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. 

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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. 

Identity + Mission (Jay DePoy)

 I'm learning that I will never understand my mission in life, until I first understand my true identity. 

My name is Jay DePoy, son of Jerry and Judy DePoy, and the father to three beautiful daughters. 

I have tried and failed and tried again and failed again and still keep knocking. 

I have a criminal record and a spiritual limp.

I'm an average student with a penchant for pulling the fire alarm and escaping through the broken window. I cheated on the the final exam, and I've been suspended more times that I can count. I have let you down. 

But that's not what defines me. 

I'm also a loving husband and daddy, brother and friend. I have walked with the broken, and watched people literally take their last breaths. I have sat under the bridge and talked with those experiencing mental illness, addiction relapse, called the suicide hotline, and listened to the stories of those outside your circle of acceptance. I am a friend of sinners. 

My mission, is to keep going. To keep loving. To keep forgiving and seeking forgiveness. 

- Jerry (Jay) DePoy

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. 

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Where Are(n’t) You?

Three thousand miles deep into the heart of nowhere, I’ve searched for a sign of Your presence. The ever-present absence is the one constant chorus in a song with no bridge, and the harmony sounds like thunder falling from the stairway to heaven where Jacob climbed and fell and wrestled and prevailed. Still You remain a memory, a tragedy, a rumor of eyewitness and the echo of golgothic cries... ‘Why have you forsaken me!?”

I’ve come full circle to this geographic assignment. Maybe it was romantic nostalgia - this assumption that You would meet me here on the porch of this rustic cabin outside Yellowstone. When I was here fifteen years ago You arrested me with Your grace and suffocated me with a chokehold of Your agape love. But that was a long time ago... a lot has happened since. I fell down the stairs a few times and bloodied my faith and my stamina has faded. My spiritual gas tank is fuming, and there is no exit on this beaten path.

The rain is an unexpected knock on the door of my heart. I wake up late, confused. Boiling water for French press coffee, and stumbling outside to the porch. I sit sheltered from the storm and look back to the future of my life.

From this vantage point, through the steam and beyond the Grand Teton Mountains, I see Immanuel - my bunk mate in jail. I realize now that he. was. You. A visitation turned habitation, the ever-constant Presence. I see my sedan crashing on the highway, rolling several times across the median on US 31, and landing upside down facing oncoming traffic. No seatbelt. I walked away without visible wounds. Externally purified/internally traumatized. The first eyewitness vomited at the site of what appeared to be obvious fatality. When I emerged, barefoot (!?), he asked, “Do you believe in God?”

I see Skot, Brad, and Matt running toward the pariah that exposed me as indecent and unholy. Matt said, “You can run from this, but wherever you go - there you are.” I see Dan with arms raised singing about a grace that I can’t comprehend. I see hugs and a holy kiss followed by shrugs and a hundred fists. I see my aging father limping on reconstructed knees and an aching mother who has achieved sainthood through selflessness and I see the horror on my Mariah’s face the day I left Asheville forever (for now), and Ambria’s acceptance of circumstances she can’t control, and Ashlyn’s runaway tear as she sits in the plastic kiddie pool in the driveway as I turn away. I see the state border sign come and go and I have to pull over because I’m crying too hard. I see a screwdriver and a bloody wrist and they say objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they actually are.

I see an Awakening and a love from which there’s no escape. I see social media as image management and forbidden fruit hanging low in the form of questions from a serpent to challenge the mandates of Shalom. I look in the mirror and I see Eve shifting the blame and scrambling for fig leaves. I see the Grand Haven pier and dial 1-800-273-8255. I hear the voice of God on the other line, asking me about the names and ages of my daughters. I see Teresa walking along the edge of the north shoreline, toward me in a white dress.

When Jesus cried out from the cross, He was quoting the Hebrew Psalm, chapter 22. “My God... My God, why have You forsaken me!?” This has been the crescendo of the last 15 years. A lot has transpired since I’ve come full circle to this cabin in the mountains. And as I’ve wondered aloud these questions have haunted me. Where are You?

Psalm 22 bleeds into the beloved Psalm 23. The psalmist looks in the rear view mirror and sees God as Immanuel, walking beside the streams of water, and cooking breakfast beside a charcoal fire (in the presence of my enemies) and exhales, “You are with me!”

He was with me the whole time. He was there on the stage and in the cage. He was there in the spotlight and in the furnace. He was there beside the fire with a thrice repeated question... Do you love me?

