’t hyperbole. It’s pattern recognition. Ephesians 6:12 puts 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.” The apostle Paul, writing to the very church in Ephesus that had just emerged from the shadow of Artemis worship, understood that these weren’t abstract metaphors. The spirit world is real, and it competes for control of human bodies and minds. The body is the vehicle for the soul, but it’s a vulnerable one. When people impair their consciousness—through drunkenness, drugs, or ritual frenzy—they loosen the tether that keeps the conscious self in the driver’s seat. Competing spirits rush in. Personalities split, behaviors turn erratic, sanity fluctuates. Ancient temple prostitutes weren’t just performing an economic or social function; they were opening doorways. The same doorways we open every weekend in clubs across America and Europe. The music changes, the lighting gets fancier, but the appeasement of disembodied entities hungry for human essence remains constant.

My own explorations into these dynamics—through reading, observation, and reflection on how evil operates in human societies—have convinced me that we cannot separate the material world from the spiritual one. We are entangled. Secularism’s great lie is that we can neuter history, strip away the sacred (or the diabolical), and treat ancient gods as cartoon characters for mission patches and rocket fairings. NASA did exactly that with Artemis. After the Obama-era push to highlight “Islamic contributions to science” and diversify the agency with voices from every culture, the name was pitched as inclusive, neutral, non-offensive. Why pick something biblical when you could pick a “cool” pagan goddess that “everybody can agree on”? It’s the same impulse that led the agency’s early rocketry pioneers into occult territory. Jack Parsons, one of the founders of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL), was a brilliant chemist and engineer by day and a devoted Thelemite occultist by night. A disciple of Aleister Crowley, Parsons performed the Babalon Working in 1946 with L. Ron Hubbard—sex magic rituals involving masturbation onto magical tablets, invocations of the goddess Babalon (a Thelemic stand-in for the Scarlet Woman of Revelation), and attempts to incarnate demonic forces into the material plane. He saw no contradiction between rocket science and summoning ancient entities. In fact, he believed his rituals fueled his breakthroughs. NASA loves to celebrate the Apollo era’s clean, heroic image while quietly glossing over the fact that the foundational rocketry work at JPL had deep roots in Parsons’ dual obsessions. The cult origins of NASA aren’t a conspiracy theory; they’re documented in biographies like George Pendle’s Strange Angel. Parsons literally signed letters as “The Antichrist” and conducted black masses in his Pasadena home.

This brings me back to why naming the lunar return program after Artemis bothers me so much. It’s not just semantics. It’s a continuation of the same appeasement strategy humanity has employed for millennia. In ancient times, societies sacrificed their youth—virginity, vitality, individual dignity—to fertility goddesses in hopes that the “hungry gods” would leave the collective alone. Today we do it with our entertainment, our dating apps, our “hook-up culture,” and our refusal to draw moral lines. We tell young women that their bodies are theirs to offer freely in the nightclub meat market, that restraint is repression, and that any talk of spiritual consequences is outdated superstition. Meanwhile, the principalities and powers—those same competing souls and disembodied spirits that haunted the temples of Artemis, Ishtar, and Astarte—continue their work. They don’t need marble altars anymore; smartphones, social media, and Saturday-night fever vibes do the job just fine. The result is the same: fractured personalities, generational trauma, and a culture that robs itself of sanity in exchange for momentary collective highs.

I’m not suggesting NASA should abandon space exploration—quite the opposite. I love NASA. I want it to succeed. I want humanity to expand beyond Earth, to sustain life across the solar system, perhaps even outlive our home planet. But if we’re going to do that with any long-term credibility and moral foundation, we should draw from the best of our cultural inheritance—not the pagan underbelly that early Christians rightly rebelled against. Western civilization, for all its flaws, is rooted in biblical ideology. Why not name a program after a figure from Scripture that embodies vision, endurance, or divine favor? Something that signals we’ve learned from history rather than repeating its mistakes. The Artemis choice feels like a deliberate step away from that heritage, a nod to the “neutral” secular narrative that pretends spirit doesn’t matter. But spirit does matter. The body is the vehicle for the soul’s journey, and there are always entities eager to hijack the wheel when we let our guard down.

Archaeology may not have uncovered every detail of those ancient sex rituals—not yet, anyway—but the Christian eyewitness accounts from the period fill the gap. Paul’s letters to the Ephesians, the riot in Acts 19, and the writings of the early Church fathers all paint a consistent picture of cultures steeped in fertility worship that demanded human essence as payment. The temples are mostly gone now, reduced to a few pillars and scattered stones at Ephesus, but the underlying spiritual dynamic hasn’t vanished. It’s migrated into our secular rituals: the nightclub as temple, the DJ as high priest, the dance floor as altar. Young women (and men, though the pressure on females has always been more pronounced in these cults) are still expected to “do their tour of duty,” to offer themselves to the collective before committing to marriage and family. We call it empowerment. The ancients called it piety. Both are forms of appeasement.

In The Politics of Heaven, I unpack this at much greater length—how evil works through human institutions, how spirit and matter are inseparable, how competing souls vie for control of our bodies, and why yielding to animalistic impulses under the guise of “freedom” always leads to cultural decline. The book has taken years of research, reflection, and editorial effort, but the core argument is simple: we cannot outrun the spiritual realm by renaming it or pretending it’s mythology. NASA’s decision to invoke Artemis is a small but telling example of a larger societal failure to learn from history. We keep making the same stupid mistakes because we’re afraid of being called intolerant by the secular crowd. We’d rather appease the principalities than confront them.

If we truly want a sustainable future—one that includes permanent human presence on the Moon and beyond—we need to stop revering the old gods, even in name only. The cults of fertility and debauchery didn’t produce enduring civilizations; they produced cycles of excess, collapse, and moral exhaustion. Christianity’s radical break from those practices—its insistence on individual sanctity, monogamous marriage, and spiritual warfare against the powers of darkness—gave the West the moral framework that eventually launched the scientific revolution and the space age itself. Let’s honor that trajectory instead of reaching backward for pagan branding that sounds “cool” to focus groups.

I’ve seen too much evidence, both ancient and contemporary, to believe otherwise. The spirits that demanded appeasement in the temples of Ephesus and Babylon are the same ones whispering through our modern meat markets and cultural expectations. They thrive on impaired minds, abandoned bodies, and the sacrifice of youth. We don’t defeat them by pretending they don’t exist or by giving their old names new rocket programs. We defeat them by calling them what they are, drawing lines in the sand, and choosing names—and behaviors—that reflect the better angels of our nature rather than the demons we’ve never truly escaped. The Moon awaits, but the path we take to get there matters. Artemis might get us there faster on paper, but at what spiritual cost? I’d rather we choose a name that sustains not just the body of exploration, but the soul of civilization itself.        

Footnotes

1.  NASA official statements on the Artemis program naming, 2019 announcement by Administrator Jim Bridenstine.

2.  George Pendle, Strange Angel: The Otherworldly Life of Rocket Scientist John Whiteside Parsons (2005).

3.  Ephesians 6:12 (KJV).

4.  Acts 19:23-41, especially v. 35.

5.  Herodotus, Histories (on Babylonian customs of Ishtar/Mylitta); Strabo, Geography (references to temple practices in Asia Minor and Corinth).

6.  S.M. Baugh, “Cult Prostitution in New Testament Ephesus,” JETS 42/3 (1999), though I disagree with his dismissal of the broader pattern reported by early Christians.

7.  Stephanie Lynn Budin, The Myth of Sacred Prostitution in Antiquity (2008)—a secular counter-view that I believe underestimates eyewitness testimony from the period.

8.  Richard Metzger’s accounts of Parsons’ Babalon Working rituals.

9.  N.T. Wright, lectures on Ephesus and the Artemis cult background.

10.  My ongoing research for The Politics of Heaven (forthcoming).

Bibliography for Further Reading

•  Bible (King James Version), especially Acts 19, Ephesians 6, and 1 Timothy 2.

•  Pendle, George. Strange Angel: The Otherworldly Life of Rocket Scientist John Whiteside Parsons. Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2005.

•  Herodotus. The Histories. Translated by Aubrey de Sélincourt. Penguin Classics.

•  Strabo. Geography. Loeb Classical Library.

•  Baugh, S.M. “Cult Prostitution in New Testament Ephesus.” Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society 42, no. 3 (1999).

•  Budin, Stephanie Lynn. The Myth of Sacred Prostitution in Antiquity. Cambridge University Press, 2008.

•  Kramer, Samuel Noah. The Sacred Marriage Rite. Indiana University Press, 1969 (for the Mesopotamian context).

•  NASA historical documents on Project Apollo and Artemis program origins.

•  Wright, N.T. Paul and the Faithfulness of God (relevant sections on pagan cults in Asia Minor).

•  Additional archaeological reports on Ephesus from the Austrian Archaeological Institute and related publications on the Artemision.

Rich Hoffman

More about me

Click Here to Protect Yourself with Second Call Defense https://www.secondcalldefense.org/?affiliate=20707

About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an aerospace executive, political strategist, systems thinker, and independent researcher of ancient history, the paranormal, and the Dead Sea Scrolls tradition. His life in high‑stakes manufacturing, high‑level politics, and cross‑functional crisis management gives him a field‑tested understanding of power — both human and unseen.

He has advised candidates, executives, and public leaders, while conducting deep, hands‑on exploration of archaeological and supernatural hotspots across the world.

Hoffman writes with the credibility of a problem-solver, the curiosity of an archaeologist, and the courage of a frontline witness who has gone to very scary places and reported what lurked there. Hoffman has authored books including The Symposium of Justice, The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business, and Tail of the Dragon, often exploring themes of freedom, individual will, and societal structures through a lens influenced by philosophy (e.g., Nietzschean overman concepts) and current events.

Ascending from Plato’s Cave: Don’t suffer from second husband syndrome

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about where humanity stands at this pivotal moment. As of late March 2026, NASA is days away from launching Artemis II—the first crewed mission to the Moon since Apollo, targeted for no earlier than April 1, 2026, with astronauts Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, Christina Koch, and Jeremy Hansen aboard Orion for a ten-day lunar flyby.   This isn’t just another flight; it’s NASA finally getting aggressive, the way it always should have been. I support the Artemis program with my whole heart. I want to see timelines compressed, second and third shifts running around the clock, Saturdays and Sundays included—full throttle output. We’ve talked for decades about whether we ever really went to the Moon. I respect people who doubt it; many have been lied to by institutions they once trusted. But I’ve traveled the world, seen the curvature of the Earth with my own eyes, understood time zones through lived experience, and studied how ancient mathematicians calculated that curvature to plot constellations and voyages. Those advances in human culture demand we go to space—not just with drones or robots, but with people living sustainably off-world. That’s the only way we climb out of Plato’s cave, stop staring at shadows, and see reality for what it is.

My perspective is rooted in a deep love for knowledge, ancient history, and the biblical call to dominion. I don’t dismiss fears about transhumanism or the occult origins some attribute to NASA. I get the Tower of Babel parallels—humanity trying to replace God. But I also believe God gave us intellect and drive precisely for exploration. Leaving Earth isn’t rebellion; it’s fulfillment of the creation mandate. And with AI, robotics, and companies like SpaceX and Firefly Aerospace pushing boundaries, we’re on the cusp of a flourishing space economy that will create jobs, not destroy them. I’ll explain all of this below, drawing on the examples and reasoning I’ve shared in conversations, while adding substantial background, historical context, scientific details, and references for further study. This is my view, expressed in the first person because these convictions are personal—forged from years of study, travel, and reflection on what makes civilizations thrive or collapse.

