The Last Transmission: An Epitaph of Scandalous Mercy

At the time of this writing, I’m in the waiting room at the Kent County Jail. I’m sitting on the floor in the corner of a concrete room, next to an empty vending machine. I’m waiting for my friend, Brad… soon to be released after I post his bond. I first met Brad a few years ago, on the streets of Grand Rapids, while he was on the run toward an addiction that would almost take his life. The last time I saw him, he had needles in his arm, under a bridge on Division Avenue. 

But today, I’m picking him up upon his release… and I’m bringing him directly to the Forge Recovery Center where he will spend the next nine months rebuilding his life. I’m here, sitting on the floor in the corner, surrounded by cold concrete in December, because I love this guy. 

I’m also here, because I do not suffer from short term memory loss. After much introspection, EMDR Therapy, and trusted counsel - I’ve returned to the source of my own self-inflicted trauma. The buzz of doors, brown jackets, cold concrete, and … all of this triggers my worst scar tissues to reopen.

I do not suffer from short-term memory loss. I remember it all so well, and the shame that sets in like a polar vortex to be chased away by the solace of the electric blanket of God’s grace. Inhaling grace, exhaling gratitude. For three hours, I wait for Brad’s release. While I wait, I reflect on the friends who have stood in the furnace with me over the years, and the evidence of the scandalous mercy of which I have been a recipient. And now, I’ve dedicated the rest of my life to the redistribution of the same radical hospitality and scandalous mercy…

These days, I spend my hours with the least of these. I’m forever hunting the outcasts and the banished, the excommunicated and the ecclesiastically homeless. I find solidarity with the refugees sleeping outside, under bridges to evade the downpour. I walk the streets looking for Alex and Timmy and Rick and I’ll never forget Happy and the suicide note he left. My heart is permanently scarred from the needles and bullets and the bottles and the application at Pine Rest Mental Hospital: “Are you feeling hopeless or helpless?”

Hope is my favorite word. 

I’ve done my own research on the validity of ancient testimonies… (I suggest you do the same). The human hurricane
who suffered and died, inexplicably reappeared to incalculable eyewitness who gave public testimony to their experience. I’ve chosen to invest every inch of my story in the continuation of this revolutionary message of… hope. The tomb is empty. Hope. The future has already been restored. Hope. Jesus killed death. Hope. Love will write the epitaph of my story.

Love will have the last word. Your story isn’t finished. Love will paint a portrait of your failures and triumphs; a mosaic of art to be interpreted through the lens of a great cloud of witnesses. Love is the invitation, the rising action, the climax, the falling action, and the resolution. Love, only love.

- Jay DePoy

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. 

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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. 

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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. 

.

will the circle be unbroken?

the memorial service will be held in the backyard where the tree line meets the rolling credits over a life unfinished and forecast does not look promising

what am i supposed to say? (i was never good at eulogies)

clutching rosary beads with unmet needs to fill the void in my stomach there’s addictions to feed like a concrete door and knuckles that bleed and there goes jay again jumping off another ledge because the silence only drove a wedge between the progress of a pilgrimage and the breakfast at the water’s edge 

do you love me? do you love me? do you love me?

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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. 

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.

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.




.

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

Regret and Gratitude

The other day I was sitting at a table with recovering addicts, listening to the exchange of life stories and mountains climbed. After hearing one man share about all of the bridges he's burned on his way toward sobriety, he stated emphatically, "... and if I could do it all over, I wouldn't have changed a thing! The life lessons have shaped who I am today!" Others around the table nodded, as if to agree.

But I could not.

Because the reality is that I live with an ocean of regret. It is like an albatross chained to my memory, haunting me in my sleep. It's like a reoccurring dream of bridges built and crossed and then burned to ashes by my indifference, neglect, and selfishness. I have sketched the blueprints of a hedonistic empire and chiseled at a foundation of meticulously broken promises.

I carry this weight in my heart, and it slows my pace. My heart beats faster than I can walk, and I'm slowly falling behind and the sun is setting and the hour is late and the course is unfinished and the faith has not been kept.

As I write this, the late winter rains have caused the river behind my house to overflow the banks. The Grand River is expected to continue to rise until water will invade my living room. Yesterday I lifted all of our valuable possessions, including photo albums full of memories. On the kitchen table there are pictures of a cocky teenager who was hellbent on self-destruction. I hate that kid! I want grab him by the throat and get his attention! I wish I could return to Muskegon and tell him to let go of the egocentric aggression, and the narcissistic self-absorption. If I could write an open letter to my younger self, I would emphasize a cautionary dis-trust of choices made with emotion.

There are two dominant streams in my life: Regret and Gratitude.

Regret is the monster hiding beneath the bed of shame. I regret the way I treated my teachers in high school. I regret the way I relentlessly teased Jeremy Leffring. I regret the way I disrespected the different girlfriends of my youth, and the way I pursued attention for vain glory. I regret the way I manipulated conversations to solicit false affirmation, and I regret trusting the promises of a thousand amens. I regret all of the lies that I told, in my efforts to maintain an empire of delusion.

I don't feel like God is angry with me. But I feel like He is disappointed. I don't expect lightning bolts of His wrath, but I have come to expect the icy chill of His silent treatment. The distance is tangible, and the indifference is palpable. I feel reinstated to His Table, but not necessarily to His Triumph.

But on the other side of this ocean of regret, is an oasis of gratitude. We are born with two lungs, and if I inhale from the lung of regret, then I exhale from the lung of gratitude. Because after all of the self-destruction and humiliation, I am still here. It is indeed a miracle!

Several years ago I was involved in a  horrifying car crash that should have ended my life. I was traveling northbound on US 31 near Lake Michigan when I mistakenly took my eyes off the highway. The construction ahead had slowed the traffic to a standstill, and I had no time to stop! I tried to swerve from hitting the last car stopped ahead of me, but clipped the corner of his bumper. My sedan shot fifteen feet into the air, rotating endoverendoverendoverend several times, landing upside down in the opposite direction of travel (across the median)! I was not wearing a safety belt, and my entire vehicle was shattered into a thousand pieces. One witness heard the sound of the crash and saw my vehicle flying through the air, inducing immediate vomit all of the interior of her own vehicle. Such was the disturbance in the atmosphere.

I remember bracing at the time of the collision, curling into the fetal position and waiting for death. I closed my eyes and braced for the darkness. "This is how it ends", I thought. But with each roll and spin and flip, I remained conscious. When I had come to a final stop (upside down), I crawled out of the passenger window and walked away without a scratch. I was barefoot because somehow my shoes went flying with the rest of the car. I just kept shaking my head thinking, "I can't believe I'm alive. I can't. Believe. I'm alive."

I am grateful. I am thankful that despite the crash and burn and fire and smoke and vomit and wonder - there is a Table spread before me in the presence of my enemies. I am grateful. I am thankful that despite my unworthiness, there is the love of a woman, the faith of a mother, and the laughter of three daughters who seal me in this promise of redemption. I am grateful. I am thankful that I have friends like Mitch Schultz, and John Smith, Ken and Bonnie Jane Greene, Dustin Price and Sulkiro Song, AJ Sherrill and Cam Speer, voices of truth in a world of counterfeit. I am grateful. I am thankful for a place to belong, a promise to believe, and a purpose to become. I am grateful. I am thankful for the invitation of the Mercy King to a Table of broken bread and wine in abundance.

Regret < Gratitude

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.

[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.

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.

.

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... 

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...'