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.

Would You Rather...

"I did my own research on you." He said, from across the table

a body broken and the cup of wine, for the forgiveness of original sin

and I know a guy who heard from his coworker, who read something on the internet (so it MuSt be true)

the authority of anonymity and snipers on every roof

gatekeepers of the kingdom of [dis]grace; you wait for a response

while I'm sitting with my daughter on a Saturdate, over cinnamon rolls and hot cocoa. She wants to play the "Would You Rather..." game. 

So we commence:

Would you rather be celebrated for something you are not, or hated for something you are? 

Would you rather approach each new friendship with a disclaimer, or bury the past under the blood of Christ? 

Would you rather sit in the back row, contemplating the apocalypse, or snatch the microphone and preach about scandalous mercy? 

Would you rather be outside their circle, or the centerpiece of psychoanalysis? 

Would you rather respond to each rumor, or give a fist bump to the anonymous cowards?

Would you rather be a cracked pot beholding glory, or a white-washed tomb of self-righteousness?

 

She doesn't want to play this game anymore, and neither do I. Neither do I, Love Bug. 

.

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. 

The Delicate Art of Deconstruction

I'm sorry that I'm not sorry that I've been quiet in recent days. You can find me in the mo(u)rning rhythm of the sun rising over Maplewood Park, as I walk the trail around the lake. Hands in my pockets and head in the sky, silent in the deconstruction of all I once held true.

The compartmentalization of systematic theology, dispensations of time to explain how God works, and a myriad of answers to questions that nobody was asking... I used to have an answer for you! I had a chapter and verse memorized for apologetical discourse on all things controversial. I was sharp with the tongue, and witty with the sarcasm, and angry with the liturgy. I had a vision for perishing people, a prophetic identity, and a zealous mission! I had adopted the 7-Steps, constructed grids and formulas for spiritual formation, and constructed a bridge between justice and mercy. 

The bridge I once constructed is now in ashes. The flames singed, the branches burned; beyond the point of no return. The chapter I'm reading is being written in a heavenly language, and I never claimed to the have the gift of interpretation... it's become like clanging symbol, triggering flashbacks of a full theater, an audience of rowdy revolutionaries, and a power point presentation complete with historical context. In the center of it all was a fiery prophet without the character to sustain the charisma. I have been exposed as indecent, revealed as a hypocrite, and evicted from the circle I scribbled with a felt-tip marker on a napkin at Fazoli's.

My life has not turned out the way I thought it was going to. And now, on the evening before my 46th birthday, I wonder if this is what is meant by "Midlife Crisis"? Should I go out and buy a new Corvette or get a membership at the Country Club? As if material possessions can scratch a spiritual itch, we all know the Corvette would get wrapped around a tree, and I'd get banished from the Country Club, just like every other church in town. 

It's all so disorienting, isn't it? When the grids and boxes are decimated by a spiritual virus, and the politics create a culture of cancellation, until we're all drowning in a tsunami of white noise. 

The cosmic plot twist has shattered the foundation of the opening chapters. The narrative is being re-written with a nuclear grace, and the ink is leaking hope on every page. The revolution is being redefined: to love my family, and lead my daughters into a deeper understanding of God's immeasurable love. This is my Church. This is my unbroken circle. In the company of agape love, I am known and loved anyway. 

When Time Stands Still

 Last night we celebrated Father's Day together as a family. My three daughters sat around the table and presented little gifts, and I read their hand-written cards with deliberate reverence. Each letter signed with the familiar "your favorite daughter", and a lot of hugs & kisses. 

We have a family tradition for birthdays and celebrations; the center of attention is surrounded by voices taking turns to share their own individual favorite memory. I savor these moments, as I've often wondered what my children will remember the most about their dad. From their earliest recollections, we've shared deep conversations and challenging observations. We've not avoided the hard questions, or the uncomfortable topics. We are known for our openness in communication, including the confession of my own messy story. My daughters don't have to dig through the archives to research the hidden secrets of their dad's notorious sin. They already know it. But they also know that my knees are scabbed over from the posture of humility, and my knuckles are permanently scarred from the incessant knocking on the doors of heaven for mercy. 

 Mariah is now 17. Ambria is 14. Ashlyn turned 11 on Sunday. These girls are sO radically unique and different from each other, and yet they hold this sacred bond in common: a bloodlines that refuses to go with the downward flow of our culture. They swim upstream, sometimes against themselves. They were raised to be revolutionaries, and they know it!