As I write these words, I’m looking out at the falling rain beneath storm clouds over a rustic cabin outside Yellowstone National Park. I’ve come full circle to a love with no beginning and no ending.

Burning Bushes and the Relentless Invitation

A few years ago I started walking the streets along Division without a GPS. When the Spirit prompted me to turn left, I wouldn't hesitate. When the Voice interrupted the constant static of sirens and solicitations, I would listen. When the fire in in my heart compelled me to stop and notice the burning bush on every corner, I would freeze with anticipation.

The conversation usually began with a request for a couple of dollars, or loose change. A bus ticket or a meal pass was urgently needed. Another funeral in another state and another sketchy story about why cash was requested.

On the other side of a deeper dialogue, Truth revealed pain concealed. 

I began to learn the names of faces whom became more than statistics to me. Friendships were formed beneath the highway overpass, where my homeless friends were hiding in plain sight. The concrete bridges around Grand Rapids became permanent shelters from the unpredictable Michigan weather. Sleeping bags and plastic tarps were hidden behind trees during the day, invisible to the eyes of a thousand motorists in transport to the Sweet Bye and Bye.

Time has a way of humbling us all. I used to think I could rescue those in danger, and liberate the captives. I used to think that my calling was Messianic, and that my blood could save. I used to believe that I was the Savior.

Until I repeatedly self-destructed and landed in a pool of my own vomit beside a porcelain throne that felt like a prison of regret. In time, I eliminated the excess egocentric bile, and stood open and exposed before the Voice.

"Who do you say that I am?" The whisper from heaven tormented my conscience with a grace unrelenting. The Truth is, I did not know. I had confessed an allegiance that I had not demonstrated. I had professed an alliance that I had betrayed. As a young man, I vowed to take a bullet for my Savior, and I gave the oath of my word. Time and time again, I woke up to raging roosters and mocking shame. In those moments I had locked eyes with the One who loved me, and I escaped to a lonely place to weep bitterly.

So as I stood before my friends on the street... as I sat beneath the overpass and heard the cries of my friends in the bondage of addiction, I could nod and say, "Me too."

But I have come to share the good news:

One day, when I was writing a goodbye letter to my family, and drafting the blueprints of my exodus, I was confronted by a scandalous grace. The heavens opened to collide with the gates of hell, as the Resurrected Mercy King walked toward me. He did not speak, except to say, "Peace be with you, Jay." He sat down beside my ocean of shame, and He held out His hands. I could see fresh scars; evidence of the cost of my liberation.

Until that moment, I had learned to live with the identity given to me by men. My identity is a self-righteous, cocky, murderous, adulterer, lying, thief, disqualified, banished, excommunicated, failure. For years I had protested and finally accepted my fate as a degenerate.

But in that moment, in the eyes of the Least of These, I saw Jesus.
The question was then reversed. I asked Him, "And who do You say that I am?"

He looked at me with tunnel vision, and saw my heart. It was beating on life support. He unplugged the machines, and rewired His veins into my own bloodline. He took off his outer garment and washed my dirty feet. He wiped away the tears from eyes, and slowly stood before me. He then took off His white robe of righteousness, and put it around me.

"Mine." He said.

 .

capturing memories, suddenly fading

remember when we used to sing in the y'all come choir
and mike used to wave his arms as he led the congregation
in another stanza of just as i am (without one plea)

outside the open windows, the sound of cars passing by
and curtains blowing in the wind
as i gently disassembled the offering envelopes
and scribbled my plans in pencil

remember when i filled up the honda and drove out west
as far as i could go before hitting the water's edge
tumbleweed chased me as california erased me
but the oil never ran dry

forget the time i filled up the mazda and drove down south
back to the hospital of my birth
seeking admission again, full circle to where it all began
but the admissions denied the application
and the oil never ran dry

whatever happened to the castles of sand
shoveling snow with frozen bare hands
winnetaska is winding and waiting
to capture the memories suddenly fading

remember sitting in pieces in the counselor's chair
a five o'clock shadow and a thousand yard stare
beeping sensations and alternate vibrations
EMDR therapy and psychological heresy

so much has changed since the temple collapsed
the fines have been paid but the meters relapsed
creeds and confessions of a sinner's redemption
applications for admission meets sudden rejection

but i remember the y'all come choir
the Open Table and the sermons on fire
the invitation to the whosoever and the happily after never
but the oil has dissipated and the memories have faded
to a flannelgraph story of angels and glory

and whatever happened to soul winning
and sword drills and bus routes and cold calling
whatever happened to river baptisms and bright eyes
and shotgun weddings and suits and ties
give me oil in my lamp, keep it burning burning burning

remember the time we stood in the driveway
and argued about the color of the sky
ever changing in the setting sun
maybe we were both right
but you insisted and i resisted
and we haven't talked in years
but i have a picture of you in a shoebox under my bed and sometimes i wonder if i could go back if i could i would i should have told you all the things i saw in you, as i sat beneath the solitude tree waiting for you to wait for me.




