Showing posts with label Asheville. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Asheville. Show all posts

12.16.2014

The Inexplicable Itch for Redemption

I have looked into the eyes of evil. A reflection of a broken man, wiping away the tears of self-hatred and my finger is on the trigger of a cosmic cannon. There is an eternal depth to these roots. The juices of forbidden fruit dripping from failed frown, swallowed by shattered teeth hidden by shattered glass; the mirror reminds me of holy ordinance of which I have fallen incalculably short.

I have tasted the hate of apathy, ignored the cries of the innocent, and blurred the lines that separate neighbor from enemy. I have set fire to the Garden of Shalom, and run for the shelter of fig leaves and invisible bushes. I have touched, with blood-stained hands, the Holy Mountain.

This then is my confession: A guilty plea to a Righteous Judge. There is no defense offered, and no retention fee for a Counselor in this heavenly court. I have murdered the innocent, plundered the poor, pillaged the powerless, and built for myself a castle of sand.

How broken is this universe? Even the natural world is imploding with a virus expressed in the whole earth convulsing with shockwaves registering on the richter scale; emanating salty Tsunami tears flushing out toxic chemicals from the inside out. The whole earth is groaning for redemption...

Redemption. This is what every man, woman, and child is thirsting for. Redemption is the inexplicable itch that fuels the human engine toward achievement and success. The unholy Kingdoms of Accumulation have proven unsatisfactory; the itch remains. Success is an uncatchable wind, and our hands are blood-stained. Redemption is the ineffable hope for which there is no vocabulary. Words fail. Language limits. The inexplicable itch is spreading...

Which brings me to the Table. 

I have come here starving for grace. Emaciated in deprivation, wrinkles around eyes swollen with tears. How many times have we been through this, God? Still, Your mercies are new every morning! I am crawling toward the First and the Last Supper, only to collapse at the feet of the One whom I have betrayed. I lay here motionless, save the dry heaving admissions of sincere sorrow. This repentance is borne in a furnace of regret. My tears fall like rain on the dusty feet of the Mercy King.

A tap on my shoulder... a nail-scarred hand is extended. I look up to receive His assistance to be transported to the empty seat [saved] for me, beside Him. He then takes the Bread and breaks it apart... dipping into the Cup of Wine. "Taste and see", He says. "I have loved you with an everlasting love."

Selah. The curse is reversed. The Story is re-written. The Garden is now a City, and leaves once used for hiding have now become the healing of the Nations! The slaughtered Lamb has now become the sanctifying Lion. The image reflected in the mirror is no longer mine, but His own.

I have looked into the eyes of love. A reflection of the Mercy King, who wipes away my tears of self-hatred and absorbs the bullets of my betrayal. There is an infinite width to this embrace. The cup of suffering now spills over with the Living Water.

I have tasted the hope of empathy, implored the octave of the heavenly choir. I sing of the power of life after death; the anthem of the children of the rising up again! I have run to the shelter of an old-rugged cross, and hidden my past in His future!

This then is my admission: I've been set free, released, forgiven, declared righteous by the One True King! My Kinsman Redeemer lives to make intercession for me in the trembling face of the Accuser. Death has lost, and love has won. The mallet of the Righteous Judge slams into the jugular vein of Prosecuting Attorney; and the local media has a new evangelion: "Good News!" The removal of sin has become the restoration of Shalom!

Which bring me back to the Table...


- Jay DePoy

12.10.2014

Out of Hiding (Father's Song)

This morning I sat with my girls on the couch while they waited for the elementary school bus to pick them up and take them away down the winding, mountain road. I couldn't help but see each of them through the lens of my own childhood.

Mariah is in 5th grade now. She is my twin spirit, and everything about her reminds me of growing up in that A-frame home, built by the hands of my dad. As she was talking to me, I couldn't help but absorb the animated facial expressions, the enthusiastic story-telling, and the way she wears her emotions on the outside, whatever they may be.

Her propensity to run and hide when she is being confronted, is possibly the greatest evidence of her bloodline to a broken man whom has always struggled to come out from behind the fig leaves.

The other day we found her dresser drawer full of candy bar wrappers, which she insisted had miraculously appeared. She went ballistic in denial, throwing a tantrum that could register on the richter scale. She looked in my face and lied to me. Repeatedly. And the more she lied and scrambled and denied and dressed in leaves of figs, the more I loved her.

Because I know this fear.

I just sat with her, quietly on the floor. Her arms were folded (yes, I know I should prepare myself for many more years of this, times three!) and she refused to look at me. Her punishment would be in place until she was willing to own up to her unbecoming. And I didn't get mad, and I wasn't even hurt by her... I was hurting  f o r  her.

Because I know this fear. 

And once you've invested in a denial... once you've run for the border... once you've lit the match to the bridge, you feel you're trapped. The fear of abandonment and loss and unbalanced punishment and whatwouldtheythink? begins to torment you to the point of researching the nearest mental hospital.

My heart broke for her. I just kept repeating to her, a piece of counsel given to me (when I was once hiding in toxic shame): "You don't have to live like this." 

I love this girl. And at times she can light up a room with charisma and charm. And other times she can burn the castle to the ground in her rage and self-hatred. I love her when she shines, and I love her when she gives me the proverbial finger. I love her when she is on the top of a pyramid full of cheerleaders in front of a huge crowd. And I love her when she locks the door and won't let me in.

I want her to live in freedom. I want her to live free from fear, free from the anxiety that she'll be dismissed. I want her to live in complete confidence that her Father loves her, and he'll always leave the Light on for her. And if she locks me out of her bedroom, I'll stand at the door and knock. And if she chooses to hide under an electric blanket of shame, I'll be wooing her out from her hiding.