In the anticipation of this evening, I got a head start to think about the question... what is my favorite memory with each of my daughters? My mind scrolled through the rolodex of images, a collage of tears and laughter, surprises and unexpected blessings. I revisited the clouds through which we parasailed over the Mexican beaches in Cancun, and the impromptu dance parties on the Cruise Ship last spring break. I recalled the time that Mariah hijacked the stage at Hope College theatre, and all of her state championships in forensics. I revisited the epic landscapes of the Rocky Mountains and Zion National Park with Ambria, the time when she launched herself off the cliff to the water far below, without hesitation. I remembered walking beside Ashlyn up the Narrows Riverwalk through Zion, and the hike around Bryce Canyon. I can still vividly remember the first day she came home from the Asheville Hospital, and I took her outside to the tree swing to introduce her to the wild world outside. 

To my surprise, these were not the favorite memories they chose to share. 

Mariah went first. "My favorite memory" she said, "was nothing too exciting. And I'm not sure why this particular memory stands out above the others... but I remember one afternoon we took a walk behind our house in North Carolina. We found a Mulberry Tree (previously unfamiliar to our Yankee heritage), and you helped me climb out on the low hanging branches to fetch a fistful of berries." 

I was shocked! It wasn't the expensive vacations or the epic road trips. It wasn't the stage or the awards. It was a simple walk in the filtered sunshine of a mountain landscape, and the unexpected pursuit of mouth-watering berries. And, although I vividly remember that afternoon walk as well, Mariah and I had never talked about it since that day, 8 years ago. 

Then it was Ambria's turn. She reflected on the myriad of sporting activities and extreme adventures we've had. She said, "My favorite memory is probably the time we went snowboarding together at Bittersweet. We were both learning, and you fell a lot." She added, "I don't know why that particular memory stands out as my favorite, but it was just really fun to be with you!" 

I remembered that day as well. I considered all of the blue ribbons and goals scored and awards and accolades that she had achieved. I was her personal Hype Man on the sidelines, cheering her on to victory. I thought about all of the deep talks and late night movies and long road trips to Chicago or Montana. But nope. It was a wintry evening on the icy hill, creating Bittersweet memories together. 

There was another memory that stood out as well... last winter, in Jackson Hole. Ambria had struggled to overcome her hesitation on the steep slopes. She traded her snowboard in for Teresa's skis, and we took the lift to the top of the moderate run. Immediately, she fell. Twice. Three times. Then, in tears, she unlatched her skis and surrendered. I sat down beside her in the snow. I said, "I know it's frustrating. But I'm not going anywhere. I'll walk with you." So we both carried our skis all the way down the mountain. I think at one point I even carried her. Those are the memories that she holds sacred. 

When it came to Ashlyn, she reflected on White Water Rafting, overcoming her fears of heights, climbing mountains, and going on a cruise together. But she also added, "And every morning when I wake up early, and we're alone together in the living room. We usually talk or watch the Bucket List Family, or even go on a secret run to Biggby to get smoothies!" 

 Ashlyn is living in the tween paradox of childhood and adolescence. She loves the rhythms of being tucked in each night, but she also loves her own freedom. She watches Mariah and Ambria closely, as they have helped to raise her. She craves individual attention from Teresa and loves to go on 1-1 dates. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We are trapped in a sequential understanding of time. This moment is the only access point to understand the journey thus far, and the anticipation of things to come. We see through the lens of moments, seconds, ticking away like grains of sand falling from an hourglass. "Don't blink!" they warn us. "Life is a dash between birth and death!" From the moment of delivery, our children are speeding away from their nest, and we are left to comprehend the emptiness of evaporated time. Time is running out. Time is slipping away. Time is now. We refer to this version of time as "Chronos" (Chronology). 

This idea of time is measured in quantity; ticking clocks and watches and automated cell phone alert us with alarms. Moving forward to the unknown. Onward and upward and downward and outward and everywhere but   i n w a r d .

Meanwhile, the heart beats like the algorithm of a life sentence. Fear gives birth to anger, and anxiety is born in the furnace of depression. We are anxious about fleeting moments, and capturing it all on camera. Every moment. Every memory. Every conversation. Every last look. Like shredded wrapping paper on the floor on a Christmas morning, our memories become a whirlwind of confusion. That song, that scent, that image of a sunset in the rearview mirror... these nostalgic gifts that are fingerprints of a cosmic grace. 