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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

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.

"...It's a Cold and Broken, Hallelujah."

The carpet felt more like concrete, as I collapsed beneath the table and erupted into a violent explosion of salty tears and self-hatred. The world I had known was forever changed in the unraveling of my shame, finding a shattered mirror and a fist and a whisper, "wherever you go, there you are."

Find me here, inconsolable and unrecognizable. A blanket of suicidal thoughts and imaginary voices calling me to run run run from the truth, and hide hide hide from the runaway tongues. I called Jennifer, Janelle, and Jonathan to say, "I love you." But this felt like the end of a long journey and
I was coming home.

From the carpet beneath the table, I was physically lifted and carried by an angel with tattoos and blue jeans. He drove me home when I was -less, and became my feet when I could not walk. There were no words, only the sound of choppy breathing and hyperventilating and the crushing weight of anxiety as I began to devise a plan for my escape. It was early in the afternoon, and rain had set in while the mountains of Asheville had begun to shake off the frostbite of late winter.

Cam laid me on the couch in his living room, and I rolled over to continue sobbing. These groans were immodest and explicit, and my hands had begun to tingle from the lack of circulation. It seemed my heart had stopped beating, and I was not getting enough oxygen. I cried bitterly, as the rooster crowed thrice. I trembled violently, as my fists became numb. There were no words spoken, only the sound of uninterpretable tongues toward heaven, have mercy.

I don't know how long I slept there on that couch. It seemed like days, but when I stirred I was confused. Where was I? What happened? My eyes opened slowly and began to adjust to the falling daylight. It must have been dusk, and only the fading natural light remained to illuminate through the windows. I was paralyzed in the aftermath of all things unholy; the ashes no longer provided heat - only the evidence that a fire once burned.

And there, beside the couch, sat my friend. He was unmoved and focused, watching me quietly from his chair beside me. To this day, I don't know how long he had been sitting there praying for me. All I do know is that in his provision of a non-anxious presence, he was delivering a powerful sermon.

[Intercession is the intersection between failing faith and saving grace.]

I remember that moment, being stirred back to reality. The pain was real, and it wasn't just a bad dream. The wounds would leave a visible scar on my reputation, and my children would bear the brunt of explaining that their dad (however flawed) still walked on water. Still, no words spoken. He just looked at me with inexplicable grace. His lips slowly formed to a slight smile, as if to say, "I know. It hurts. I love you. And I 'like' you. I am not going anywhere. Go back to sleep."

We locked eyes for a moment, and I will never forget the blanket of comfort that covered me as I experienced agape love. I felt the love and acceptance of God, embodied in a friend - embracing my cold and broken hallelujah.

- Jay DePoy

[S]easonal [A]ffective [D]isorder

there’s a few things i’ll always remember

like the uncomfortable quiet of november

and the way happy chases the ever after

like a kite without anchor in a natural disaster

all contacts deleted like a chorus repeated

advice gone unheeded, and the champion defeated

there’s a few things i’ll always remember

like the frozen burn of late december

when the leaves have turned from red to white

releasing the clutch, letting go and holding tight

at least the most is a friendship on fire

intimacy born in a furnace of desire

there’s a few things i’ll always remember

like the train tracks leading to always and never

turn your attention from the knife-wielding judas

disguised as cheek-kissing, traveling buddhist

at last the first is a step toward denial

so we crawl toward the altar down a blood-stained isle.

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.


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Lost and Found

Several months ago I began meeting with men who are in recovery from addiction(s). At a local city Rescue Mission, we gather in a circle and talk about hope and faith and brokenness. My own experience with rock bottom has given me a greater platform of authority than my degrees. I have been there. I know what it's like to curl up in the backseat of a car and pray for death. I have acquired a taste for self-hatred, and I know the bittersweet warmth of destruction.