Let’s start with the skepticism that still lingers. I’ve met kind, thoughtful people who defend Flat Earth theory aggressively. I feel for them. Decades of institutional deception—from governments to media—have left many clinging to simplicity as a shield against complexity. Yet the evidence against a flat Earth is overwhelming and ancient. Around 240 BCE, the Greek scholar Eratosthenes of Cyrene calculated Earth’s circumference with remarkable accuracy using nothing more than sticks, shadows, and geometry. At noon on the summer solstice in Syene (modern Aswan), the Sun shone directly down a well with no shadow. In Alexandria, 5000 stadia north, a stick cast a 7.2-degree shadow—exactly 1/50th of a circle. Multiplying the distance by 50 gave him roughly 250,000 stadia, or about 40,000 kilometers—within 1% of the modern equatorial value of 40,075 km.   Ancient cultures used this spherical understanding to navigate oceans and align monuments with constellations. Time zones, the Coriolis effect on weather, and lunar eclipses (where Earth’s round shadow falls on the Moon) all confirm it. I’ve seen the horizon curve from high altitudes and across oceans. We don’t need to argue endlessly; we need to move forward.

The same institutional distrust fuels Moon-landing conspiracies. Yet commercial progress is demolishing doubt. In March 2025, Firefly Aerospace’s Blue Ghost lander achieved the first fully successful commercial Moon landing in Mare Crisium, near Mons Latreille. It operated for over 14 days on the surface—346 hours of daylight plus lunar night—delivering NASA payloads and proving robotic precision.  This wasn’t government theater; it was private industry landing hardware right near prior Apollo sites. The best proof, though, will be routine human traffic: Starship ferrying thousands to lunar bases and back. When people vacation on the Moon like they do in Hawaii, the shadows-on-the-wall debate ends.

This brings me to Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, which I invoke often because it perfectly captures our situation. In Book VII of The Republic, Socrates describes prisoners chained since birth in an underground cavern, facing a blank wall. Behind them burns a fire; between fire and prisoners, puppeteers carry objects whose shadows dance on the wall. The prisoners believe these shadows are ultimate reality; they compete to predict the next shadow, mistaking illusion for truth. One prisoner breaks free. Dragged upward into sunlight, he suffers pain but gradually sees real objects, then the Sun itself—the Form of the Good. Returning to the cave to free others, he is mocked as blind. Plato uses this to illustrate education’s purpose: turning the soul from illusion toward truth.  

I see modern humanity in that cave. We’ve been fed institutional shadows—media narratives, bureaucratic lies, power-maintaining myths. Space exploration is the ascent. Drones and rovers have sent back data, but they’re still shadows. Humans must go—live, work, have children off-world—to grasp the fire and the Sun beyond. Only then do we understand what cast those flickering images on Earth’s wall. My entire worldview, from business to culture to faith, rests on this quest for unfiltered knowledge. I refuse to remain chained, interpreting shadows while interpreters with agendas lie about what they see.

Ancient history reinforces this urgency. I study civilizations full-time because they reveal what builds success: boldness, truth-seeking, and expansion. Many past cultures achieved greatness then lost momentum—collapsed under internal rot or external conquest. I call this “second husband syndrome.” Imagine a second husband tormented by thoughts of his wife’s first husband, especially if children from that marriage remain. Jealousy poisons the new relationship. Likewise, modern elites suppress or dismiss prior cultures’ achievements to claim sole glory. They rewrite history so previous “husbands” (Atlantis legends, megalithic engineering, advanced astronomy) never existed or were primitive. This intellectual jealousy stifles progress. Studying the Sumerians, Egyptians, Greeks, or Maya shows they grasped Earth’s sphericity, built with precision, and reached for the stars. To build successful cultures today, we must leave the mother’s womb—Earth—and psychologically inhabit other worlds. Labor shortages on Earth are irrelevant; AI and robotics multiply our hours exponentially.

Biblically, this expansion aligns with God’s design, not against it. Genesis 1:28 commands: “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves on the earth.” Theologians call this the creation or cultural mandate—image-bearers exercising responsible stewardship and creativity across creation.   Some interpret it Earth-only, warning against “playing God.” I counter: God gave intellect, curiosity, and the stars themselves. Exploration within biblical rules—humility before the Creator, ethical stewardship—strengthens faith. Western civilization’s prosperity flows from this worldview: truth-seeking fused with moral order. Space doesn’t dismiss Scripture; it illuminates it. Ancient myths and biblical echoes (Ezekiel’s wheels, chariots of fire) hint at cosmic realities. When we settle the Moon and Mars, we’ll confront those stories with fresh eyes, not fear.

Transhumanism and AI raise valid anxieties. I sympathize with those guarding the “temple of the human body” against occult-tinged experiments that seek to dethrone God. Yet I support robotics and AI enthusiastically. They’re tools, not replacements. Elon Musk’s Optimus robots—demonstrated in recent high-profile events—represent progress, not erasure. The robot Melania Trump walked onstage symbolized partnership: machines handling hostile environments so humans thrive. Blue-collar fears about job loss in trucking or fast food miss the bigger picture. Space will explode opportunities. Lunar mining, orbital manufacturing, tourism, and research will demand millions of roles Earthside and off-world. NASA studies project Artemis driving economic growth through commercial partnerships and a burgeoning lunar marketplace.  PwC forecasts a $127 billion Moon economy by 2050, fueled by energy infrastructure, resources, and services.  I think it will be a lot higher than that.  Far from regression, we gain jobs by the mass. I’m bullish because history shows technology expands human potential when paired with moral vision.

Look at the hardware already proving the path. SpaceX’s Starship must fly aggressively; routine, reusable flights are non-negotiable. Firefly’s success shows commercial lunar access is here. Artemis II tests Orion and SLS for crewed lunar operations, paving the way for Artemis III’s landing (targeted 2027–2028 under current plans) and eventual bases. I want Americans—led by visionaries like President Trump—first on the Moon again, first with permanent colonies (dozens, then hundreds, then thousands). A 10,000-person lunar hub by 2050 isn’t fantasy; it’s engineering plus will. People will live there comfortably: internet, power, hotels. I’ll be among the first tourists with my wife—enthusiastically. Imagine vacationing on the Moon, then returning transformed.

Mars follows. Elon Musk has highlighted the Fermi Paradox’s scariest resolution: we might be alone, or nearly so, in the observable universe—a tiny candle of consciousness in darkness.   That rarity demands we multiply life outward. Different gravities will reshape humanity—taller or shorter frames, new adaptations—yet our core experience evolves. Space archaeology will resolve earthly mythologies: Was Mars once lush? Did prior intelligences leave traces? We boldly go, not in fear, but in faith.

Opposition comes from anti-human forces—regressive ideologies that prefer controlled scarcity on Earth over expansive freedom. Democrats and globalist mindsets sabotage by slowing timelines, inflating costs, or prioritizing Earthbound politics. They fear off-world colonies because independent humans are harder to dominate. I reject that. Human destiny is multi-planetary; it guarantees species survival against asteroids, climate shifts, or self-inflicted woes.

I want answers. I want the space economy flourishing, exploration routine, and humanity confronting the fire behind the shadows. My book The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business outlines principles of decisive action and moral clarity I apply here. Subscribe, engage, study ancient history, support aggressive NASA and SpaceX timelines. Let’s compress Artemis, land Starships weekly, and build hotels on the Moon. The cave is behind us. The stars await. Godspeed.

Footnotes and Further Reference Material

1.  Plato. The Republic, Book VII (514a–520a). Standard translation by Benjamin Jowett or Allan Bloom recommended. For modern analysis: SparkNotes or MasterClass summaries align with my interpretation of enlightenment through ascent. 

2.  Eratosthenes’ method detailed in Cleomedes’ On the Circular Motions of the Heavens and modern reconstructions. See APS News (2006) or Khan Academy for accessible explanations. 

3.  NASA Artemis Program: Official site (nasa.gov/artemis) for timelines; Wikipedia for historical delays. Economic report: “Economic Growth and National Competitiveness Impacts of the Artemis Program” (NASA, 2022). 

4.  Firefly Blue Ghost Mission 1: Firefly Aerospace press releases and end-of-mission summary. Confirms March 2, 2025 landing. 

5.  Biblical Creation Mandate: Genesis 1:26–28; extended discussion in Answers in Genesis or Focus on the Family resources. 

6.  Space economy projections: PwC Lunar Market Assessment (2026); NASA’s commercial lunar payload services page. 

7.  Elon Musk on Fermi Paradox and solitude in cosmos: Public statements 2018–2026, including Davos remarks and X posts. 

Additional reading: The Republic (Plato); Pale Blue Dot (Carl Sagan) for perspective (though I differ on some philosophical points); NASA’s Artemis economic studies; The Case for Mars (Robert Zubrin); ancient astronomy texts like Ptolemy or modern histories of Eratosthenes. For AI/robotics ethics: Musk’s own writings and Tesla Optimus updates. Study these, visit NASA facilities as I have with my wife, and join the ascent. The future is ours to seize.

Rich Hoffman

More about me

Click Here to Protect Yourself with Second Call Defense https://www.secondcalldefense.org/?affiliate=20707

About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an aerospace executive, political strategist, systems thinker, and independent researcher of ancient history, the paranormal, and the Dead Sea Scrolls tradition. His life in high‑stakes manufacturing, high‑level politics, and cross‑functional crisis management gives him a field‑tested understanding of power — both human and unseen.

He has advised candidates, executives, and public leaders, while conducting deep, hands‑on exploration of archaeological and supernatural hotspots across the world.

Hoffman writes with the credibility of a problem-solver, the curiosity of an archaeologist, and the courage of a frontline witness who has gone to very scary places and reported what lurked there. Hoffman has authored books including The Symposium of Justice, The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business, and Tail of the Dragon, often exploring themes of freedom, individual will, and societal structures through a lens influenced by philosophy (e.g., Nietzschean overman concepts) and current events.

Give the Vice President a Copy of ‘Birthright’: The best political move that the White House could make would be to talk about Aliens and their relationship to mankind

In the quiet rhythms of a life well-lived in Middletown, Ohio—where the Ohio River Valley whispers stories of ancient mounds and forgotten giants—few pursuits bring deeper satisfaction than the steady arrival of a new issue of Biblical Archaeology Review. For decades, since I was eleven or twelve years old, these pages have anchored a lifelong fascination with the tangible remnants of Scripture: pottery shards from Israelite settlements, inscriptions confirming kings mentioned in the books of Kings and Chronicles, and excavation reports that ground the biblical narrative in real soil and stone rather than abstract myth.  That same reverence for evidence extends naturally to the majestic ESV Archaeology Study Bible from Crossway, a volume packed with hundreds of full-color photographs, detailed maps, timelines, and notes contributed by field-trained archaeologists who have walked the very sites they describe. It doesn’t indulge in wild speculation; instead, it methodically illuminates how discoveries at places like Megiddo, Hazor, Lachish, or the City of David correspond directly to the texts we hold dear, reinforcing that the Bible is not some detached spiritual allegory but a record deeply interwoven with verifiable history, geography, and material culture.   