But the ancient greeks believed that there is such a thing as time outside of time. They believed in moments that were so holy, that they transcended the time/space continuum and were secured in the vault of an empty hourglass. They believed in sacred time. When time stood frozen in captivity to the atomic energy of an event. They referred to this version of time as "Kairos". 

If Chronos is measured by quantity, then Kairos is measured by quality.

And at the end of my life, I will see the flash and the dash... the blur of a million intersecting points of love and hate, laughter and pain, conflict and resolve, hugs and fists, and the avalanche unexpected turns in the road. I will see Byron road, and a small boy learning to balance barefoot on the guard rail around the corner by the Muskegon Airport. I will see my best friend  Dan Cook and I running after a herd of deer in the woods behind Johnny Galindo's house. I will hear the church bells and the judge's anvil and the sound of muffled voices over intercoms in the county jail, and I will taste the bittersweet juice of communion offered by ragamuffin saints Awakening to a reality of a Love unearned. I will touch the healing scars on my wife's legs after being attacked by the neighbor's pitbull, and smell the the flowers growing outside the kitchen window. I will know the difference between an acquaintance and true friend. I will trust that I am held by the familiar embrace of a Rescuer who has known me fully and loved me anyway.

Chronos will be shattered by Kairos. 

"At the side of the everlasting Why, is a Yes and a Yes and a Yes." - E.M. Forster

a hug on pause

 when i was twenty five years old i got lost in the manistee national forest in the middle of a snowstorm, i had a walkman with headphones and a cassette tape of jack hyles preaching a sermon from the old testament called "I Did Know Thee In the Wilderness" and i wandered down to the water's edge and fell asleep in the snowbank and i knew that my heart had been strangely warmed by the charcoal fire and the relentless invitation of my rabbi to come and die. 

remember when saturday nights were littt with atomic optimism as we broke break and studied the apostles teachings and dimmed the lights and sang our hearts out to delirious and the happy song and the tambourine didn't fall into the rhythm of the guitar but joel was spirit filled and jacob had his hands raised and mariah was an infant and we knew that the ceiling was glass and heaven was invading earth.

when i was in jail a thief stole my shoes. when i confronted him, he spit in my face. a crowd swarmed around and a fight was immanent. surely, this is my rock bottom. (what is yours?). but then a stranger approached the thief and interrupted the conflict. he said, "i remember jerry depoy jr, he once picked me up when i was hitchhiking and took me to the store and bought me food." and in that moment i recognized him as angel that i had unwittingly entertained a few months prior. 

when i was out on work release, i remember standing in the check-out lane at meijer. i was carrying a bag full of boxer shorts that i had planned to layer and smuggle back into the jail to distribute to my new friends whom had been wearing the same underwear since the day of their incarceration. while was standing in line i heard whispers and in my peripheral vision i could see the pointed fingers in my direction. bowing my head in toxic shame, i tried to avoid eye contact. when the cashier took my credit card she read the name. "Jerry DePoy Jr.? I remember you. You once came to us after our house had burned down and you took up an offering to collect resources for my children." she then walked around from behind the counter and gave me a hug. the kind of hug that kicks the bloody hell out of shame. 

[my givashitter broke three weeks ago]. 

Let's Make This Crystal Clear...

Et abierunt per laborem interpretandi haec verba cruciatibus demum in Latinam, quod vitam sunt, sic obsessed per quam absolute quid me oportet facere, vel cogitandi. (Quod est mirabile mihi quidam repellentes, qui mecum sunt, qui sequimini me, et sermo omnis actio!)

Sic ergo patet quod in hoc quod luto: ego sum stultus. Ego sum peccator. Sum infirma. Perditus sum. Ego addicta est. EGO sum indignus. Ego certe ipso. Ego reprobus efficiar. Tanto sum exosus. Ego sum fugienda est. Ego odio. Ego foris circulus amoris tui.

Tu potes cogitare in corde meo extinguere?

Motus quiescat vox milia tu putas?

Tu potes cogitare fugiat redemptionem quæ est detonating procellam excitemus in venis?