But I've also seen the sunrise from an abandoned truck stop in South Carolina. I have watched the tide roll in and out and in again from a thousand beaches and I know that a mild sunburn is good for the soul. I know that gratitude begins where entitlement ends. I have forgiven and sought forgiveness. I am still learning to forgive myself. I am one beggar telling another beggar where I've found bread.

It is in a circle of hope at Guiding Light Mission, where we gather around our stories and reach for resurrection and life. We pray for each other, and laugh and cry and surrender and repeat. Recycling repentance like a squeaky bicycle chain needing the oil of mercy.

I met "Steven" on a cold, Sunday night in February. He was one of three men who openly shared stories of accumulation and loss. He opened up about addiction and recovery and relapse and spiritual bankruptcy. He had a wealth of information from years of experience. Steven was faithful to attend our meetings, and brought his amplified bible with cross references. He showed signs of fruitfulness and hope.

We became good friends. I used to give Steve a ride to work after our meetings. He would be dressed up in his work uniform, carrying a sack lunch for his midnight shift. We exchanged encouraging texts throughout the week, and I found solidarity in his admitted propensity to wander...

Steven shared with me of his dream of opening a non-profit organization that could serve as a safe place for people to overcome their addictions. His own history with drugs had given him a heart for others who were hellbent on self-destruction. I gave him money and time and encouragement. He gave me friendship, and gratitude.

And then, without warning, Steven disappeared.

He stopped coming to meetings and did not return my phone calls. I asked the leaders of the mission if they had seen him, and they were equally concerned. Steven had refused a drug test, and packed his bags... He left the shelter and returned to the streets.

When I heard the news, I stayed awake all night tossing and turning. I prayed aggressively believing that intercession would be the intersection between failing faith and saving grace. The next few days I spent driving up and down Division Street through downtown Grand Rapids. I looked for Steven on every corner - in the eyes of strangers and cops and robbers and shopkeepers. I searched for him on social media, leaving messages for him at every turn.

Why do I care so much about Steven? There are a thousand other distractions that I could exhaust my energy with. Should I just leave the light on and hope he returns like a prodigal to the front porch? Or should I leave the 99 and go hunt down the 1 missing?

Here's why.  Because I've been in Steven's shoes. I have run away to hide in my shame. I have covered my scars with the fig leaves of religion. I have quoted scripture in one sentence and cursed God in the next. I have violently defended the Name of my Savior, and then betrayed that name before the break of dawn.

And I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death. But I was hunted down by goodness and mercy, followed by the Rescuer. I have known what it is like to be lost, and I have experienced the humbling grace of being found. I love much because I have been forgiven much.

I am still looking for Steven. And when I find him, I am going to give him a hug. And I'm not going to ask any questions, or for an explanation. I am not interested in a religious inquisition. I have no desire to extract from him the details of absence. I just want to find him, and then drag him to the Table, and break off a piece of bread and pass him a cup and ask him to do the same for me.

Post Script: I have always been attracted to the margins. The streets. Those whom have been made to feel unwelcome in the American Church.

.

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.


_

The Healing Work of Anonymity

Find me here, in the last row of a broken circle. This new family, a worshipping community of African-Americans, has adopted me into the fire of hugs as I sway back and forth to the music. Clapping, standing, sitting, bleeding; my Hosanna was born in a furnace of doubt. My hallelujah is cold and broken. 

They do not know me here. Nobody knows my story. They must wonder about the white guy crying in the last row, wiping at tears with bleeding fingers from incessantly picking during sermons that make me nervous and hopeful. I run on like a sentence with a dangling gerund and hanging participle and 

One day I'm going to tell them my story. All of it. About me and you and the space between and the distance between confession and repentance and crucifixion and resurrection. One day I'm going to answer all of your questions. But not today.

Today I'm going to sway with the rhythm of the "ya'll come" choir, and sing about the some glad morning and the unbroken circle and the do lord oh do lord or do remember me... 

The Art of the Fracture (Jay DePoy)

My last sermon, ever.

Genesis: An Endless Beginning

The genesis of your life is the revelation that dying to self gives birth to the soul. In the intentional destruction of your temporary satisfaction, a new Kingdom is born within. When you crash from atop the ladder of human achievement, and you set fire to the blueprints of your American Dream, a seed is planted in your heart.

Once this seed takes root, the cultivation of your new life will announce the invasion of another Kingdom – Heaven on earth, from the upside down. When you choose to let go from the end of your rope, you find yourself caught in the all-consuming embrace of mercy.