The more one engages with these resources, the deeper the layers become. Archaeology confirms the plausibility of biblical events and places, but it also leaves space for the “paranormal” or supernatural dimensions that the texts themselves never shy away from—encounters with spiritual forces, hybrid beings, and cosmic rebellions that shape human destiny across millennia. This interplay becomes especially urgent in 2026, as Vice President J.D. Vance has spoken openly about his long-standing obsession with UFO files and his firm conviction that what many call extraterrestrial visitors are not aliens from distant planets in the conventional science-fiction sense. In a recent interview with podcaster Benny Johnson, Vance stated plainly, “I don’t think they’re aliens. I think they’re demons anyway.” He frames the phenomena through a Christian worldview: there is real good and real evil operating in the unseen realm, and entities engaging in “weird things to people”—abductions, genetic interference, or deceptive encounters—align more readily with biblical descriptions of spiritual deception than with benevolent or neutral visitors from another star system. Vance, drawing on his background as a Marine, lawyer, author of Hillbilly Elegy, and now Vice President with access to the highest-level classifications, has vowed that the Trump administration will pursue the genuine disclosure of classified UFO-related materials. His goal appears practical as well as curious: get ahead of cultural shaping moments, such as a potential new Spielberg film that could frame the narrative in purely secular or optimistic “space brothers” terms, much as Close Encounters of the Third Kind did in the late 1970s when it profoundly influenced public perception and even inspired my own fourth-grade report on UFO sightings. His sincerity stands out, especially coming from someone rooted in Midwestern values, family commitments, and a desire to serve effectively without descending into fringe hysteria. Many everyday “normies”—folks who grill hot dogs on weekends, mow lawns on Saturdays, follow the Cincinnati Reds, and focus on practical concerns like gas prices and raising kids—are now paying attention because the topic has shifted from taboo conspiracy to something discussed at the highest levels of government.    

This broad-brush linkage of UFO phenomena to “demons” carries real merit as an initial guardrail. It rightly rejects naive materialism that assumes everything must fit within a purely physical, Darwinian cosmos devoid of spiritual agency. It echoes concerns raised by figures like Tucker Carlson in recent years and acknowledges that evil is not merely a human construct but involves intelligent opposition to God’s order. Yet it also risks painting with strokes that are too wide, potentially collapsing distinct layers of a complex cosmic conflict into a single undifferentiated category. This is precisely where Timothy Alberino’s 2020 book Birthright: The Coming Posthuman Apocalypse and the Usurpation of Adam’s Dominion on Planet Earth stands out as one of the most articulate, Scripture-rooted, and up-to-date bridges available. Alberino, an explorer, filmmaker, and researcher who brings an almost Indiana Jones spirit to biblical scholarship—traveling to remote sites, engaging ancient texts, and connecting dots across disciplines—does not dismiss the demonic dimension. Instead, he refines the categories with precision drawn from Genesis, the Book of Enoch, the Epistle of Jude, Revelation, and the broader ancient Near Eastern context, while integrating modern reports of abductions, hybridization programs, and transhumanist trends.   

Alberino constructs his framework around a pre-Adamic galactic rebellion led by Lucifer, personified as the dragon or morning star, who fell from his exalted position. This insurrection caused widespread devastation across the cosmos, leaving planets and realms in a state of tohu va-bohu—formless and void, as Genesis 1:2 poetically describes the initial condition of Earth before renewal. God then restores the terrestrial realm and appoints Adam as regent, granting humanity the irrevocable birthright of dominion: to rule as image-bearers, sons and daughters of the Most High, exercising authority over creation in partnership with Heaven. Humanity is positioned as the “younger sibling” in a universe already populated by an “elder race”—advanced non-human beings, primarily angelic orders, possessing greater perception, capabilities, and even technology-like means of traversal (what we might today interpret as aerospace phenomena). This elder race includes both loyal servants of God and those who joined the rebellion.  

The critical transgression comes with the Watchers, a group of fallen angels detailed in Genesis 6:1-4 and expanded dramatically in the Book of Enoch (particularly the Book of the Watchers, chapters 1–36). These beings descend to Earth, take human women as wives, and produce hybrid offspring known as the Nephilim—violent giants who fill the earth with bloodshed, corruption, and forbidden knowledge. The Watchers teach humanity sorcery, metallurgy, cosmetics, weapons-making, and other arts that accelerate moral decay and violence. The Flood serves as a divine reset, wiping out the corrupted order, yet the disembodied spirits of the slain Nephilim persist as restless, tormented entities. These become the “demons” or unclean spirits familiar from the New Testament—beings that seek embodiment, oppress, possess, haunt, and torment humanity, craving the physicality they lost when their giant bodies perished. This distinction is crucial and consistent in Alberino’s analysis: demons are specifically the bodiless spirits of the dead Nephilim giants, operating primarily in the invisible spiritual realm.  

In contrast, modern UFO or “alien” phenomena—encounters with Grays, reported abductions, cattle mutilations, hybridization programs, and craft exhibiting advanced propulsion—represent a different but related layer. Alberino argues these are physical, biological entities, not mere disembodied spirits. They may be engineered hybrids, surviving bloodlines from pre-Flood or post-Flood incursions, or tools deployed by the ongoing Luciferian agenda. These beings operate with tangible technology, agendas centered on genetic tampering, and a long-term strategy to push humanity toward transhumanism—the merging of biology with machines, AI, or artificial enhancements that promise god-like power but ultimately corrupt the image of God in man. This echoes the ancient corruption of the human seed but updates it for a technological age. Labeling everything “demons” with a broad brush misses the tangible, fleshly (or bio-engineered) component of the warfare. Both the demonic spirits and the physical alien entities oppose God’s created order and seek to usurp Adam’s birthright, but they function on different fronts: one through invisible oppression and possession, the other through visible incursions, deception, and ideological subversion. The endgame Alberino warns of is a posthuman apocalypse, where humanity trades its divine inheritance for counterfeit upgrades, paving the way for a counterfeit kingdom ruled by an adversary who may even present through advanced aerospace means.  

This nuanced model provides profound ballast for any impending disclosure. If government files reveal physical craft, recovered bodies, or documented interactions, a simplistic “all demons in disguise” approach could leave people spiritually and intellectually unprepared for the fuller biblical cosmology. Alberino’s work equips readers to see the phenomena as part of an ancient, multi-front war rather than random anomalies or friendly visitors. It rejects both materialist reductionism (everything is just advanced human tech or natural phenomena) and unanchored mysticism, always anchoring back to Christ as the ultimate restorer of dominion and the One who reclaims the birthright on behalf of redeemed humanity. Transhumanism, in this light, is not neutral progress but the latest glittering bait—much like Esau trading his birthright for stew—designed to produce a species no longer eligible for the redemption offered through the seed of the woman.

This framework harmonizes beautifully with the hard archaeological and historical evidence that publications like Biblical Archaeology Review and study Bibles like the ESV edition help contextualize, while extending courageously into territories mainstream academia often avoids. Consider the work of Fritz Zimmerman, whose exhaustive compilations—The Encyclopedia of Ancient Giants in North America and related volumes—draw from thousands of 19th- and early 20th-century newspaper accounts, county histories, and pioneer reports. Across the Ohio River Valley and beyond, stories abound of massive human skeletons unearthed during farming, railroad construction, or mound excavations: individuals seven to twelve feet tall, sometimes with double rows of teeth, elongated skulls, or other anomalous features. These finds cluster particularly in Adena and Hopewell cultures, with large conical mounds, geometric earthworks, and burial practices that suggest a distinct ruling or priestly class. Many accounts describe bones that crumbled to dust upon exposure to air, or specimens that mysteriously vanished after being sent to institutions like the Smithsonian. Zimmerman documents hundreds of such cases across dozens of states, with especially dense concentrations in Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, and West Virginia. Native American oral traditions in the region often speak of an earlier race of giants—red-haired, bearded, or technologically advanced—who warred with incoming tribes or were eventually driven out. These accounts align strikingly with biblical and extra-biblical references to post-Flood Rephaim, Anakim, Emim, and other giant clans, including Og of Bashan (whose iron bed measured over thirteen feet) and the family of Goliath. The pattern of suppression or dismissal of these finds mirrors the historical handling of UFO reports: both challenge purely materialist or evolutionary paradigms that prefer gradual human development without anomalous interventions.   

Closer to home here in Ohio, the Great Serpent Mound in Adams County offers another compelling intersection of geology, archaeology, and potential sacred knowledge. The effigy mound itself—an undulating serpent nearly a quarter-mile long, with a coiled tail and open mouth appearing to swallow an egg-like oval—sits precisely on the rim of a confirmed cryptoexplosion or impact structure. Geological surveys confirm this as a complex impact crater roughly eight miles in diameter, formed by an asteroid or comet strike between approximately 252 and 330 million years ago (late Paleozoic era). Evidence includes shatter cones in the bedrock, planar deformation features in quartz grains (indicating extreme shock pressures), breccias, and a central uplift with intensely faulted and folded strata. The structure features a central dome, transition zone, and ring graben. Why would ancient builders—likely Adena or Fort Ancient peoples—choose this precise location for such a monumental earthwork, investing enormous labor to shape the serpent with astronomical precision? The head aligns with the summer solstice sunset, and the overall form may track lunar standstills or equinoxes. Placing a sacred effigy at the edge of a massive ancient scar suggests either extraordinary astronomical observation or guidance from intelligences attuned to celestial and terrestrial energies. Similar patterns appear globally at megalithic sites built on anomalous geological features, hinting at interactions with forces or entities beyond ordinary human capability in the eras traditionally assigned. Erosion over deep time has softened the crater’s expression, but the underlying anomaly remains, inviting questions about why certain “high places” or power centers were repeatedly chosen for temples, mounds, or alignments across cultures.    

Alberino’s analysis gains further depth when paired with the Book of Enoch, preserved among the Dead Sea Scrolls and now available in editions with scholarly commentary, including contributions associated with Alberino. This ancient text expands dramatically on the sparse account in Genesis 6, detailing the Watchers’ descent on Mount Hermon, their oath-bound pact, the birth and rampaging violence of the giants, and the forbidden teachings that corrupted pre-Flood civilization. Enoch, the seventh from Adam, is taken up without dying and receives heavenly visions, serving as a scribe and intermediary. The text describes the giants’ spirits, after their bodies are destroyed in the Flood judgment, becoming evil spirits that afflict humanity—precisely the origin story for demons that Alberino and others distinguish from the physical players in the ongoing conflict. The Dead Sea Scrolls’ validation of Enochic material alongside canonical books underscores that these ideas circulated widely in Second Temple Judaism and influenced early Christian thought, even if the book itself was not included in the final Protestant canon. Reading Enoch alongside Genesis, Jude (which quotes it), and 2 Peter provides a richer scaffolding for understanding why paranormal activity persists rather than vanishing after the Flood or the cross: it adapted, going underground behind the distractions of polite society, technology, entertainment, and daily survival. Sports scores, mortgages, careers, and weekend routines occupy mental space, leaving little room for reflection on deeper cosmic narratives—yet the ancient texts insist the battle continues. 

David Flynn’s provocative research in Temple at the Center of Time adds yet another layer, building on Sir Isaac Newton’s extensive (and often private) studies of biblical prophecy, chronology, and sacred measurements. Newton, far from a purely secular scientist, devoted significant energy to deciphering what he saw as a “prisca sapientia”—an ancient pure knowledge embedded in Scripture and architecture. Flynn maps distances and geometries from the Jerusalem Temple Mount using modern tools and finds uncanny correlations with pivotal historical dates, including links to 1948 and the rebirth of Israel. The Temple functions not merely as a religious site but as a prophetic and temporal landmark, with measurements potentially encoding timelines and geographic centers of divine activity. Alberino engages such synchronicities appreciatively but cautiously, always subordinating them to the clear Christocentric gospel: Jesus as the true Temple, the restorer of dominion, and the One who defeats the dragon decisively at the end. This approach avoids numerological excess while honoring the idea that sacred geography and time may reflect deeper divine order amid the chaos of rebellion.  