Tu potes cogitare resurgendi abstrusum nuntium - hae cum illis visibilis cicatrices et vulnera et flammeum illud apertum et lingua Bibliae et patentibus venis in collum est iens ut erumpat, quia et vidistis me, et non est inanis Iesu sepulcrum?

Cur quaerere inter mortuos pro vivis?

Et longe a cella venio comitatus Muskegon carcere, Ego sum ostium pulsat conscendens in tecto et ego sum iter inimicitiae rasis parietibus circa portas nudis pedibus incedens, et ego post tergum tuum denominatio hominis et flammam gladii ...

De revolutionibus progrediendo non televised. Erit necessario consequitur mutatum vitae testimoniis alopecian heroine Addicts receptaque Stumblers impetu pectus Domini bittersweet lacrimis congredi ad prunas et infirma mundi ut confundat sapientes et infirma mundi confundat fortia.

I am the prodigal.

Verum tu, frater senior, stantes in driveway habens ingenium tantrum, quod occiso vitulo, et calefaciebant cohortem et hoc paratus est mensa coram hostibus meis. 

.

the great cloud of witnesses

from the back row of the the little white church on the corner where the sign says 'Jesus saves', i disassemble the offering envelope and draw a picture of redemption with red ink like the words bleeding through the pages of the new testament, the great cloud of witnesses surround me now with a violent yawn and the rocks in the pockets begin to cry out like the trees clapping their hands and the heavens reopened to rewrite the ending from the beginning (i was fearfully and wonderfully made).

lake effect snow buried our tent at pj hoffmaster state park, and dad awoke early to stoke the fire and these anthrakia coals have turned to ice as i'm interrogated thrice, of a professed love that is unpossessed. so i point to the beloved and say 'what about him!?', only to be beckoned to follow the Way of an upside down cross...

so i walk into the room and stare at the whispers hushed and wait to see who blinks first. because i'm staring through your powerpoint presentation like an MRI exposing a primal hypocrisy. 

you are loved and there's nothing you can do about it. 

The Awakening

Hidden beneath a blanket of snow, I noticed a plastic tarp. The city trucks had plowed the snow, and showered the sidewalks with the Polar Vortex, and the homeless huddled to keep warm. I crossed my arms, shivering to keep my bones warm as I walked along Division Avenue... The temperatures had plummeted beneath the full moon, and the streetlights revealed a pair of boots attached to a body curled without motion.

I stopped at the human lump beneath the tarp beneath the snow beneath the streetlight, and watched closely for any sign of life. "Hey, are you okay under there?"

No response.

I glanced to the north, and looked for any others. Only turn signals and brake lights greeted me, as a streetlight turned from yellow to red. The frigid temperature had kept most of the motorists off the road, and I found myself alone with a heavy heart.

"Hey" I tried again, this time with nudge. "Wake up."

I brushed the snow from the plastic tarp, and pulled it back to reveal an intoxicated man with a swollen eye. He blinked a few times and mumbled, "I'm alright." The stench of cheap whiskey permeated his breath, and when he finally locked eyes with mine, I could see cumulonimbus clouds threatening rain.

"No, you're not. This is not okay. You can't stay here. It's seven degrees." I brushed the snow off his shoulder and asked him if he was hungry. He shook his head and closed his eyes, perhaps wanting me to just leave him alone. I looked at my watch (almost midnight) and considered calling 911.

"You're going to die out here. I don't want you to die." I realized that he had made choices that burned a lot of bridges. I knew that there were resources available to help him, but his apparent addiction to alcohol had held him captive to this virus. The streets were his home, and this tarp was his castle.

"You're coming with me." I said. My car was parked a few blocks away, so I left briefly only to return with the passenger door open. I walked around to the sidewalk again and physically took his arm. He resisted at first, but I told him I was going to get him some food and shelter. He finally stood to his feet, and with wobbly knees stepped toward my vehicle. I helped him into the passenger seat, and buckled his seatbelt. He leaned his head back against the window, and closed his eyes as I did a U-Turn in the middle of Division Street.

The streetlight turned red, and I stopped accordingly. As I waited for the light to change, I looked over to the parking lot of an empty gas station... there beside the building, I saw two more people seeking shelter from the wind. A blue tent was getting battered by the wind, and they were struggling to stay warm. I pulled into the otherwise vacant parking lot, and I stepped out of the car.