And once mercy catches you, there is no escape.

It is only in this chosen unraveling, that you are truly whole. Self preservation has come through self destruction. In the glorious unbecoming, the objects in the rearview mirror will grow ‘strangely dim’, and in the eternal light of resurrection Hope, the shadows of death are chased away. The last has become first, and weak is the new strong. The lamb has returned as a Lion. The anguish of hate has been replaced by the deafening roar of Love.

Do you feel as if your life is a puzzle, with a missing peace? Have you ever conducted an inventory of your possessions and found your purpose to be missing? Are you surrounded by acquaintances, yet tormented by a cancerous loneliness? Perhaps you have pledged allegiance to the kingdom of accumulation, yet your heart feels empty.

Imagine standing outside the gate of a new world. The aroma of acceptance transcends the city from the Table of Grace within. The citizens of this new world, are anxious to greet you, and welcome you home. In this new reality, your broken heart will be intricately woven back together by a Great Physician, and your loneliness will dissipate into the oblivion of unconditional love.

-  Jay DePoy

I Believe

I believe that I've lost belief 

in promises and choruses and confessions of faith and doubt

that flannel graph stories of redemption can be recapitulated 

and monday follows a blood red sky and sunday never comes.

I believe in angels in blue jeans.

I believe in Ambria's promises and Ashlyn's nail polish and Mariah's runaway tears. 

I believe in bonfires and purple skies and cartwheels in the front yard

as Bruce Springsteen croons, 'Hey little girl is your daddy home?'

and Ambria answers, "Yes."

I believe doves land on the porch when you least expect it. And that grace sneaks up on you from behind, and in the dark. And regret grows at the speed of a five o'clock shadow. And the suitcase of shame is the One Constant reminder that if people really knew how deep the roots have grown, they will suddenly become too busy to return phone calls. 

I believe in thick, green grass beneath bare feet and the North Carolina mountains will always, never be the same. And home is her, and I am less. 

I believe that I've lost belief

in my own confessions and repentance and that, under a microscope, tears induced by an onion look tragically different than tears induced by a broken heart and the carpet at Grace Life International Counseling feels more like concrete. I believe that truck stops in South Carolina  are a good place to contemplate the apocalypse, (but the Counting Crows are not exactly helpful). I believe in turning off your cell phone to disconnect from the inquiring minds that have called too late. I believe in returning to where it all started, and putting an end to it. 

I believe in irrational, illogical, unscientific, scandalous, [borderline heretical] mercy. 

And that self-preservation feels a lot like self-destruction, but in the end - the world is forfeited in the acquisition of a soul restored. 

I believe I am more loved than I can comprehend, and less deserving than a crucified thief beside an innocent savior. I believe that love does not always win, and that sometimes the scars have the last word. I believe that Spring comes late to the epicenter of regressive culture, and though the waves are seductive, Lake Michigan is still too cold to engage. 

But if I could swim from here to there and back again, I'd take a mulligan to the foul balls and truly be like a tree, planted beside the rivers of water - with leaves that do not wither or fall in the autumn or freeze in the winter but shimmer in the infinite sun. 

If I could swim from here to there and back again, I would have been more content to love you from the shadows of anonymity, and be held together by the unity candle, burning into my conscience like an avalanche of hope. yes, hope. 

I believe in uncontrollable laughter and sarcastic renditions of the holy ghost shakes. I believe in circling around the table to ask Mariah, Ashlyn, Jamie, Ambria, (then myself) "What made you mad, sad, and glad today?" And the best part of each day is this moment, when the unbroken circle is like a ring with no beginning and no ending, forged in the fire of precious metals, and shining in the light of no other option. 

I believe that my actions have indicated otherwise, but I believe in Jesus. I believe in the blood of the cross that covers my shame, and the implications of the resurrection hold me captive in the back row. I believe in the ineffable Name that freezes my speech and seals my wandering heart to the heavenly courts, and that when all else fails, grace remains. 

I believe that perfect love casts out fear, and that terrifies me. 

I believe in sitting on the porch with your dad, to talk about the time he videotaped a proposal from the bushes and captured a moment of a ring given at the end of a trail of roses. 'But who knows how long this could last, now we've come so far so fast, but somewhere back there in the dust, is that same small town in each of us...'

Spring Walk, Asheville, North Carolina

Who would have believed that this little miracle would recover so beautifully from brain surgery? Her Chiari Malformation has not slowed her down, and every morning is a gift of mercy.