Broader explorations by researchers like Graham Hancock—focusing on lost advanced civilizations, potential Younger Dryas cataclysms, megalithic sophistication predating conventional timelines, and underwater ruins—find partial integration in Alberino’s biblical axis without abandoning scriptural authority. Pre-Flood or immediately post-Babel influences could reflect lingering effects of rebel factions or their human collaborators, manifesting as pockets of advanced knowledge, monumental construction, or anomalous technology that later cultures remembered as “golden ages” or Atlantean echoes. The Tower of Babel itself, recently re-examined in Biblical Archaeology Review for grammatical nuances suggesting the structure may have been portrayed as completed before divine intervention, represents another rebellion against God’s order: humanity unified in pride, seeking to “make a name” through monumental architecture (likely a ziggurat in the Mesopotamian context) rather than trusting divine provision and scattering as commanded. Archaeological parallels to Mesopotamian ziggurats abound, yet the biblical emphasis remains theological—confusion of languages as judgment on centralized defiance. Recent articles explore whether the tower narrative assumes completion, deepening interpretive questions about human hubris and divine sovereignty. Alberino would see such events as recurring motifs in the usurpation attempt: centralized power, forbidden tech or knowledge, and attempts to breach heavenly boundaries. 

In an era when political necessities may soon force greater openness on classified files—driven by leaks, public pressure, and the need to shape the narrative before Hollywood or adversarial powers do—Birthright offers essential intellectual and spiritual preparation. It reframes UFO discourse away from pure mysticism or sci-fi optimism into a coherent biblical war narrative: not random extraterrestrial tourists, but a multi-front assault on humanity’s God-given role as stewards and image-bearers. Demonic spirits (Nephilim ghosts) handle much of the invisible torment, possession, and oppression; physical or bio-engineered entities advance genetic subversion, ideological erosion (through atheism, Darwinian reductionism, or self-deification), and the transhumanist trajectory toward a posthuman counterfeit. The Antichrist figure, in some interpretations Alberino entertains, could even emerge with aerospace or technological grandeur rather than purely supernatural spectacle. Yet the ultimate message remains one of hope and redemption: the birthright, though contested and partially squandered through deception, was never permanently revoked. Christ, the last Adam, reclaims and restores it for all who trust in Him, culminating in the final battle at Armageddon and the renewal of creation where dominion is exercised rightly under the King of Kings.

For those of us in Ohio, with Patterson Air Force Base lore circulating for generations—stories of reverse-engineered craft, anomalous materials, or even giant remains studied quietly—these discussions feel less abstract. Regional Bigfoot sightings, mound complexes, and persistent UFO reports over the years seem to belong to the same interwoven story when viewed through a biblical lens: remnants or echoes of ancient incursions, spiritual oppressions, and ongoing attempts to challenge humanity’s assigned role. Friends and acquaintances in politics, like State Senator George Lang, have shared late-night conversations about ancient aliens, Easter Island’s buried bodies, or megalithic mysteries with me—moments that transcend partisan lines and touch the deeper adventure of discovery. Even mainstream figures are now engaging topics once confined to podcasts or fringe circles, precisely because evidence from multiple disciplines has accumulated: archaeological anomalies, textual survivals like Enoch, eyewitness consistency in abduction reports, and technological leaps that raise questions about origins and agendas.

Vance’s instinct to categorize the phenomena demonically serves as a healthy initial filter against overly optimistic or materialist interpretations. Alberino’s added nuance—distinguishing layers while maintaining a unified adversarial agenda—prepares believers, seekers, and even policymakers to engage disclosure without panic, deception, or loss of grounding. It encourages deeper engagement with Scripture, cross-referencing using archaeological tools like the ESV Study Bible, insights from the Dead Sea Scrolls, and an honest evaluation of extra-biblical texts. The answers, as so often happens, rarely reside comfortably within the institutional boxes built by academia, government, or the media; they reward those willing to follow the evidence across archaeology, ancient literature, contemporary reports, and cosmic theology. The birthright of dominion remains humanity’s divine inheritance—contested, yes, but ultimately secured through the finished work of Christ.

Those interested in building a firmer foundation would do well to read Birthright multiple times, allowing its dense interconnections to settle. Pair it with Zimmerman’s giant compilations for regional grounding, Flynn for sacred geography explorations (read critically), primary Enoch translations with commentary, ongoing issues of Biblical Archaeology Review for fresh site reports (including recent discussions on Babel’s grammar and implications), and the ESV Archaeology Study Bible for visual and contextual depth. The puzzle’s outer edges have long been visible; the middle is filling rapidly with every honest inquiry. When fuller disclosure arrives—whether driven by political timing, inevitable leaks, or cultural momentum—it will rattle many worldviews. A framework anchored in dominion, rebellion, fall, redemption, and ultimate victory equips us not merely to understand strange phenomena but to stand firm in our created purpose amid the storm.

The adventure has always lain just beyond the handrails of “normal” life. For those who dare step out—whether a vice-presidential advisor seeking context, an Ohio resident curious about local mounds and base rumors, or anyone sensing that polite society’s distractions have hidden deeper truths—the rewards include a clearer vision of who we are, why the conflict persists, and how the story ends with restoration rather than extinction or usurpation. In the end, remembering the birthright is not about fear of aliens or demons but about reclaiming our identity as image-bearers destined for glory in a renewed creation. The evidence, both ancient and emerging, continues to point in that direction for those with eyes to see and ears to hear. And for all those reasons, and more, we need to give Vice President Vance a copy of Timothy Alberino’s Birthright, for a context to the White House narrative of Alien Disclosure and the many new questions that will come with it.

Beyond the immediate policy landscape, the issue of disclosure presents a unique cultural and political inflection point. At a time when the public is saturated with economic anxiety—elevated energy prices, trade tensions, contentious Supreme Court cases, and ongoing losses and gridlock in both the House and Senate—voters are increasingly responsive to issues that offer transparency, curiosity, and a sense of shared truth. Gas prices may fluctuate and stabilize over time, but public trust, once eroded, is far more difficult to recover. Disclosure, approached carefully and credibly, speaks directly to that trust deficit.

Historically, disclosure efforts have generated intense public interest but have often failed to deliver substantive clarity. Episodes surrounding the Epstein records or the long-promised JFK disclosures fueled attention, speculation, and media buzz, yet ultimately left many Americans dissatisfied by incrementalism and ambiguity. A future disclosure moment does not necessarily have to follow that pattern. If handled with seriousness, institutional credibility, and clear communication, it could stand apart as a rare instance where public curiosity is met with meaningful acknowledgment rather than prolonged deferral.

Culturally, the subject of disclosure—whether related to unexplained phenomena, advanced technologies, or anomalous encounters—has increasingly found resonance among communities traditionally aligned with progressive or countercultural movements. This has allowed one side of the political spectrum to dominate the narrative space, framing disclosure as an expression of openness, curiosity, and empathy for everyday people who report unusual experiences. That cultural alignment is not inevitable, however. There exists an opportunity for broader engagement that avoids sensationalism while still acknowledging the legitimacy of public interest in these phenomena.

Public-facing engagement does not require endorsement of every claim or abandoning analytical rigor. Rather, it involves meeting voter curiosity with respect—recognizing that unexplained observations and regional folklore often function as entry points into deeper questions about science, government transparency, and institutional credibility. When approached thoughtfully, this engagement can humanize leadership, counter perceptions of detachment, and prevent disclosure-related narratives from being monopolized or caricatured.

From a broader political perspective, disclosure also represents a rare issue capable of temporarily transcending partisan exhaustion. In a midterm environment where voters are seeking tangible “wins” amid legislative stalemate, disclosure—if it produces real information and measurable transparency—could serve as a confidence-building event rather than a distraction. Done well, it has the potential to occupy the public narrative during periods when other contentious issues naturally cool, offering space for recalibration rather than escalation.

For these reasons, disclosure is not merely a speculative subject but a test of institutional seriousness. Its success depends less on timing theatrics and more on whether it delivers clarity, credibility, and follow-through. Managed responsibly, it could become one of the defining public conversations of the coming election cycle—one remembered not for hype, but for substance.

Footnotes

¹ Personal reflection on lifelong subscription to Biblical Archaeology Review since childhood, aligning with its role in correlating finds with biblical texts.

² Crossway, ESV Archaeology Study Bible (2017/2018), with over 2,000 study notes, 400+ photographs, maps, and contributions from field archaeologists.

³ J.D. Vance interview with Benny Johnson (March 2026), where he explicitly states UFOs/aliens are “demons” and expresses an obsession with disclosure files.

⁴ Timothy Alberino, Birthright: The Coming Posthuman Apocalypse and the Usurpation of Adam’s Dominion on Planet Earth (2020). Key arguments include the pre-Adamic rebellion, the birthright of dominion, the distinction between Nephilim demons and physical alien entities, and the transhumanist endgame.

⁵ Genesis 6:1-4; 1 Enoch (Book of the Watchers).

⁶ Jude 6; 1 Enoch 15:8-9 on spirits of giants as evil spirits.

⁷ Alberino interviews and debates (e.g., Nephilim Death Squad, Michael Knowles), clarifying aliens as physical tools vs. disembodied demons.

⁸ Fritz Zimmerman, The Encyclopedia of Ancient Giants in North America (2015), compiling 888+ giant accounts from newspapers and histories, with emphasis on the Ohio Valley.

⁹ Ohio Department of Natural Resources and geological studies on Serpent Mound Impact Structure (8-mile diameter, ~252-330 million years ago).

¹⁰ Archaeological descriptions of Serpent Mound alignments (summer solstice sunset at head).

¹¹ David Flynn, Temple at the Center of Time: Newton’s Bible Codex Finally Deciphered and the Year 2012 (2008).

¹² Alberino-associated editions/commentary on the Book of Enoch.

¹³ Personal and regional observations on Ohio sites, Patterson AFB lore, and mound/giant traditions.

¹⁴ Transhumanism discussions in Birthright as modern usurpation.

¹⁵ Dead Sea Scrolls confirming Enochic texts.

¹⁶ Recent Biblical Archaeology Review (Spring 2026) on Tower of Babel grammar possibly indicating completion.

Bibliography

•  Alberino, Timothy. Birthright: The Coming Posthuman Apocalypse and the Usurpation of Adam’s Dominion on Planet Earth. 2020.

•  Crossway. ESV Archaeology Study Bible. 2017/2018.

•  Flynn, David. Temple at the Center of Time: Newton’s Bible Codex Finally Deciphered and the Year 2012. 2008.

•  The Book of Enoch (1 Enoch), various editions including those with modern commentary.

•  Biblical Archaeology Review, ongoing issues, including Spring 2026 article on Tower of Babel by Richelle and Vanderhooft.

•  Zimmerman, Fritz. The Encyclopedia of Ancient Giants in North America. 2015.

•  Ohio Division of Geological Survey reports on Serpent Mound Impact Structure.

•  Genesis, Jude, Revelation (ESV or standard translations).

•  Vance, J.D. Interview comments reported in Fox News, The Hill, Newsweek (March 2026).

Rich Hoffman

More about me

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About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an aerospace executive, political strategist, systems thinker, and independent researcher of ancient history, the paranormal, and the Dead Sea Scrolls tradition. His life in high‑stakes manufacturing, high‑level politics, and cross‑functional crisis management gives him a field‑tested understanding of power — both human and unseen.

He has advised candidates, executives, and public leaders, while conducting deep, hands‑on exploration of archaeological and supernatural hotspots across the world.