As I approached them, they immediately asked for money. Although my instincts are negative, I realized that is exactly what I would have done if I were them! I didn't give them any cash, but I did offer to help them find shelter and food. "Come on, get in..."

So here I was, driving around downtown Grand Rapids with three homeless friends. I learned their names, and I listened to their incredulous stories. Love lost and found and lost again, heroes and villains, and prison and scars and the inability to find employment and the vicious cycle of addiction and recovery and relapse and bus passes and meal vouchers, and Jesus.

Everything inside of me wanted to lecture and fix their problems. It was very tempting to not give my scholarly insights and unsolicited advice. But during this season, I am learning to do more listening than talking; Jesus asked twice as many questions as he answered. I don't have all the answers, and I have never walked a mile in their shoes. I can't pretend to have been there...

But I am learning to listen. And I'm learning to coordinate my prayers with the rhythm of breathing. I am learning to inhale gratitude and exhale entitlement. I am very much still under reconstruction, but slowly being transformed into the image of beloved.

On Holding On and Letting Go

At the center of The Story is a paradox that cuts and heals simultaneously. It is the collision of justice and mercy, where pain meets pleasure, and shame becomes glory. Throughout the Scriptures is a tension of a called-out people of faith, who are living with doubt. And a God who is described as both the Holy Terror and the Abba Father. And a Son who is both fully God and fully human. And a Spirit who brings comfort and conviction to my heart that is both screaming and silent.
This God is absent and present. He is hanging on an execution stake, mocking the mockers, destroying destruction, and killing death.

And it is no wonder that I am learning to rest in the paradox of holding on and letting go. “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.” I love you. I don’t love you. I believe you. I doubt you. I surrender. I keep fighting. I’m swimming. I’m sinking. I’m living. I’m dying. I’m squeezing with my hands open. I am burying my mustard seed in the soil of insecurity. I’m singing of the Resurrection and the Life, while wearing sackcloth and ashes and grieving the death of my hope. I am starting a new chapter and it begins with I don’t know. 
Always, never. 
Sometimes. 
Maybe.

- Jay DePoy

The Story Behind Your Scars

Beneath the surface of this bruise is a vein of backfiring blood running toward a resolution. You see only the external evidence of an internal eruption, but time will prove that bruises fade and scars become the everlasting witness of yesterday's choices.

Behind each scar is a story. Every inch of the journey has been recorded on the canvas of mortal flesh; Skinned knees, amputated appendages, and knuckles bleeding from the incessant knocking on the door of heaven, for mercy.

Hidden in the filter of your photoshopped existence is the Truth of bridges of torched by broken promises. The contract was conceived in distrust, but the covenant remains eternal. The smoke of Sinai still hovers over the commitment; the faithfulness of the I Am, when i am not.

Scars are tattoos with better stories. They are narratives written in blood, and the last chapter is still being written. Your story is unfinished. Do not let regret shame you into silence, because the hour is late and the time is now.

Own your story. It's the one thing they can't take away.

They can suffocate your dreams, revoke your license, and disqualify your ordination. They can pull the plug on your breathing machine, and spin the narrative into clean categories of black and white and us and them and right and wrong and pure and polluted. They lock you up in a prison of toxic shame, and write your epitaph with permanent markers. They can start the prayer chain and gatekeepers can sound the alarm of an enemy wolf among innocent sheep. The revisionists can deconstruct your His/Story and you can choose to allow them, [or]

You can let your scars become the evidence of a scandalous mercy that screams of a Creator who uses the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and the weak things of the world to shame the strong. Don't hide your scars from your children. Reveal the ashes and reconstruct a better tomorrow. Lean into the dis-ease, and be vulnerable enough
to wake up, rise up, take up your bed and walk.

Conversations in the Mirror

Your best days are in the rearview mirror. 

Remember that one time when it was New Year's Eve and you were in the middle of the circle listening to your favorite band with your favorite people and it was snowing and your stomach hurt from laughing so hard at the stolen thunder and you stood with your back against the wall and watched the frozen pipes burst through the ceiling and you said it was a sign from heaven?

