Cult or Campfire?

On CowboyMonk, Sacred Imagination, and the Fear of Being Fooled

There’s a little dance I find myself doing when people first encounter my work. A cautious two-step around the flame.

They read a few words—maybe about imagination being sacred, or about the CowboyMonk, or Jesus as the man who returns to the cave—and they squint just a little. I can almost see the suspicion rise like steam behind their eyes: “Is this… a cult?”

Last night, a kind and witty woman said as much—laughing as she said it, teasing with a light touch. She was warm, curious, genuinely open. But also, like many people in our modern age, wary of being roped into something that smells a little too mystical, too symbolic, too... sincere.

I don’t blame her.

In fact, I think it’s a fair question. Maybe even a necessary one.

We are living in an age of commodified enlightenment and curated transcendence. There’s no shortage of snake oil in the marketplace of awakening. Psychedelic retreats that promise rebirth for $12,000. Coaches with glowing eyes and perfect hair who preach liberation while cultivating dependence. Gurus who begin with insight and end with control. It’s no wonder that when someone starts speaking about sacred imagination or mythic selves, people start checking for hidden altars and automatic monthly payments.

And here I come—talking about temples, spiral paths, a figure called the CowboyMonk, and the idea that your imagination might be the very spark of the Divine within you.

It sounds... well, cultish.

Unless you’ve met me.
Unless you’ve sat with me.
Unless you’ve written with me or grieved beside me or simply watched me try to be a decent father, trying and failing and trying again.
Then you know—there’s no spell here. Just a sincere man with a strange vocabulary, trying to stay true to the deepest thing he knows.

The Suspicion Is the Sign of Wisdom

I’ve learned not to be offended by the suspicion. I welcome it. Because it means someone is awake. It means they haven’t surrendered their inner compass to charisma or community pressure. And if what I’m offering can’t survive that scrutiny, then it probably shouldn’t survive at all.

To be honest, I’ve been hurt too. I’ve followed voices that sounded true but turned out hollow. I’ve been dazzled by systems that seemed wise but were secretly about hierarchy, ego, and control. So now I write and speak from scar tissue—not just from insight.

So let’s name it plain: CowboyMonk is not a guru.
He’s a symbol. A poetic figure that represents the truest self in me—the one who rides the wide open plains of spirit and sits quietly in the cloister of silence.
He is me. But he’s also not me.
He’s an archetype. A campfire myth.
And if he’s anything useful, he might spark something in you—not to follow me, but to remember your CowboyMonk, your sacred self.

Campfires, Not Cults

People join cults because they’re hungry. Hungry for meaning, belonging, transformation. These are holy hungers. But in our culture, we’ve lost the language for feeding them well.

What I offer in my work—and especially in my integrative writing groups—is a kind of slow, reverent meal. Not fast food. Not mystery meat. Just stories, silence, reflection, and the invitation to see your own life as curriculum. As sacred text.

No one’s expected to believe what I believe.
No one’s asked to submit to some cosmic hierarchy.
And if I ever say something that doesn’t sit right with you, I trust your gut more than my words.

This isn’t about orthodoxy. It’s about aliveness.

And while my language leans toward the poetic and esoteric—because I believe in mystery and symbol and myth—I always want to stay rooted in the soil of the real. There’s no secret handshake. No special knowledge behind a paywall. If I light a fire, it’s so we can warm our hands together. So we can speak freely, and maybe even sing.

What Makes a Cult?

I think what people are really afraid of when they ask, “Is this a cult?” is not robes or rituals. It’s losing themselves.

They’re afraid of surrendering their thinking, their agency, their clarity.
They’re afraid of being seduced by something that feels beautiful but ends up stealing their voice.
They’re afraid of giving trust and being betrayed.

Me too.

That’s why I try to cultivate spaces that are fiercely honest, consent-based, curiosity-driven, and temporary. I don’t build empires. I build campfires.
And when the fire burns out, we each go our way—hopefully warmer than we were before.

What I Do Believe

I believe imagination is sacred. That it is a bridge between the visible and invisible, the known and the unknown.
I believe we’ve lost touch with this sacred faculty in our age of algorithms and arguments.
I believe the imagination is not “just play” in the dismissive sense—but just play, as in righteous, meaningful, deeply human play.
I believe Jesus wasn’t just a spiritual teacher, but the very figure who returned to the cave bearing light—and was rejected for it.

And I believe we all carry a piece of that same flame.

My work—through writing, coaching, and conversation—is just trying to fan that spark. Not control it. Not monetize it. Just remind you that it’s there, and it’s yours.

A Final Note to the Wary

If you’re someone who bristles at spiritual language or flinches when a group feels too cozy, I get it.

You’re not broken.
You’re not cynical.
You’re paying attention.

And you’re probably the exact kind of person who would keep a community honest—if we’re brave enough to invite your questions, your humor, your warnings. So thank you. Please don’t stop speaking up.

The truth is, I don’t want followers. I want fellow travelers.
And Sacred Imagination is not a doctrine. It’s a path—sometimes winding, often strange, but always available to the one who dares to look beyond the shadows.

So come if you want. Stay if it helps.
And when it’s time, go—with my blessing.

No robe required.

Just your own name. And your own flame.

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