poetry written over fall break

men long dead

Christ came to me as hope
last night as i brushed my teeth,
in my Red Sox t-shirt (Nixon #7).
i flexed in front of the bathroom mirror,
toothbrush displaced to the corner
of my mouth, holding buck minty suds.
i wanted Him to say, “stop trying to be
a king, i have my hands full of them.
you will be a shepherd and you will
be my sheep,” but perhaps, because
i wanted to hear that, it’s not what He said.
perhaps it sounded more like, “how long
will you chew on this bitter root gabriel?
how much longer will your branch be
splinted dry in another vine?” but, perhaps
because i’ve told myself this before, that’s
not what He said. and really, i didn’t hear
anything at all. instead i had the
overwhelming sensation that the same
force and patience that was applied to
the Taconic orogeny was ready to be
applied to my loneliness. and i suddenly
felt very small, misplaced, understood,
and loved. and i timidly flexed again,
my undersized shirt showing my hairy
stomach. and i wished that i could see
the world as clearly as the men long dead,
who have only left behind books and letters
and wardrobes of overcoats and golf clubs.

I wrote this poem at my best friend's house in rural Michigan over Fall break. I was brushing my teeth in his mother's bathroom and something came over me. I have one more poem from that trip and a song from that trip. I hope to post them pretty soon. I hope you are well and getting ready for turkey and other holiday classics. I am in Boston with my lovely family. This is one of the first times that being home for such a short time feels routine and normal. Mature and yucky.

However, my older brother Erek RiCharde will also be spending the holidays with us. He brought his companion Blue Dog. A miniature hypoallergenic greyhound who thinks he's a human (he only eats what we eat). My parents dote on him like a grandchild. Funny, because when I was growing up here they never ever wanted a dog, and now this one sleeps in their bed with them.

but at the bottom, you take what you can

Artist: Pedro the Lion
Album: Winners Never Quit
Track: To Protect the Family Name

officer
please don't haul me in
though i'm drunk again
i can explain
i swear to you
for a week i have
been completely dry
until tonight
he's been such a good example
everyhing he's done for me
i couldn't bear to let him down
monday night
brother sat me down
very graciously
and explained
if i'm going to help you
i must make it very clear
brother that i love you
but certainly i hate your sin
so you see you can't arrest me
i swore i'd be careful not to
further shame the family name

my sister

My sister. She is a full time missionary in India and she is beautiful. I miss her and I don't know how we've grown up so fast. Seems like yesterday we were playing with her American Girl dolls. She works for: Agape International

the last thing that God said

When we're lost, we're supposed to go back to the last thing God told us, the last checkpoint he told us to meet him at.

I don't know if God has a voice. He's supposed to. One we can hear? One we can...sense? By reading the Bible or by being very quiet and still like a scared rabbit on a suburban lawn? Well, if he does, the last thing I heard God say was, "Ask her to marry you?" In some strange turn of events, I did what he asked, but what I thought would happen didn't. I did not get married. I did ask her though.

Next, I heard God say, "Know my word." I think he meant the scriptures. Convenient, because I happen to have two or three copies in varying English translations lying around. Did I do what he asked? No. Am I trying to do what he asked? Maybe. One person's "try" is another person's "not." When I heard this, I was on my knees begging God to assist me in my mission to marry.

Next, in a fit of despair/anger/grief targeted at someone who may or may not deserve it, I asked God, "What do I do now? I have nothing. Did you bring me here for a reason? Have you brought me this low to build me back up?" And, in one of the harshest and most direct voices God may possess, he commanded, "Love him like your own brother."

When you're lost, go back to the last thing that God said, and do it.

Snippets

I have less to say because I've been less angry. The flame that flared, which I suspected was righteous indignation, burned me worse than anyone. I'm taking more time.

A book I've read recently on recommendation: Gilead

Ok, I know I'm incredibly behind the times. This book won the Pulitzer Prize in 2004.

It got me thinking about my own father. Then my father's father. In its own way it explains the complexity and joy of being a father.

In its own way it defends and offends the lifestyle of Middle America. It embraces and exposes the Christianity of the midwest.

This book is very powerful. A friend "prescribed" it to me in order to process certain emotional and religious conundrums of mine.

Favorite choice excerpts:

It seems ridiculous to suppose the dead miss anything. If you're a grown man when you read this—it is my intention for this letter that you will read it then—I'll have been gone a long time. I'll know most of what there is to know about being dead, but I'll probably keep it to myself. That seems to be the way of things. page 1

Now, your mother never talks about herself, really, and she never admits to having felt any sort of grief in her life at all. That's her courage, her pride, and I know you will be respectful of it, and remember at the same time that a very, very great gentleness is called for, a great kindness. Because no one ever has that sort of courage who hasn't needed it. But you might not realize that, when you are young. page 137

One interesting aspect of the whole experience was that I simply could not be honest with myself, and I couldn't deceive myself, either. page 203

Well, I'm back in Minneapolis, MN at SAFL. But two weekends ago I was in Bend, OR with the one and only Steve Slagg. We camped and rock climbed at Smith Rock, went to Deschutes Brewery/Pub/Tavern, went to the church where Slagg is doing an internship for the summer, and best of all...I showed Slagg oodles of my newest tunes and we even recorded seven of them.