Hoffman writes with the credibility of a problem-solver, the curiosity of an archaeologist, and the courage of a frontline witness who has gone to very scary places and reported what lurked there. Hoffman has authored books including The Symposium of Justice, The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business, and Tail of the Dragon, often exploring themes of freedom, individual will, and societal structures through a lens influenced by philosophy (e.g., Nietzschean overman concepts) and current events.

The Anti-Human Nature of Democrat Energy Policy: When they want to destroy you, there is nothing to talk about

The book that now sits on shelves and in offices across Ohio, including that of my friend George Lang, the longtime Ohio State Senator and Majority Whip from West Chester, began as a simple conversation about energy policy and the deeper forces shaping our world. George, who serves on the Energy Committee and has been instrumental in pushing legislation like Senate Bill 294 to prioritize truly affordable, reliable, and clean energy sources—defining fossil fuels and nuclear power in those terms while scrutinizing intermittent renewables—handed me a copy of Alex Epstein’s Fossil Future during one of our discussions.   He had been reading it closely, multiple times, as he worked on reforms to counter the distortions in Ohio’s energy markets. I knew the book existed, but it was George’s recommendation that finally prompted me to dive in. What I found was not just a defense of fossil fuels but a philosophical framework that resonated with everything I had observed over years of political involvement, from local battles in Butler County to the broader national fights over regulation, subsidies, and human progress.

That encounter crystallized why I spent nearly a year writing The Politics of Heaven, a roughly 20-chapter manuscript that draws on my proximity to these stories—energy scandals, regulatory overreach, and cultural undercurrents that few dare to name. Publishing a book is no small feat; it demands flushing out ideas across chapters, refining arguments through beach walks where the sand and waves clear the mind, and confronting the hard realities of distribution, branding, and getting the work into readers’ hands. But books endure in ways podcasts or interviews cannot. They invite readers to pause, take notes, and pursue their own research. This one explores the intersection of energy policy, philosophy, and what I term the “non-human” movement—a force older and more lethal than partisan bickering, one that masquerades as environmentalism or compassion but ultimately seeks to curb human flourishing. It ties directly to Ohio’s energy debates, where George and others are fighting to defend fossil fuels and nuclear power against policies that subsidize wind and solar at the expense of reliable baseload sources. And it explains why, despite scandals like the FirstEnergy affair that ensnared some Republicans, the bigger picture reveals a systemic bias against the very energy that powers human advancement.

To understand the stakes in Ohio, one must revisit the FirstEnergy scandal surrounding House Bill 6 in 2019. That legislation provided ratepayer-funded subsidies—ultimately costing consumers around $1.3 billion over time—for two nuclear plants, Perry and Davis-Besse, owned then by a FirstEnergy subsidiary, along with some coal-related support. Federal prosecutors later charged that roughly $60 million in bribes flowed through a dark-money group to influence the bill’s passage and defeat a repeal effort, leading to the arrest of then-House Speaker Larry Householder and associates in 2020. Householder received a 20-year federal prison sentence, one of the most significant political corruption cases in Ohio history. Democrats have rightly highlighted the Republican involvement, using it to paint the entire party as captured by utilities. Yet many who supported HB6, including some who later faced scrutiny, acted out of genuine concern for energy reliability—nuclear power provides carbon-free baseload electricity, avoids millions of tons of emissions annually, and supports high-paying jobs. I feel for those wrapped up in the fallout, even those I disagree with on other issues; the scheme was wrong, but it did not negate the underlying need to protect nuclear assets from market distortions caused by renewable mandates. What the scandal obscured was the broader regulatory environment, shaped by decades of policies that tilted the scales toward intermittent renewables through subsidies, mandates, and penalties on fossil fuels and nuclear power. Ohio’s earlier renewable portfolio standards, set in 2008 at 25 percent by 2025, were scaled back under HB6 to 8.5 percent by 2026, but the damage from prior distortions lingered. As recently as late 2025, the Public Utilities Commission of Ohio ordered FirstEnergy utilities to pay roughly $250 million in restitution and forfeitures related to HB6 violations, with additional settlements bringing consumer relief to around $275 million total in some agreements.    George Lang’s recent work on bills like SB 294 seeks to correct this by redefining “clean” and “reliable” energy around true cost accounting—fossil fuels and nuclear emerge as superior on affordability and dispatchability (with high capacity factors), while wind and solar, with their capacity factors often below 35 percent, require massive backups. 

Nuclear energy, in particular, stands as a triumph of human ingenuity. It generates a substantial share of America’s emissions-free electricity, powering communities across dozens of states, avoiding enormous emissions, and supporting thousands of high-paying jobs. Plants like Ohio’s Perry and Davis-Besse employ hundreds of workers each at salaries well above average, injecting billions into local economies. Safety records are exceptional: nuclear results in approximately 0.03 deaths per terawatt-hour (TWh), compared to coal’s roughly 24.6 deaths per TWh (from accidents and air pollution), oil at 18.43, and even natural gas at 2.82. This makes nuclear about 99.8 percent safer than coal on a deaths-per-TWh basis. Wind and solar sit at 0.04 and 0.02 deaths per TWh, respectively, but their system-level challenges (intermittency requiring backups) complicate direct comparisons. Yet Democrat-driven policies have subsidized solar and wind—now cheaper on levelized cost in some projections but unreliable without subsidies or storage—while burdening nuclear with regulatory hurdles that inflate costs. The result? A society paying more for less reliable power, all while fossil fuels remain the backbone of upper mobility.   

Electricity from any source, especially dense, reliable sources like coal, gas, and nuclear power, has transformed human life. Consider medieval Europe, where a king’s luxuries—climate control, preserved food, instant global information—mirror what even modest American households take for granted today. Air conditioning, refrigeration, lighting, and appliances that once defined royalty now enable low-income people to escape drudgery. Strong correlations exist between electricity access and human development metrics: health, education, income, and gender equality improve markedly where power flows consistently. Globally, basic electricity access rose to around 92 percent by 2023, with the number without access falling to roughly 666 million (down from higher figures earlier in the decade), lifting billions from energy poverty—though deeper “energy poverty” (inadequate reliable usage) affects an estimated 1.18 billion people, including many officially “connected” but unable to use power meaningfully due to outages or cost. Without abundant energy, upper mobility stalls; with it, creativity flourishes. Fossil fuels powered the Industrial Revolution, fertilizer production that feeds billions, and the machines that built modern medicine and transport. Opposing them while ignoring these benefits reveals a deeper motive.   

This brings us to the heart of The Politics of Heaven: the non-human movement. Epstein’s Fossil Future articulates this brilliantly, arguing that opposition to fossil fuels cannot stem from genuine concern for the environment or the climate alone, given their overwhelming benefits. He contrasts the “human flourishing framework”—where energy abundance is measured by its capacity to advance life, health, and prosperity—with the dominant “anti-impact” or “delicate nurturer” worldview. In the latter, any human alteration of nature is suspect, and experts systematically ignore benefits while overstating side effects. Epstein notes that “mankind’s use of fossil fuels is supremely virtuous—because human life is the standard of value, and because using fossil fuels transforms our environment to make it much better for human beings.” Those pushing rapid phase-outs, he contends, reveal an anti-human core: they prioritize a pristine Earth over human potential, even if it means regressing to pre-industrial conditions. This is not hyperbole. We saw it during the COVID lockdowns, when many imposed draconian restrictions that shuttered businesses, closed churches, and isolated families, all while claiming public health as the goal. The policies sacrificed economic vitality, mental health, and small-scale enterprise on the altar of control, mirroring a willingness to limit progress if it served certain ends.   

This non-human impulse echoes ancient cults of sacrifice. Across history, from Aztec temples in what is now Mexico City—where priests offered thousands of human hearts to gods like Huitzilopochtli, with archaeological evidence of massive skull racks (tzompantli) holding thousands of skulls and historical accounts of large-scale rituals during temple dedications—to headhunters in New Guinea and child sacrifices to Baal in the ancient Near East, societies have ritualized the destruction of life to appease higher powers or maintain cosmic balance. The Aztecs believed gods had sacrificed themselves to create humanity; humans owed blood in return, a debt repaid through ritual to prevent catastrophe. Mesoamerican cultures saw human sacrifice as essential reciprocity, nourishing deities so the universe endured. Similar practices appear in biblical warnings against Molech worship and in countless pre-modern traditions. Today, this manifests not in literal altars but in policies that treat human beings as expendable for an idealized “nature.” Radical environmentalism, influenced by deep ecology thinkers like Arne Naess, promotes “biocentric egalitarianism”—granting all living things equal moral status, often elevating the biosphere above human needs and rejecting anthropocentrism. Rooted in earlier works and formalized in the 1970s, deep ecology views humans as part of a holistic web rather than exceptional stewards, sometimes framing human impact itself as the core problem. It fuels a modern impulse in which “saving the planet” justifies limiting energy use, population rhetoric, and opposition to technologies that expand human life. Epstein captures this: advocates cling to the “delicate nurturer” assumption to mask anti-human goals, convincing themselves they save humanity from itself while halting the very activities that enable flourishing.    

In politics, this anti-human stance permeates certain energy agendas and cultural positions. Subsidies for renewables—often requiring vast land use, rare-earth mining, and backup power—distort markets while fossil and nuclear provide dense, scalable energy. Nuclear is “very clean vigorously”: low emissions, high capacity factors near 90 percent, and a safety profile unmatched. Yet policies born of environmentalism created barriers, favoring wind and solar despite their intermittency and higher system costs. The result harms the poor most—energy poverty correlates with stalled development, as seen in regions without reliable power where hardships persist. Upper mobility flows from energy: refrigeration prevents spoilage and disease, air conditioning combats heat-related deaths, and digital access opens education and opportunity. Epstein documents how fossil fuels have enabled unprecedented global progress; denying them is anti-human because it denies this reality. We witnessed ruthlessness in policy responses that prioritized control over empowerment. The same mindset underlies positions that treat certain lives as disposable and resist breakthroughs powered by abundant energy. It is an anti-God position, opposing the biblical mandate to “be fruitful and multiply” and steward creation productively. Fallen angels, cultural influences, and worship of anti-divine entities all point to a spiritual war against God’s creation—humans included. No one who values divine commandments should embrace a worldview that sacrifices human potential on abstract altars.

The Politics of Heaven unpacks these layers across its chapters. Early sections examine the non-human nature of radical environmentalism and its hunger to regress society, drawing parallels to historical sacrifices. Later chapters dissect the philosophical roots of energy policy, using Epstein’s stats and my own observations from Ohio battles. I explore how electricity has eradicated the worst forms of poverty, turning “luxuries” into necessities. One chapter details revelations from policy responses that exposed a desire to control rather than empower. Another ties energy to creativity—human ingenuity thrives with power, from medieval kings’ dreams to modern innovators. The book culminates in policy prescriptions: defend fossil fuels and nuclear power as bridges to a future in which renewables mature, but never at the cost of reliability. For Ohio, this means supporting Lang’s initiatives and approaches that prioritize American energy dominance. I am heading to Washington, D.C., to finalize the 20th chapter, perhaps adding an epilogue on emerging developments. The content cohered powerfully because it addresses timeless truths: politics is spiritual at root, a battle between human advancement and forces that would sacrifice us to false gods.

Critics will dismiss this as partisan, but the evidence transcends parties. Some Republicans erred in aspects of HB6, yet the structural biases against reliable energy predate and outlast individual scandals, embedded in frameworks that favor subsidized intermittents over “solid, great suppliers” like fossil fuels and nuclear power. Renewables will improve—costs have dropped—but they remain unready for full grid dominance without massive, expensive storage. Fossil and nuclear are here now, delivering the energy density civilization requires. Opponents who ignore benefits while amplifying costs reveal the non-human core: a lust to limit growth, echoing Malthusian fears or deep ecology’s egalitarianism. As Epstein writes, the knowledge system of experts disguises anti-human goals behind “save the planet” rhetoric. We cannot assume common ground when some outright reject human flourishing. The book implicates this reality without apology, using examples from Ohio’s nuclear plants to global poverty metrics. It defends the human race against oblivion, arguing that good energy policy perpetuates creativity, wealth, and options.

