who am I AM who

forgive me if you've heard this before

a chorus unending behind a bridge burning

knuckles bleeding on the open door

knees unbending before the false prophet's warning

unity on division, unorthodox decisions 

and i regret to inform, my opinion's reborn

in a counterfeit smile, but in the window

hands are raised in praise to the grace

now the whore has been wed, and the table is spread

the blood has been shed and the body now broken

all the these feelings awoken by prayers unspoken

and ruben says, they all love you

but the signal was lost in the elevator to the basement

while i'm held captive to the epiphany 

that apparently there IS something i can do about it...

[you're not allowed to come around here anymore.]

however lonely is this stage

and the weight of interior combustion

and a thousand allies in a world of no goodbyes

there's a holocaust and no good guys

there's a winter frost and the mourning sun melts the shame

like a hero plunged into sudden fame

through an exit wound and bloodless veins

ignore me if the mirror is shattered

by a self-help manual from barnes & noble

and i've become unrecognizable from a savage scar

proving it doesn't matter who i am,

it only matters who You are.

The Untold Chapters

 He stirred his coffee and said, "the grace of God is inexhaustible." 

And then I wept and told him about my childhood years and isolation; homeschooling and remnant theology and the rapture and the y'all come choir and just as i am without one plea

and playboy magazines and treeforts and wrath and repentance and recycling patterns of confessions to 'Thee and Thee Alone!', while clutching fig leaves behind bushes hiding serpents breathing questions about commandments and fruit and trees and 

east of eden I limped toward a promised land, full of milk and honey and power and money. You put out a sign on 28th street and invited me to join your circle until two people made their discomfort known. 

The next morning, the text message read: "After further thought... I've done my own research on you. There are pieces of your story that you conveniently omitted. Therefore, you. are. not. welcome. here."

Untold pieces? I dropped my phone and stared at the fence surrounding the back yard. Unsure, exactly, which pieces he referenced... 

Maybe it's the story behind the scars, and the boundaries crossed and the security lost. Maybe it is the truth of the blood stains on my hands, and the death of an innocent man on the execution stake of Crosspoint Baptist Church. Or the one room schoolhouse in Montague, and the desecration of Holy Art, and the legendary pastor had a hidden violence and a hidden bottle and the Holy Lands separating the church from the parsonage held a thousand secrets of which we do not speak. 

Or maybe it's the loss of love and discovery of unforgiveness. Maybe it's the epiphany of pleading guilty with sincerity and owning my sin and suffocating under the weight of anonymous comments. Maybe it's the revision of historical accounts, from another perspective - like conflicting witness reports of a fatal car accident, from the east and from the west like the sin that God promised to remove. 

Maybe I forgot to include the details of blood and lust and rage and murder and sex and drugs and recovery and redemption and blood and lust and rage and murder and sex and drugs and the ongoing chatter of movies we've seen before and plotlines that have been regurgitated by hushed whispers and a homeless rabbi is writing in the dirt, and from the oldest to the youngest they all dropped their stones. 

If I've omitted pieces of my story during our 1.5 hour coffee chat, I'm sorry. I should have led with picture of boy holding a King James Bible and cheeky smile, having chosen to actually believe that Jesus meant what He said. I should have told you about false accusations and spiritual abuse, about faith to start again and again and again and the gentle whisper in the middle of the night and the love of a Good Good Father who still invites me to walk in the calling of my true identity. 

Last night my counselor asked, "What is it that you are looking for? What are you hoping for?" 

After much consideration I've realized the answer: I want to experience the feeling of sincere forgiveness. Healing, restoration, and an ocean of tears waiting to be released. Like the prodigal melting into the arms of his father, at the end of the driveway. 

.

The Silence of Saturday

 Give me the outcasts and the castaways, the beggars and liars and thieves. I’ll sit with the goth kids and the trans students and the refugees and the dreamers. Save me a seat under the bridge near the Amway Grand with Rick and his cardboard sign and a holy sleeping bag and the stench of self-destruction. 

I found more grace in jail than in the church, more hope in the disqualified prophets than celebrity pastors. I’d rather listen to Happy’s harmonica than endure yet another inquisition from a committee of acquaintances who’ve never spent a waking second on division. We can overturn every stone, dodging the questions like friendly fire. 

Somewhere between the horror of Friday and the glory of Sunday is the silence of Saturday… 

Give me Scott at the Sober Living House, three months free from alcohol. Give me Brad in the depths of his heroin addiction. I’m looking for Tim and Bobbie Jo and the streets that hide the runaway tears. I’m looking for Ruben and Rosie, for Timmy and Haley and through the myriad of layers I’m looking to find myself, somehow.

Smaller Circles

On the first day of this new year, I have resolved to investing my energy into living with a small circle of voices, centered around The Table. With a healthy diet of grace and truth and love, forgiveness will be the main course. Body broken, blood poured out - for me, and for you. 

From a young age I unwittingly bought into the lie that bigger is better, and more is the evidence of success. I memorized statistics, set personal goals for increase, set my heart and mind on a wider reach. The calculation of multiplying numbers became the dominant strategy to gauge influence. I used to have a quote on my wall that said something about leadership being about influence, and "if you look in the rearview mirror and people are not following you then you're not leading... you're just taking a walk."

Just taking a walk. 

But what if none go with me? 

What if I'm walking alone? 

Still, I walk. And I verbally process as I notice the birds of the air and the lilies of the field and the mountain cast into the sea and the foxes in the vineyard and I see impenetrable walls crumbling and giants beheaded and donkeys prophesying and dry bones rumbling together to overthrow the narrative you've written about the American Dream. I see my Savior walking on the waves and commanding the wind to be still and I hear the violent whisper of an interrogating YHWH wondering what I'm doing here...

and I stammer in defense, "I'm the last one left... only I remain!" 

and the revelation insists that there are seven thousand others out there, somewhere, with unbounded knees and allegiance to the Way, the Truth, and the Life. I walk, but I do not walk alone. Yes, there's a valley in the shadow of death, but there is a comforter there beside me. 

-------

I used to want a stage and a microphone and a crowd and a budget to reflect influence. 

I used to want your amens. I used to enjoy the company of your Sunday smiles. I used to want to belong in your Tribe with the volunteers in the back scrambling to set out new folding chairs because the unexpected crowds have caught us unprepared and the lights and the sound system and the base drum kicks in and the people are clapping and the lyrics indicate a revolution is at hand. I wanted every single person in that overcrowded room to be in. the. circle. 

But what if, there is no circle? 

What if, there is no wall or boundary or gate or grid to formulate who's in and out? 

Or what if... what if I could find my center in this healing voices of Teresa and Mariah and Ambria and Ashlyn and my mom and dad and Jennifer and Janelle and Jonathan? What if Harvey Wagenmaker and Drew Poppleton and Kent Selders and Andrew and David Hulings - what if they were the only ones in my circumference of intention, with Jesus at the center? 

- Jay DePoy

Grand Rapids, Michigan. 

New Year's Day, 2022.