Remember when they found her laying in the street - she was talking about the end of the world and the neighbors called the police and now the Social Workers are involved and we want someone to blame because the ultrasound was inconclusive. But I came from Grand Rapids to sit by your hospital bed to hold your hand and tell you that the DePoy's stick together, and everything will be ok and no this is not "God's Plan..." But maybe mental illness runs our bloodline because

I remember the time I stood on the roof of Holland Community Hospital and the voices encouraged me to jump but it was not the voice of my Abba, and I knew that this was a spiritual war, and I had embraced the cold porcelain toilet hurling up the truth about the rest of the story and the unwritten chapters of love lost and found and swinging in the dark at the inevitable resignation of the exodus lovelution.

But what if Brene Brown is right? What if this is all just a narrative that I've created to appear as the victim in a violent crime? What if the other side of the story was much more loving and less complicated and we could make sense of the pipes bursting from the record cold temperatures in the harbor theatre? And what if the doctor was actually good, and not trying to harm you? And what if being bipolar doesn't mean you lose your soul? And what if the story I've been telling myself is fiction?

Because your best days are still ahead of you. And love still wins. And children still laugh. And after New Year's Eve comes a New Beginning, and after the frozen pipes thaw and the demolition removes the ashes, reconstruction comes around Easter and the tomb is empty and Teresa believes in mercy and my value and worth are sealed until the day of redemption.

The Other Side of the Fence

In the woods behind my childhood home, a familiar path led through the trees and over the creek. Around the bend and up the hill, to a wooden fence raised over my head;
This boundary created space between the invited and the rejected.

On the other side of the fence was a swimming pool, filled with the inner circle of neighborhood children. Danny and Davey, with their golden hair and perfect tans... my heroes. From the bushes nearest the woods, I crept up slowly to the fence. I could hear, but I could not see. I could smell, but I could not taste. The delicious sound of belonging.

I remember sitting there, crying, for hours. They had promised to invite me to the party, but in the sudden rush to the diving board, and the euphoric crash below - somehow I had been forgotten. But that was Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday. And the weekend, the same.

I was homeschooled.

So my best friend was a tree fort. And a dog named Binky. And a slingshot that would become the vehicle driving the premeditated murder of a thousand squirrels. And occasionally, the neighbors window - which would become the target of all of my rage. The anger was born from an inexplicable sadness that permeated my adolescence, and has burned through my heart until this day.

Life and Death

I can still hear the doctor's voice, repeated in my head. "If your biopsy returns with evidence of cancer, you may have anywhere from two to ten years to live."

A few days later, I received a voicemail from the doctor's office requesting me to come in for a consultation. I didn't get the message until the office had closed, and I listened again to the message.

I've had two panic attacks in my life. 

The first time I ever had a panic attack, I was delivered some crushing news by four men whom I had once considered to be my closest friends. I began to hyperventilate, and stumbled outside and fell into a snowbank, unable to breathe. I thought I was having a heart attack, but I realize now that it was just an emotional bomb detonating in my brain.

The second time was in 2014, when I received an email that a "storm was coming..." and that my life was about to change forever, followed by a series of accusations against my character. Some of the grenades were full of smoke, false alarms. Others were time bombs with fire and shrapnel and unconfessed sin. My sin was about to be exposed, and my whole world was about to cave in.

The panic attacks were not false alarms. They were real threats resulting in concrete pain. All of the things I once held dear had become eviscerated in a slow unraveling of my deepest shame. I could blame no-one, and collapsed into a plea of guilt.

It has taken three years to rebuild the foundation of my life. The infrastructure of the first half of my life had been shattered, and like pieces of a puzzle coming together - grace has been recapitulating a story that is still being written.

I'm finding grace in unexpected places. In a vintage typewriter with errors in ink; whiteout. In a criminal record with sins exposed; expunged. In divorce and remarriage with baggage in blood; forgiveness. It's true, grace sneaks up on us from behind, and in the dark.

So when I heard the recent announcement that I might have cancer, I presented an attitude of fearless indifference. But that night I could not sleep. I tossed and turned for hours. Two to ten years? 

"Dear God, "I thought. "I am not even close to being ready to prepare for my death." I began to think about all of the things that I have yet to accomplish. I want to walk my daughters down the aisle. I want to see their children grow strong and proud. I want to give them a last name that they can be proud of, not defined by google or Siri or MLive - but by the saturation of redemption! I ache for the reconciliation of relationships, and the restoration of my spiritual gifts. I miss the local church. I miss the Lakeshore Revolution of Love. I miss the eXodus. I miss singing in a circle with my best friends. I miss studying the Text in community. I miss preaching. I miss dreaming. I miss hope and wonder and resurrection and free hugs and love winning and river baptisms and colored chalk on the sidewalk and homeless hallelujahs.