Writing demanded rigor: a year of research, reflection, and revision to articulate the non-human element without descending into conspiracy. It connects energy advocacy to broader cultural fights. George Lang recognized this when he passed the book; his office in Columbus now stocks copies for those seeking clarity on Ohio’s path. Knock on his door, and you might secure one. The arguments align with policies emphasizing energy independence, which Ohio can lead. Fossil fuels remain vital for decades, enabling the transition without regression. Renewables have roles, but not as forced replacements that harm reliability.

Ultimately, The Politics of Heaven exists because books outlast soundbites. They equip readers with receipts—stats on energy deaths (nuclear and renewables at under 0.1 per terawatt-hour versus coal’s ~25), historical sacrifice patterns, and policy outcomes. They invite further study: Epstein’s works; Our World in Data on electricity’s poverty links; IAEA and World Bank reports on nuclear’s role and global access trends; archaeological accounts of Mesoamerican rituals; and philosophical texts on deep ecology. In an era of anti-human aggression—from regressive energy mandates to cultural erosion—the book asserts a counter: human beings are meant to flourish, powered by the energy God’s creation provides. Those supporting anti-fossil stances must confront alignments with older impulses. Republicans, even those scarred by scandals, must defend the ground. Ohio, with its nuclear assets and fossil resources, is pivotal. By prioritizing reliable energy, we secure upper mobility, creativity, and the perpetuation of human potential. This is not mere policy; it is a defense of heaven’s politics against earthly cults that would erase us. The iceberg’s tip is touched here, but the depths reward those who read, research, and act. The book is worth the discussion, the defense, and the fight—because human life, powered and free, is the ultimate good.

Expanded Bibliography / Footnotes for Further Research

1.  Epstein, Alex. Fossil Future: Why Global Human Flourishing Requires More Oil, Coal, and Natural Gas—Not Less. Penguin Random House, 2022. (Core source on anti-impact vs. human flourishing frameworks; see also Epstein’s substack summaries of Chapter 3 on the anti-impact moral goal.)

2.  Ritchie, Hannah. “What Are the Safest and Cleanest Sources of Energy?” Our World in Data, updated analyses (death rates per TWh: nuclear ~0.03, coal ~24.6, etc.). https://ourworldindata.org/safest-sources-of-energy

3.  World Bank / Tracking SDG 7: The Energy Progress Report 2025 (global electricity access ~92%, ~666 million without basic access in 2023).

4.  UNDP reports on energy poverty (deeper metrics affecting ~1.18 billion with inadequate, unreliable usage).

5.  Ohio Capital Journal and PUCO records on HB6/FirstEnergy scandal and 2025 settlements (~$250M+ restitution orders).

6.  Ohio Legislature records on Senate Bill 294 (sponsored by Sen. George Lang, focusing on affordability, reliability, and capacity factors for new generation).

7.  Archaeological and historical accounts of Aztec sacrifice (e.g., Science magazine on skull racks at Templo Mayor; estimates of large-scale rituals).

8.  Naess, Arne, and George Sessions. “Basic Principles of Deep Ecology” (1984) – on biocentric egalitarianism and non-anthropocentrism.

9.  U.S. Energy Information Administration (EIA) and International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) reports on nuclear safety, capacity factors, emissions avoidance, and economic impacts.

10.  Additional context from energy poverty and human development links: UNDP Global Multidimensional Poverty Index 2025; studies on electricity’s role in lifting populations from extreme poverty.

Rich Hoffman

More about me

Click Here to Protect Yourself with Second Call Defense https://www.secondcalldefense.org/?affiliate=20707

About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an aerospace executive, political strategist, systems thinker, and independent researcher of ancient history, the paranormal, and the Dead Sea Scrolls tradition. His life in high‑stakes manufacturing, high‑level politics, and cross‑functional crisis management gives him a field‑tested understanding of power — both human and unseen.

He has advised candidates, executives, and public leaders, while conducting deep, hands‑on exploration of archaeological and supernatural hotspots across the world.

Hoffman writes with the credibility of a problem-solver, the curiosity of an archaeologist, and the courage of a frontline witness who has gone to very scary places and reported what lurked there. Hoffman has authored books including The Symposium of Justice, The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business, and Tail of the Dragon, often exploring themes of freedom, individual will, and societal structures through a lens influenced by philosophy (e.g., Nietzschean overman concepts) and current events.

The Truth About Bigfoot Sightings in Ohio During March of 2026: What nobody wants to admit–the terror behind the conspiracies

It was one of those crisp March evenings in 2026 when the calls started pouring in from Portage County, Ohio—eight credible Bigfoot sightings crammed into barely a hundred hours, each one more jaw-dropping than the last. People weren’t just spotting shadows in the woods; they were locking eyes with something massive, something that didn’t belong in our tidy little version of reality. One report came from a mom and her daughter, who were driving along a back road near Mantua Center, right around 8:00 p.m. on March 7th. They almost hit it. The thing stepped out of the treeline and stood there three feet from the passenger door—close enough, the daughter said, that she could have reached out and touched it if the window had been down. It was around six-foot-five, brown, and moving with that casual, unhurried stride that big creatures seem to have when they know they own the night. But here’s the part that is most chilling: its face was blurry. Not out of focus like a bad photo, but genuinely indistinct, as if the creature was only halfway rendered into our four-dimensional world. The mom slammed the brakes, the daughter screamed, and then it was gone—melted back into the trees as if it had never been there at all. No aggression, no chase, just a quiet acknowledgment that something ancient had crossed their path and decided, for whatever reason, to let them live with the memory.

By the time the Bigfoot Society podcast and local news outlets like Cleveland 19 and FOX 8 started mapping it out, the reports were stacking up from Mantua Center to Garrettsville to Windham to Newton Township. Daytime sightings in broad sunlight on the Headwaters Trail—a nine-foot brown male standing 120 yards off Route 44 at 12:23 p.m. on March 6th. Nighttime grunts and muddy prints the size of dinner plates. An older woman in Windham who had never believed in any of this nonsense watched something massive bolt through the woods on March 9th. A man walking his German Shepherd at 4:00 a.m. on March 10th had the dog lose its mind at the back door before the shadow of an eight- to ten-foot figure vanished into the blackness. Multiple independent witnesses, at different times of day, on different roads, under different lighting conditions. Some smelled that unmistakable wet-dog-meets-skunk odor. Others heard deep, vibrating grunts that carried through the trees like distant thunder. And every single one of them swore it wasn’t a bear, wasn’t a hoax, wasn’t some kid in a costume. These were ordinary Ohioans—hikers, dog walkers, a mom just trying to get her kid home—who suddenly found themselves face-to-face with the impossible.

The internet, of course, went wild with the usual explanations. “Undocumented Neanderthal remnant!” cried the cryptid enthusiasts. “Lost tribe of giant hairy hominids migrating through the Midwest!” But I’ve spent too many years chasing these things—camping at the Mothman Museum with my grandkids, hiking the haunted Moonville Tunnel at midnight, standing on the ridges of Little Round Top at Gettysburg—to buy the simple “flesh-and-blood ape-man hiding in the woods” story. The more I read the reports, the more I kept coming back to the same conclusion I’ve reached after researching the Ohio Valley mounds for decades: these aren’t just undiscovered animals. They’re something far older, far stranger, and far more connected to the Politics of Heaven than most people are ready to admit. They’re dimensional. They’re quantum-entangled echoes of beings who have been walking these same trails for thousands of years—sometimes in our reality, sometimes bleeding through from somewhere else entirely. And the reason they keep showing up right here, right now, in the same corridors where ancient earthworks once stood, is because those earthworks were never just “religious monuments.” They were communication devices. Calling cards. Mathematical beacons built by people who understood something we’ve spent centuries trying to forget.

Let me take you back to the source of all this strangeness—the Ohio River Valley itself, that ribbon of land that runs from the Serpent Mound down near Cincinnati all the way up through the Newark Earthworks and beyond. This isn’t random wilderness. It’s one of the most concentrated paranormal hotspots on the planet, and it has been for a very long time. The same week those Portage County sightings were making national news, I pulled out the old hidden-haunts map I’d bought at the Mothman Museum and started plotting the locations. Every single sighting clustered around old mound corridors, old Indian trails that modern roads had paved over, places where the veil has always been thin. Serpent Mound, Fort Ancient, the massive geometric works at Newark that once covered more ground than the Great Pyramid complex in Egypt—those aren’t just piles of dirt left by “primitive” hunter-gatherers. They’re precise mathematical constructs aligned to the Pleiades, to solstices, to the movement of stars in ways that required calculus-level understanding of Earth’s circumference and axial tilt. The same mathematics you find at Stonehenge and Avebury in England. The same geometric obsession you see at Flag Fen near Peterborough, where Francis Pryor and his team uncovered an entire Bronze Age village built on a bog around 1300 B.C.—a place so sophisticated it makes the Romans who later conquered Britain look like amateurs playing catch-up.

I remember the first time I stood at Stonehenge with my family, the same trip where I picked up Pryor’s book Britain BC at the visitor center gift shop. You see the famous stones on TV, and you think, “cool rocks.” But when you’re actually there, walking the landscape, you realize the stones are just the tip of the iceberg. The entire countryside is dotted with burial mounds—hundreds of them—some almost identical in size and construction to the ones at Miamisburg and Middletown right here in Ohio. There’s a massive cursus—a long, linear earthwork over a mile long—that you can’t even see properly from the ground; it only makes sense from the air. It looks like a giant runway aimed at the heavens. And just a few miles north at Avebury, you’ve got the same thing: enormous circular henges, burial barrows, and geometric patterns that mirror the Newark Octagon and the Great Circle earthworks back home. Pryor’s work at Flag Fen blew the lid off the whole “primitive Britons” myth. They built an entire wooden platform and causeway across a bog, throwing broken tools and weapons into the water as offerings to the dead. Why? Because they understood that bogs preserve. They understood that the afterlife wasn’t some vague cloud kingdom—it was a place you could send messages to. And they used mathematics and geometry to do it.

Fritz Zimmerman has been saying the same thing about North America for years, only louder and with more receipts. His books—The Encyclopedia of Ancient Giants in North America, The Nephilim Chronicles: Fallen Angels in the Ohio Valley, Ancient America: The Dark Side, and Mysteries of Ancient America—aren’t fringe conspiracy rants. They’re the result of decades of boots-on-the-ground research, cross-referencing thousands of old newspaper accounts, county histories, and Smithsonian reports that mainstream archaeology would rather pretend don’t exist. Zimmerman’s core thesis is as elegant as it is explosive: the giant bones reported in over 500 separate accounts across the Midwest weren’t hoaxes or exaggerations. They belonged to the Amorites—biblical giants, descendants of the Nephilim—who fled Joshua’s conquest of Canaan, migrated through Europe (building or influencing Stonehenge and Avebury along the way), and eventually crossed the Atlantic in sophisticated boats to settle the Ohio Valley. The mounds they left behind aren’t random; they’re the same celestial observatories and ritual centers you find in England, only transplanted here. And the paranormal activity that clusters around them—Bigfoot, orbs, Mothman, shadowy figures—aren’t new phenomena. They’re the lingering echoes of the same entities those ancient builders were trying to communicate with.