Music I've been listening to lately?

-Damien Jurado

Damien's newest album "Caught in the Trees" is inspiring...like the way the funeral of a grandparent is inspiring. There. I said it.

As for myself? I'm basically finished with all the rough drafts of the songs on the album: The Outlaw. This next school year I fully intend to record and release said album. Woot.

Unfair

I have been unfair. I angrily criticize the "vipers" all the while spitting venom of my own at targets I've barely defined. Forgive me. I talked with a Christian brother yesterday who encouraged to me to not be afraid to ask harder, but more meaningful, questions.

Lately I find myself more excited than I've ever been about Christ and the future I hope he has for me. This...mature excitement, has caused me to look around for the possible destinations he may be pointing me towards. My frustration and anger with the church is only because I find myself fearing the very thing that I am. The very body I am an appendage of. Chesterton hates progress for progress' sake. Because of this I find myself disliking movement without a known direction. I find myself asking, "What now?" And I am very much alone in a far off place doing research I know I'm not called to do. So I'm asking, "Where? What now?"

The urgency with which I attack my brothers and sisters in Christ is weighted and not entirely honest. Most of it is purely provocative with only small bits retaining what I'm actually trying to say or what I'm actually feeling.

For what I'm actually feeling is fear. Not certainty that I've found the golden goose or the narrow way. But fear that I may never find it.

I think I will take some time to write music, pick flowers, read, and pray before I say much else. Thank you for your patience.

Clarification: Christ makes no sense

When I wrote this in my last post:

The more I say "fuck you" to stipulations that Christ never set [though somehow we've included in our faith], the more free I have been to live a more consistent life of worship.

I was not implying that over drinking, cussing, and other methods of debauchery are the false stipulations that American Christianity has set. Though in theory, yes, the practice of avoiding them has become a false stipulation/requirement of the modern evangelical Christian.

I should be more clear. Because when I put my foot this close to heresy, I should tell you where my big toe is.

So. Here it goes.

Lately as I read the gospels, I am SHOCKED as I discover that Christ doesn't say a word about the shit I've made my Christian life about. For example, "sexual purity" is not discussed by Christ.

Now hold the phone. I am NOT saying that only Christ's red letters are the words of God. I want the Bible to be the inerrant Word of God. I like it that way and I believe it to be so. However, Christ is my general. The apostles are my drill sergeants and my lieutenants.

Back to SEXUAL purity. As a young evangelical Christian I've made 90% of my faith about sexual purity. I've made my faith about something that Christ didn't care to mention. I'm not saying this gives me [or anyone else] the liberty to make out, feel up, screw, at anytime and with whomever I choose. But I am asking, how did this become so glorified? How could this be so important that the foundation of my faith is founded upon whether I can go a week without masturbating?

My answer: It's not important.

Christ told the disciples to leave their nets and follow him. He didn't send them to summer camp, give them a copy of I Kissed Dating Goodbye, and send them on a short term mission trip to Mexico. He just started walking away from them and they had the choice to follow. Because he alone had the words that gave eternal life. So why do we ignore them?

The evangelical church has a complex. We are "cafeteria" Christians in the worst of ways. We pick and choose what we want to follow from the Bible. But unlike a cafeteria/cultural Catholic or Jew, who will admit, "Honestly, I really don't jive with everything in my faith. I don't even follow, understand, or believe everything." We decide to twist, ignore, or re-interpret the words of our Savior to make it seem as if we are following, understanding, and believing in everything. Jesus had a word for us. He called us "pharisees." I call us hypocritical-heretical bastards. Other tasty terms for us include "vipers," "cowards," "rich young rulers," and "republicans."

Lets be honest though. We had reason to twist Christ's words. Because Christ's words are not fucking easy. Christ is hard. Difficult. Confusing. Littered with paradox and impossible tasks. Seriously, why the hell did the twelve disciples stick around? He spoke in riddles. He spoke in childish stories. You could barely even call him sane.

Non-Christians [my summer roommate] will say something like, "The early church twisted the words of Christ to say things he never said." But if they're right, the early church didn't do a very good job. Because most of the time Christ doesn't make sense to us. That's why we don't do what he says.

Lets be honest again. We [Christians] have highlighted and bolded honor the emperor and nearly forgotten visit orphans and widows in their affliction. We've taken give to Caesar what is Caesar's so close to heart that we've IGNORED giving to God. We've neglected love your neighbors as yourself [the 2nd of the "greatest commandments"] because we have "neighbors" with cars, wives, blenders, and sunday papers. And we've forgotten that the guy beaten shitless on the side of the road is our real neighbor. Not the people across our white picket fence. Not the people across the pew. We have a strange system of weights and measures for balancing our own righteousness. We have a WRONG system.

My head is exploding with things I want to say. Most of which will not turn out right. And most of which I shouldn't say [but I've come this far right?]. Anyways. This blog is my therapy session. Thank you for sitting in.

Be encouraged. I'm beginning to understand that faith is a process. So I'm giving myself the liberty to be a 21 year old idealist dumbass [I learned this from Elise Bryson I think]. Thanks for that as well.