To be reminded of your mortality is a sobering thing.

In his book, The Holy Longing, Ronald Rohlheiser writes about a restlessness at the epicenter of the human heart, aching for a revolution. This "fundamental dis-ease" strikes us like eternity in our hearts (Ec. 3:11), and our ability to channel this energy into a focused purpose is directly related to the health of our spirituality.

Rohlheiser says there are three phases of our spiritual journeys:

The 1st phase is the struggle to get our lives together.

The 2nd phase is the struggle to give our lives away.

The 3rd phase is the struggle to give our deaths away.

I pray that God will give me the opportunity to collect the pieces of my first phase, and with His grace create a mosaic of art and beauty. I pray that my life will be an offering, and my death will be a sweet-smelling aroma offered to my loved ones.

To those who knew me best, and loved me anyway. 

The results of the biopsy came back negative. But the voltage to my heart has awoken me to a spiritual war that I am willing to engage, again. I am unfinished. The last chapter is still being written. My autopsy will reveal a heart that refused to quit, even after the resignation of my mind and body.


.

let me be found in You

as a drop of water is lost in the ocean
so is the flight of the alone to the Alone

take from me these november thoughts
of never enough and endless thirst
replace these tears with the solace of Your Presence

if it was all over tomorrow
i've been nothing without You
if these lungs inhaled the sudden conclusion
the rapture from this world to the next is a mystery
resolved in the paradox of justice and mercy

let me be found in You.


_

This Little Light - Jay DePoy

When my dad was a little boy, he used to wet the bed. One day he came home from school and the bus stopped in front of his house, and all of kids on the bus looked out the window and saw soiled bedsheets hanging from the clothesline, drying in the breeze.

This is my story. Click HERE.

Downtown Asheville Reflections, by Jay DePoy

A few days ago I took a walk through downtown Asheville. The winter rain left a visible fog, and although the temperature wasn't comforting, my love for this city kept me warm.

I stopped and talked to Happy, who greeted me with his usual hug. He's lost weight, but the cancer can't take away his smile! He seems to know each passerby personally, and they linger to hear about his latest adventure with the police department. We sat together and talked about where we've been and where we're going. He told me stories about running wild as a boy, setting Asheville on fire. And now, in his later years, he's doing the same...

I walked past the red bus, where I first saw the Light.

There was Pritchard Park, where I first saw the Love. I remember our first Friday night, the Drum Circle gathered the freak show, and the pulse of a desperate city vibrated for several blocks. I noticed a gathering of bullhorns and neon signs across the street, spreading the Good News of God's Hate. My three daughters were confused, obviously, because they have always heard about God's Love... So the next week we made some signs of our own, and handed out free water, and free hugs "in Jesus' Name".

I walked past Scully's, a downtown bar where on any given Monday evening you will find an eclectic gathering of atheists, agnostics, pagans, orthodox Christians, and post-labeled  "other". These evenings were filled with passionate dialogue around an Open Table between racial, religious, and political ideologies. And I used to sit and listen to the stories, and share my own... about how God radically rescued me from me, and took me from the basement of the Muskegon County Jail. I shared with them about the shame and hate and grace and forgiveness. To this day, I have retained many friends from this season... And I still get midnight phone calls, asking me to talk them down off the ledge.

And in the distance is the ABCCM Veteran's Quarters, housing over two hundred homeless veterans. I will never forget Bill, who had lost everything. He once had a six-figure salary and a big home in Wilmington. But when he was laid off, he spiraled into a depression that ate him alive, literally. The last time I saw him, we were standing on the sidewalk talking about God and heaven and hell. He asked me about the eternal destiny of those who commit suicide. After some silence, he put his hand into the shape of a gun and said, "Soon." A few days later, he went down to the Swannanoa River with a pistol and never came back.

The French Broad Chocolate Lounge, where Jamie and I used to linger over mocha and wine, telling jokes with no punch line, and playing footsies under the table. She used to order too much chocolate and then insist that I finish her dessert. And sometimes the live music was too loud for conversation, so we just looked at each other, and knew.