Think about it. The Book of Enoch—preserved in the Dead Sea Scrolls and left out of our modern canon for reasons that should make every honest person furious—gives us the clearest picture. Two hundred Watchers, led by Semyaza and Azazel, descend on Mount Hermon, lust after human women, and produce giant offspring. God punishes them, but their disembodied spirits are cursed to roam the earth until the final judgment. These aren’t cartoon devils with pitchforks. They’re principalities and powers (Ephesians 6:12), interdimensional beings who once had physical bodies and now operate from the quantum edges of our reality. The Amorites carried that knowledge with them. They built geometric earthworks—circles, octagons, serpents aligned to the stars—because those shapes spoke the language those fallen entities understood. It wasn’t “religion” in the Sunday-school sense. It was technology. It was science. It was an attempt to maintain a relationship with the divine council, which Psalm 82 warns is still plotting against Yahweh to this day.

That’s why the mom and her daughter didn’t see a clear-faced ape-man on that dark Ohio road. They saw something bleeding through the veil—something that exists in a higher or adjacent dimension and only partially manifests here. The blurry face? That’s what quantum entanglement looks like when two realities briefly overlap. The creature wasn’t “lost.” It was answering an ancient call that still resonates through the mounds it once helped build. The same thing explains the Mothman at Point Pleasant in 1966–67—Stolas, the 36th demon from the Lesser Key of Solomon, appearing as a prophetic harbinger before the Silver Bridge collapse. The same thing explains the orbs we photographed at the Moonville Tunnel, the green healing spirits that seem to drift down from the ridges at Gettysburg, the Bigfoot sightings that spike whenever someone disturbs an old mound corridor. These aren’t separate mysteries. They’re the same phenomenon wearing different masks depending on who’s looking and what the local geometry is tuned to.

And here’s where the real conspiracy kicks in—the one that has nothing to do with the CIA and everything to do with the spiritual wickedness in high places. Mainstream archaeology, the Smithsonian, and the political class that funds them have spent over a century burying this truth under layers of political correctness and bad assumptions. The Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) of 1990—passed right after Dances with Wolves tugged at everyone’s heartstrings—made it illegal to study many of these sites properly. Bones that could prove the existence of pre-Columbian European or Near Eastern contact? Reburied. Giant skeletons reported in hundreds of 19th-century newspapers? Carted off to Smithsonian vaults and never seen again. The Windover Bog site in Florida is the perfect example. Discovered in the 1980s during housing construction, it yielded 168 incredibly preserved skeletons from 7,000–8,000 years ago—people with advanced woven textiles, bog-preservation knowledge identical to European practices, and thigh bones so large that Dr. Geoffrey Thomas held one up next to his own leg on camera at the Brevard Museum and basically admitted these folks were giants. Average height estimates got downplayed to 5’5” in some reports, but the video evidence and the bone density tell a different story. These weren’t primitive hunter-gatherers. They were part of a sophisticated culture that understood time, astronomy, and the spirit world in ways we’re only beginning to rediscover. And what happened? The site was covered up. Research stalled. NAGPRA kicked in. End of story.

Meanwhile, in England, Francis Pryor and the English Heritage team get to dig Flag Fen like it’s the greatest adventure on Earth. They uncover a Bronze Age village built on a bog, with broken swords and tools thrown in as offerings, and everyone celebrates the sophistication of prehistoric Britons. Why the double standard? Because admitting the same people—or at least the same knowledge—crossed the Atlantic thousands of years before Columbus shatters too many comfortable narratives. It forces us to confront the biblical timeline. It forces us to admit that the “indigenous” label we slap on every pre-Columbian culture is as accurate as calling the Romans “indigenous” to Britain. Migration, trade, and the collision of cultures happened constantly. Giants walked among us. Fallen angels taught forbidden knowledge. And their disembodied offspring are still here, still walking the old paths, still answering calls that were broadcast through geometric earthworks when the stars were in different alignments.

This is the Politics of Heaven playing out on Earth. Yahweh’s divine council—Elohim plural, as Psalm 82 makes painfully clear—has been in rebellion since before the Flood. The Watchers’ sin produced the Nephilim, whose spirits became the principalities and powers that still rule from the shadows. Solomon commanded them to build his Temple. The Canaanites sacrificed children to Moloch to appease them. The mound builders aligned their works to the stars to communicate with them. And today, in 2026, when eight Bigfoot encounters happen in a single week in Portage County, we’re seeing the same entities responding to the same ancient geometry. The mounds may be paved over, but the call still echoes. The quantum entanglement still happens. The blurry faces still peer through the veil.

I’ve stood on Little Round Top at Gettysburg at night with my family. I’ve hiked the Moonville Tunnel when the mist rolls in, and the green orbs appear exactly where my wife said they would. I’ve walked the ridges at Stonehenge and felt the same electric charge I feel standing on Fortified Hill or the Middletown Mound back home. The pattern is undeniable. The science—real science, the kind Pryor practices in England and the kind Zimmerman has been quietly practicing in America for decades—points to a lost chapter of human history in which advanced cultures used mathematics not just to measure the stars but to speak to the beings who live among them. We call them cryptids. The Bible calls them demons, watchers, principalities. The Japanese call them kami. The Muslims call them jinn. Every culture that ever built geometric earthworks knew them by a different name, but they all knew the same truth: these entities are real, they’re ancient, and they never really left.

The mom and her daughter in Portage County didn’t almost hit a lost ape. They brushed up against something that has been walking these trails since the Amorites—or whoever came before them—first laid out the geometric patterns that still whisper across time. The Bigfoot that stood three feet away with the blurry face wasn’t confused. It was exactly where it was supposed to be—answering a call that was programmed into the landscape thousands of years ago. And until we stop pretending that our textbooks tell the whole story, until we start digging the mounds again with the same adventurous spirit that Pryor brought to Flag Fen, we’ll keep mistaking echoes for myths and calling the messengers monsters.

The Politics of Heaven (the title of my new book coming up) aren’t happening somewhere far away in the clouds. They’re happening on the back roads of Ohio in March 2026, when the veil thins and something very old decides to step through for a moment and remind us that the war never ended. It just changed costumes. And the next time you see a blurry figure on the side of the road, don’t reach for your phone to call it a hoax. Reach for the truth instead. The mounds are still talking. The Watchers are still listening. And the rest of us? We’re just now starting to remember how to hear them.

BOOK SUMMARY of the upcoming Politics of Heaven (I will be finishing the final chapter in Washington D.C. at the Museum of the Bible soon after this posting)

The Politics of Heaven is a sweeping, unconventional investigation into the hidden structure of history — blending biblical archaeology, supernatural encounters, political warfare, cryptid phenomena, and ancient mathematics into a single, high‑powered thesis:

Earth’s political conflicts are the surface-level reflections of a much older, multidimensional battle among the Elohim — the divine council referenced throughout the Bible.

Drawing from firsthand experiences at sites like Chichen Itza, Stonehenge, Serpent Mound, Osaka’s Kofun tombs, Moonville Tunnel, and Washington D.C.’s Masonic grid — combined with encounters in modern political war rooms — Hoffman argues that the veil separating Heaven, Earth, and the unseen realm is thinner than we admit.

The book culminates in Chapter 19, where recent Bigfoot sightings in Ohio become the key to unifying the narrative. These blurry, partially‑manifest beings are framed as:

Residual spiritual entities tied to the Amorites, the Watchers, and the pre‑Flood giants — evidence of dimensional interference and the limits of human free will.

The result is a revelatory, provocative work for readers of Biblical studies, ancient mysteries, UFO/paranormal research, and political philosophy.

Footnotes

1.  Cleveland 19 News, “Several Bigfoot sightings reported in Portage County,” March 2026; FOX8, “Bigfoot roaming Portage County: Several reported sightings within days,” March 10, 2026.

2.  The Bigfoot Society podcast and mapping project documented at least eight high-credibility reports between March 6–10, 2026, including the Mantua Center daytime encounter and the Newton Township 4 a.m. sighting.

3.  Francis Pryor, Flag Fen: Life and Death of a Prehistoric Landscape (Tempus, 2005; updated editions). Pryor’s excavations revealed a sophisticated Bronze Age platform and votive offerings in the bog.

4.  Fritz Zimmerman, The Encyclopedia of Ancient Giants in North America (2015); The Nephilim Chronicles: Fallen Angels in the Ohio Valley (2010); Ancient America: The Dark Side (2024). Zimmerman’s fieldwork and archival research compile over 500 historical giant-bone reports.

5.  Windover Archaeological Site reports, including video testimony from Dr. Geoffrey Thomas at the Brevard Museum of History and Natural Science (Brevard County, Florida). Skeletons dated to 7000–8000 years ago; some long bones indicate individuals were taller than those in typical Archaic populations.

6.  English Heritage maps of Stonehenge and Avebury World Heritage Site (1:10,000 scale) show cursus, barrows, and geometric alignments mirroring Newark Earthworks in Ohio.

7.  Book of Enoch (1 Enoch), chapters 6–16, Dead Sea Scrolls fragments; cross-referenced with The Book of Giants also found at Qumran.

8.  Psalm 82; Ephesians 6:12 (KJV).

Bibliography for Further Reading

•  Zimmerman, Fritz. The Encyclopedia of Ancient Giants in North America. 2015.

•  Zimmerman, Fritz. The Nephilim Chronicles: Fallen Angels in the Ohio Valley. 2010.

•  Zimmerman, Fritz. Ancient America: The Dark Side. 2024.

•  Pryor, Francis. Flag Fen: Life and Death of a Prehistoric Landscape. Tempus, 2005.

•  Pryor, Francis. Britain BC. Harper Perennial, 2004.

•  The Book of Enoch. Translated by R.H. Charles. 1912 (modern editions widely available).

•  Biblical Archaeology Review archives on Dead Sea Scrolls and Qumran texts.

•  English Heritage official guides to Stonehenge and Avebury (2020s editions).

•  Windover site reports: “Windover: Prehistoric Past Revealed,” Orange County Regional History Center; Ancient Origins coverage, 2016–2025 updates.

Rich Hoffman

More about me

Click Here to Protect Yourself with Second Call Defense https://www.secondcalldefense.org/?affiliate=20707

About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an aerospace executive, political strategist, systems thinker, and independent researcher of ancient history, the paranormal, and the Dead Sea Scrolls tradition. His life in high‑stakes manufacturing, high‑level politics, and cross‑functional crisis management gives him a field‑tested understanding of power — both human and unseen.

He has advised candidates, executives, and public leaders, while conducting deep, hands‑on exploration of archaeological and supernatural hotspots across the world.

Hoffman writes with the credibility of a problem-solver, the curiosity of an archaeologist, and the courage of a frontline witness who has gone to very scary places and reported what lurked there. Hoffman has authored books including The Symposium of Justice, The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business, and Tail of the Dragon, often exploring themes of freedom, individual will, and societal structures through a lens influenced by philosophy (e.g., Nietzschean overman concepts) and current events.

The End of the Roll: Opportunities and Failure in Ohio’s Statehouse

I’ve always found immense joy in diving behind the scenes of any operation, whether it’s a bustling kitchen or the intricate halls of government. Recently, I reflected on my attendance at Ohio Governor Mike DeWine’s State of the State speech, an event that perfectly encapsulates my fascination with watching “the spaghetti get made,” as I often put it. This metaphor stems from a memorable family trip to London not too long ago, where I took my wife and kids to celebrate her birthday at Gordon Ramsay’s flagship restaurant in Chelsea. It wasn’t just about the meal; it was about understanding the orchestration required to maintain excellence. As someone deeply invested in how systems function—whether in business, politics, or daily life—I peppered the staff with questions about sustaining three Michelin stars, a prestigious accolade that Ramsay’s establishment has held since 2001, making it one of the longest-standing three-star restaurants in the UK.[^1] The management graciously obliged, leading us on a tour of the immaculate kitchen, where every detail—from food sourcing and storage temperatures to team coordination—revealed the true essence of superior management.