"And know, as you're running
that what hindered love
will only become
part of the story..."









12.16.2013

Thoughts on Life and Death


Lately I've been thinking about my own funeral.

No, I don't have plans to end my life, and I do not have a death wish. Whatever discouraging thoughts of depression or self-harm I may have wrestled with are usually chased away by the morning sunrise. I used to dwell on the fatalism of death by exposure, or I had this fantasy of going out to Montana and handcuffing myself to a tree at the top of a lonely mountain and throwing the key just outside of reach… and waiting to die.

But these days, I have a life wish. I want to experience all of the voltage of breathing and laughter and music and chasing my dreams! I want to feel the blood in my veins pumping adrenaline as I clap with the Exodus Family in the Rock of Ages. I want to melt with my daughters as we sip hot cocoa on a wintry day, and reminisce on the sledding hill behind the house. I want to lean into the laughter of their innocence, and remember…

Remember the time my cousin Daniel Cook and I were sledding in the Michigan snow. We were both young boys finding our way...There was a collision with a tree and knot on his forehead; and we sat together in the snow and cried until my mom came out to see what was wrong.

Remember the time I almost drowned in Lake Michigan, after an autumn storm. Waves crashed into the pier and I tried to rescue my puppy, a purebred Black Labrador who had been swept off into the waves. I thought I was going to die, but I could not watch my puppy drown without a doing something to help! We both eventually collapsed on the beach, exhausted. But it was the best. feeling. ever.

Remember sitting with my dad at a coffee shop in North Carolina, and hearing him share about the mistakes he's made along his journey. To see how time has humbled him, and after reconstructive knee surgery he hobbles around in a slower pace… reflective of things he would have done differently if he had the opportunity. He would have worked harder to develop a culture of grace, not law. He would have been more aggressive to help, and slower to judge. He would have leaned into the mercy of the cross, and less on the legalism of man.

Remember the time I laid behind the curtain at the Asheville Community Theatre, as the auditorium was filling up with Exodus Revolutionaries, and I took off my shoes and socks before the holy ground. I cried uncontrollably in recognition of the sacredness of the moment: restoration and redemption has reached into the brokenness of my heart. So when I stand to preach about hope and forgiveness and the God of 2nd Chances - it's coming from a place of personal experience.

I can't help but to wonder what my funeral will be like. How will I be remembered? The truth is, funerals have a way of immortalizing the man in the casket. Our culture tends to deify the dead. I hope that doesn't happen at my funeral. I want honesty to prevail in the eulogy. I want those who know me the best to say, "He was a very broken and flawed man, who clawed his way toward the cross. He was more likely to let his ego get in the way of relationships, and he carried bitterness in his heart. But that is why he was so desperate for Jesus, and so passionate about preaching this gospel! He was often lonely and discouraged, but he was also the first to reach out to help his friends, and he would have taken a bullet for his family."

I want to be remembered as a loving daddy to my girls, and a flawed but faithful husband to Jamie. I want to leave a legacy of gospel proclamation and a life of sacrificial love. At the end of the day, nothing else matters…


8.27.2012

Every Act of Love...


She had cried a thousand tears by the time I met her.

Last week, a local homeless woman stumbled into my circle of care, asking for help. Selena had been homeless for several months, and a few months ago she lost custody of her daughter, Arayana. While staying with extended family, Arayana had drowned in a tragic ending to a torrential three-year journey.

After the death of her three year-old daughter, Selena had her daughter cremated and carried around her daughter's ashes in a small box in a backpack with her only possessions. Along with the ashes, Selena had sealed the box with the only pictures she had of her daughter before she died.

Last week, Selena slept outside on the concrete steps of a local church. When she woke up in the morning, she discovered that someone had stolen her bag (and consequently, her daughter's ashes)! She began to tremble, screaming hysterically at God for His assistance! She knocked on the lifeless doors of the church, and began clawing through the bushes looking for her precious box. The local homeless community began to assist her in the search, soliciting the help of anyone passing by...

When I first met Selena, I could see that the past few days had taken a toll on her emotional and mental stability. She could hardly talk; lips trembling as she repeated the story over and over and over. I invited her into a circle with my friends, and we began to pray. She just sobbed, and confessed, "God, I don't even know if you exist... I've lost whatever faith I had. But I am willing to give you what is left of my broken heart..." She wiped the tears and motioned with her hands, gesturing an offering, "Here."

[Where is God when it hurts?]

Within three days, we had organized a search team and began to print off flyers. We knocked on the doors of local businesses and began to help Selena search for the missing box. Our assumption is that the thief falsely assumed some monetary value, and after discovering the ashes probably dumped the evidence in a dumpster or in the woods somewhere. We invited the media to help us tell her story. We walked and prayed and joined hands in anger and hope.

Yesterday morning, I invited Selena to the stage at Exodus Church. After sharing her story, our family of faith lifted hands in prayer [ektenos: the stretching of a muscle to its limit], and offered ourselves as the answer to the question of God's Presence in the pain.

He is here, even now, in the furnace of suffering. God's heart breaks for the poor. He rages against the brokenness of this world, and he has enlisted the cure ~ an invisible revolution of Kingdom Citizens who are committed to the inauguration of a New World Order. Every act of love increases the capacity to love more...

*To listen to the audio recording of Selena's Story, check out "The Saint's in Caesar's Household" at www.exodusasheville.com/listen ("Boo" is her street name, and you can hear her voice at the end).