After collecting my thoughts, I sat on a park bench and gave thanks. For all of the ups and downs and lefts and rights and closed doors and opened windows and friends and enemies and concerned brothers and runaway rumors and baptisms and hugs and questions and doubts and the all-consumming hope that buries my heart, here.

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…

An Open Letter To My Younger Self

Forgive me, please. I've been meaning to connect with you for quite some time. Days became months, and months became years... I got busy, and distant. The space created was intentional and forced and in our best interest, trust me.

The truth is, I have harbored hatred in my heart toward you. On many occasions I wanted to cut you to pieces, and shatter the mirror that reminded me of your depravity! I have had dreams of killing you, and pushing you off a towering ledge ~ and I imagined what your funeral would be like. I have torn apart your pictures, and mocked your crooked teethe and poor posture.

I know you! I know the way you habitually pick at your fingers when you're lost in thought. I know your secrets and your shame. I know you've said too much. Yes, I know about that closet addiction and the bible verse you quote to tell yourself that it will be okay. I know you blame everyone else for the ecclesiastical trauma you limped away from. But the truth is, you were never more true than the moment you plead guilty.

And in your confession, things have begun to change internally.
Now therefore, there is no condemnation.

If I could have your complete attention, I would put you in a choke hold until you are ready to surrender to my counsel... There are a few things I want to tell you:

1. Guard Your Heart

Be careful. In your desire to love and be loved, you will be tempted to trust the wrong people with the most sacred of your possessions. Your heart is a vessel that pumps royally-transfused blood into veins that run fervently toward mercy. You stay awake at night dreaming of changing the world and making a difference and zeal for the Father's House will consume you.

Don't trust the applause of men. They will hail you in one breath, and crucify you in the next. Don't trust the shallow nature of momentum and the ever-illusive amens. Don't trust the pinches on the cheek or the words of affirmation from fair-weather friends. Don't give your heart away to the lethal drug of the stage. The addiction is a virus that will eat your soul, and rape your innocence.

After you've had your heart torn asunder, you will find yourself more likely to random overreactions of sudden panic and noisy retreat. You'll see the worst in people. You'll avoid conflict because you will be afraid of being abandoned. You will prefer to hide under the covers and pray that the clouds roll away.

And it will take years to heal from the destructive lies that you've believed; Years to uproot the weeds from the garden you've planted... the garden of regret.

2. Love Your Wife

After the smoke clears and the haters leave anonymous comments, she will be the anchor of hope that wakes up beside you every morning. Her quiet strength roars in a decibel one octave too high for cognitive evaluation, but her faith in action will restore your confidence that all will be well.

She is the shy freshmen in a canoe that left you speechless. She wore the fire out of those birkenstocks, and met you everyday at the clock tower on campus. She will bring you three adorable daughters, and you will find in her a resilience that silences the enemy. She can rock a hoola-hoop like a Puerto-Rican diva, and her maternal instincts know no boundaries.

At the end of your life, she will be there until the last breath is taken. Every decision you make will be an investment in your covenant, and the outpouring of grace will be the remedy to the moody blues. Waking up next to her is evidence that the Lord's mercies are new every morning...

3. Have Faith in Grace

All of those elementary Sunday School lessons are true.
"Jesus loves you, this you know... For the Bible tells you so. Little ones to him belong, we are weak but He is strong." From your infancy, you have been raised to believe in the promises of Scripture; God is good and Jesus died on the cross for your sins and his blood covers your guilty plea.

Don't ever stop believing in the beautiful Story of Amazing Grace! Place your confidence in the promise that God's grace is enough to sustain you. One day, you will be tempted to dismiss it all as unknowable and uncertain... In that moment, remember the time you were baptized in a river in Montana, beside the waterfall. Remember the feeling of resurrection when you came up from out of the water. Remember breathing in the abundance of scandalous grace, and never forget the freedom you embraced.

Grace is a dance that you will learn to embrace. Your first attempts will be awkward and out of sync with the rest of the world. You will be tempted to retreat to the corner and sulk in your loneliness. But the magnetism of the Dance will woo you back to the movement of yes and wait and surrender. And your natural inclination will collide with the spiritual insistence that the song is familiar.

Grace will squeeze the hate from your mirror,
and wipe the tears from your eyes.

She will seduce you with her relentless invitation.

Her violence is an incoming Tide, washing away your castles of sand.

You will learn to inhale the surrender, and drown in her mystery.