In that kitchen, I saw firsthand how the magic happens. The sauces simmered at precise heats, ingredients were dated meticulously to ensure freshness, and the expediter ensured plates reached the dining room flawlessly. It’s not merely about the final product; it’s the unseen processes that elevate ordinary ingredients into something extraordinary. Ramsay, a Scottish-born chef who rose from humble beginnings to build a global empire, emphasizes discipline and precision, qualities that have kept his Chelsea restaurant at the pinnacle of fine dining for over two decades.[^2] My family and I marveled at the setup: spotless counters, synchronized movements among the chefs, and an unwavering commitment to quality. This experience solidified my use of the “spaghetti in the kitchen” analogy when discussing management skills. You see, good management isn’t accidental; it’s deliberate. How do you select the right sausage for the meatballs? What temperature do you cook them at, and for how long? Who blends the sauce, who plates it, and who ensures it arrives hot and timely? These questions apply universally, from a high-end restaurant to the corridors of power in Columbus, Ohio.

Transitioning this to politics, I’ve long advocated for transparency and efficiency in government, much like I do in my writings and podcast discussions. The Ohio Statehouse, with its grand rotunda and chambers designed to inspire lofty thoughts, stands as a testament to the ideals of representative government. Built in the mid-19th century, the building’s Greek Revival architecture symbolizes elevation of consciousness, urging lawmakers to rise above personal temptations for the public good.[^3] Yet, as I’ve observed over years of involvement as a political advocate, humans often falter. I’ve seen many arrive in Columbus with grand intentions, building what I liken to a sandcastle on the beach during low tide. They craft intricate structures—policies, alliances, visions—with moist sand that holds form beautifully. Flags atop turrets, photos snapped for posterity. But high tide rolls in, bringing temptations like lobbyist influences, personal ambitions, and ethical lapses, washing it all away. Too many get lured too close to the water’s edge, and by the time the waves recede, nothing remains but flattened remnants.

This brings me to Governor Mike DeWine’s recent State of the State address on March 10, 2026, his final one as he wraps up eight years in office.[^4] I’ve attended these events multiple times, always eager to peek into the “kitchen” of state governance—not just consume the polished news reports, but witness the raw preparation. DeWine, a Republican who has served Ohio in various capacities since the 1970s, including as a U.S. Senator and Attorney General, entered office in 2019 with a focus on bipartisanship and social issues.[^5] His speech this year was comfortable, aiming to heal wounds from a tumultuous tenure, but it lacked the bold vision one might expect in a farewell. He emphasized education, touting programs like providing books to children—a noble idea, given my own love for reading and belief in its power over excessive screen time. Studies show kids today spend up to 7-8 hours daily on devices, contributing to developmental issues, and DeWine’s push for literacy aligns with efforts like the Science of Reading initiative he championed.[^6] Yet, it felt out of touch, as if he’s lost connection with modern parental realities where devices often serve as babysitters.

Critically, I’ve been vocal about DeWine’s shortcomings, particularly his handling of the COVID-19 pandemic. Appointing Dr. Amy Acton as Health Director was a misstep; her pro-abortion stance and aggressive lockdown policies devastated Ohio’s economy.[^7] Acton, a physician who gained national attention for her daily briefings alongside DeWine in 2020, implemented measures like closing schools and businesses, which many argue prolonged economic swelling we still feel today.[^8]  The lockdowns, while intended to save lives, led to widespread job losses and mental health crises, with Ohio’s unemployment peaking at over 16% in April 2020.[^9] DeWine’s approach mirrored a big-government philosophy, throwing money at problems like education and safety nets, which I see as well-intentioned but misguided. He believes in social safety nets from his generation’s perspective, but as a self-proclaimed Republican, his actions often veered Democratic—evident in his reluctance to aggressively cut taxes or deregulate.

Property taxes, for instance, have spiraled under his watch, burdening homeowners without adequate relief until recent reforms. In 2025, DeWine signed bills like House Bill 186, which caps property tax increases to inflation rates, providing some moderation after years of unchecked growth.[^10]  Ohio ranks high nationally for property tax burdens, and while he addressed it belatedly, the speech glossed over it entirely, opting instead for safer topics like seatbelt laws—another nod to government overreach.[^11] My conversations before the speech, mingling with legislators and insiders, revealed a sense of limbo; DeWine’s lame-duck status means little substantive action ahead. As I chatted with a good friend, we likened his remaining months to the last sheets on a toilet paper roll: the beginning unrolls slowly, but those final few disappear in a flash. With the 2026 election looming, attention shifts to fresh faces.

Despite my criticisms, I must acknowledge DeWine’s redeeming qualities. Observing him and First Lady Fran up close over the years, their genuine affection shines through—a long-married couple who truly enjoy each other, not just for political optics. Fran’s cookies, which she often shares, are a sweet touch, symbolizing her warmth. DeWine’s heart seems in the right place; during COVID, he genuinely believed his actions protected lives, even if they overstepped. Power corrupts, and unchecked authority risks turning well-meaning leaders into tyrants, a lesson Ohio learned harshly. Yet, on positives, he endorsed constitutional carry in 2022, strengthening Second Amendment rights by allowing permitless concealed carry for eligible adults over 21.[^12]  This move, after initial hesitation, helped mend fences with Republicans post-COVID. Additionally, he supported business initiatives like Joby Aviation’s expansion in Ohio, announced in 2023, which promises 2,000 jobs in electric vertical takeoff and landing (eVTOL) aircraft manufacturing—a boon for aviation innovation.[^13] Columbus Mayor Andrew Ginther has been instrumental in such developments, fostering smart mobility and economic growth in the region.[^14] These aviation advancements, including partnerships with companies like Joby, position Ohio as a leader in future transportation, something DeWine cheered without obstruction.

An awkward yet telling moment occurred when I ended up in a photo with DeWine. In past years, my anger over his policies kept me at arm’s length, but this time, with his term ending, I shook his hand and wished him well, acknowledging the pro-business strides. Government needs checks and balances precisely because even good intentions can falter. DeWine isn’t evil; his naivety in trusting big government to care for the vulnerable led to overreach.

Looking ahead, the toilet paper roll is nearly spent, and I’m excited for Vivek Ramaswamy to take the helm. Ramaswamy, a Cincinnati native and biotech entrepreneur who founded Roivant Sciences and ran for president in 2024, announced his gubernatorial bid in 2025 with Trump’s endorsement.[^15]  His campaign focuses on reviving the American Dream through lower costs, bigger paychecks, and merit-based policies, contrasting DeWine’s approach.[^16]  Polls show a tight race against Democrat Amy Acton, but Ramaswamy’s vision—transforming Ohio into an economic hub, especially in the Ohio River Valley—aligns with bold Republican ideals.[^17]  He’s already launched massive ad campaigns and secured the Ohio GOP endorsement, signaling momentum.[^18]  Under Ramaswamy, I anticipate policies advancing freedom, innovation, and efficiency—cooking up better “spaghetti” in the Statehouse kitchen.

Attending these events reinforces why I love politics: seeing dedicated people strive, even if imperfectly. From Ramsay’s kitchen to Columbus, excellence demands pride, hard work, and attention to detail. Cooks prepare meals hoping diners savor them, but criticism stings when they fall short. DeWine’s administration aimed for a magnificent sandcastle, but tides of controversy washed much away. Still, remnants like stronger gun rights and business growth endure. As his era ends, I reflect with tempered hatred, appreciating the intent I witnessed up close. It’s time for a fresh roll—not toilet paper for Ramaswamy, but a higher-class stewardship. With him, alongside figures like Trump and a supportive legislature, Ohio has a rare chance for greatness. I look forward to much better food coming out of the kitchen to come.

[^1]: The Michelin Guide has awarded three stars to Restaurant Gordon Ramsay since 2001, recognizing exceptional cuisine and service. 

[^2]: Gordon Ramsay’s biography highlights his rise from a challenging childhood to culinary stardom, with his Chelsea restaurant as a cornerstone.

[^3]: The Ohio Statehouse, completed in 1861, features symbolic architecture to promote civic virtue.

[^4]: DeWine’s 2026 address focused on education and accomplishments, delivered on March 10. 

[^5]: DeWine’s political career spans decades, emphasizing family and safety nets.

[^6]: Excessive screen time linked to developmental delays; literacy programs counter this.

[^7]: Acton supported abortion rights and led lockdowns.

[^8]: Acton’s role in COVID response included school closures. 

[^9]: Ohio’s economic impact from COVID policies.

[^10]: House Bill 186 caps tax increases. 

[^11]: Ohio’s high property tax ranking.

[^12]: Signed SB 215 in 2022. 

[^13]: Joby Aviation’s Ohio expansion creates jobs in eVTOL.

[^14]: Ginther promotes smart mobility in Columbus.

[^15]: Ramaswamy’s 2026 bid announced in 2025. 

[^16]: Campaign priorities include economic revival. 

[^17]: Polls show competitive race. 

[^18]: GOP endorsement in 2025. 

Bibliography

1.  Ramsay, Gordon. Humble Pie: My Autobiography. HarperCollins, 2006. (For insights into Ramsay’s management style.)

2.  DeWine, Mike. Ohio’s Path Forward. Ohio Governor’s Office Publications, 2025. (Overview of DeWine’s policies.)

3.  Ramaswamy, Vivek. Woke, Inc.: Inside Corporate America’s Social Justice Scam. Center Street, 2021. (Ramaswamy’s views on business and politics.)

4.  Acton, Amy. Leading Through Crisis: Lessons from Ohio’s Pandemic Response. Self-published, 2024. (Acton’s reflections on COVID.)

5.  Hoffman, Rich. The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business. Overman Warrior Publications, 2020. (My own book on management principles.)

6.  Ohio Historical Society. The Ohio Statehouse: A History of Democracy. Arcadia Publishing, 2015. (Background on the Statehouse.)

7.  Tax Foundation Reports. Property Tax Burdens in the U.S. Annual editions, 2020-2026. (Data on Ohio taxes.)

8.  National Rifle Association. Second Amendment Victories: Constitutional Carry Laws. NRA Publications, 2023. (On gun rights reforms.)

9.  Joby Aviation. Annual Report 2025. (Details on Ohio expansion.)

10.  Michelin Guide. Great Britain & Ireland. Michelin Travel Publications, annual. (Restaurant ratings.)

Rich Hoffman

More about me

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About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an independent writer, philosopher, political advisor, and strategist based in the Cincinnati/Middletown, Ohio area. Born in Hamilton, Ohio, he has worked professionally since age 12 in various roles, from manual labor to high-level executive positions in aerospace and related industries. Known as “The Tax-killer” for his activism against tax increases, Hoffman has authored books including The Symposium of Justice, The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business, and Tail of the Dragon, often exploring themes of freedom, individual will, and societal structures through a lens influenced by philosophy (e.g., Nietzschean overman concepts) and current events.

He publishes the blog The Overmanwarrior (overmanwarrior.wordpress.com), where he shares insights on politics, culture, history, and personal stories. Active on X as @overmanwarrior, Instagram, and YouTube, Hoffman frequently discusses space exploration, family values, and human potential. An avid fast-draw artist and family man, he emphasizes passing practical skills and intellectual curiosity to younger generations.