Midegah Ogichidaa and the Burden of Sacred Record

There are moments in history when speaking becomes dangerous again.

Not because the truth has changed, but because the power dynamics surrounding it have.

For Indigenous nations, this moment is not new.

For centuries, Native peoples were punished for remembering. Their ceremonies were outlawed. Their languages were mocked. Their spiritual leaders were dismissed as primitive, fraudulent, or inconvenient. Knowledge was driven underground not because it lacked value, but because it carried too much.

The Midewiwin survived this period not through force, but through restraint.

Sacred records were not written for an audience. They were carried in memory, in lineage, in ceremony, and in the bodies of those entrusted to hold them. The work of a high priest was never to impress the outside world. It was to ensure continuity when the world was hostile.

Ogimaa Midegah Ogichidaa, or David, stands in that lineage.

He does not speak as a commentator.

He does not speak as a provocateur.

He speaks as a high priest of the Midewiwin, carrying responsibility that predates modern institutions and outlasts public opinion.

His mission has never been to replace anyone’s faith, nor to compete for belief. His work has been singular and measured: to steward sacred records with care, to discern what may be released safely, and to speak only when silence would cause greater harm.

That is what makes the current attacks so revealing.

The records David has helped release are not exhaustive. They are not sensational. They are intentionally partial, contextual, and grounded in lineage. They were shared not as a challenge, but as a testament that Indigenous spiritual authority exists independently, intact, and without need of external validation.

The response to this careful act has not been engagement.

It has been dismissal.

Some have claimed the records are artificial.

Some have refused to examine them at all.

Some have attacked the messenger rather than the message.

This reaction is not rooted in scholarship. It is rooted in discomfort.

For generations, Indigenous identity has been filtered through external narratives interpreted, reframed, and claimed by others. When Indigenous leaders speak for themselves, that interpretive control dissolves. And when control dissolves, accusation often follows.

The hypocrisy is quiet but unmistakable.

Those who accept prophecy dismiss living prophets.

Those who believe in revelation reject lineage.

Those who honor ancient scripture question Indigenous memory.

David has not answered these attacks with retaliation. He has not engaged in spectacle. He has continued his work.

That is not weakness.

That is priesthood.

The Midewiwin does not ask permission to exist. It does not require approval to carry truth. It has survived governments, churches, and silence itself. It will survive misunderstanding as well.

The sacred records do not stand or fall on public opinion. They stand on continuity.

And continuity does not argue.

It endures.

The Measure of Our Response

When Indigenous nations speak carefully, they are told they waited too long.

When they speak at last, they are told they should not have spoken at all.

This contradiction has followed Native peoples for generations.

Silence was once demanded as proof of obedience.

Speech is now attacked as proof of illegitimacy.

The pattern is familiar.

When sacred records are held privately, they are dismissed as nonexistent.

When they are released responsibly, they are dismissed as artificial.

The standard shifts just enough to ensure that Indigenous truth is never permitted to stand on its own terms.

This is not skepticism.

It is avoidance.

What has been most striking in the current moment is not disagreement, but refusal, refusal to engage the substance of the records, refusal to acknowledge lineage, refusal to recognize living spiritual authority.

Instead, attention is redirected.

Technology is blamed.

Motives are questioned.

Messengers are targeted.

This response reveals far more about the critics than about the work itself.

Those who stand on firm historical ground do not need to discredit the speaker.

They address the record.

Those who cannot address the record attack the act of speaking.

The Book That Changes the Frame

The forthcoming release of the Book of the O’Jiibwaay, the Record of the Three Fires, also known as ʾÔr Ḥayyāh (The Light of Life) marks a turning point not because it seeks confrontation, but because it removes plausible deniability. Analyzed through all factors and found to be authentic in every way it validates the Book of Mormon claims to authenticity while holding the rightful place of the Midewiwin as part of the story.

Why Midegah Ogichidaa Is Being Targeted

David is not under attack because he is loud.

He is under attack because he is precise.

He speaks very well, remembers very deep,

most have no idea he severed his tongue at age 5 and struggled to speak most of his life,

speaking now by the great blessings of God to gift those who endure with the triumph on their greatest struggle, his was speaking and now look at him, we cheer him!

He has not released everything.

He has not exaggerated.

He has not sought spectacle.

He has done what high priests have always done in times of transition:

he has released only what the moment can carry.

That is not provocation.

That is guardianship.

History does not remember those who shout the loudest.

It remembers those who speak when silence would become complicity.

By standing with the records without theatrics, without defensiveness David exposes a quiet truth: the conflict is not about authenticity. It is about control.

And control dissolves when Indigenous people speak for themselves.

The Right to Speak One’s Truth

At its core, this moment is not about religion versus religion.

It is about whether Indigenous people are permitted the same human right others claim without question: the right to tell their own story.

Individuals and nations have the right to share their truth.

They have the right to preserve their records.

They have the right to release them responsibly.

They have the right to speak without being ridiculed, dismissed, or accused of deception simply because their truth disrupts another’s narrative.

Disagreement is not persecution.

But silencing is.

The Sacred Records of the Midewiwin do not threaten anyone’s faith.

It only threatens the idea that Indigenous faith must be filtered through someone else.

That is why it matters.

And that is why this moment will be remembered not for the noise surrounding it, but for the steadiness of those who refused to retreat.

The records were carried through fire.

They were protected through silence.

They were released with care.

And now they stand.