10d • 🗣️Announcements
On Sundays we write…
Extra!
Following our regular writing inspired by a prayer, I add another written work. I am usually introduced to a poem through some odd way and the words just hit.
This week was really powerful - especially if you have risen from your darkness or are feeling yourself doing so now
The author is Christopher Sexton
i didn’t need to repent.
i needed to reparent
the parts of me
that had been abandoned
mid-tantrum.
maybe heaven is just the part of hell
you’ve decided to hold.
you wanna be holy?
try sitting with your hurt
long enough
to hear its origin story.
what if the devil you’ve been at war with is just
your inner child
wearing all the armor
you were too young to carry?
what if you stopped
trying to cast your demons out
and started rocking them to sleep?
what if the bravest spiritual practice
isn’t light or love or transcendence?
what if it’s dragging a chair
across the floor of hades,
sitting down beside the part of you
you were taught to hate,
and saying,
“i’m not leaving.”
what if you didn’t come here to be fixed?
what if you came here to fall in love
with every version of you
that survived
a crucifix?
some of you won’t understand this.
some days i believe in jesus.
some days i am jesus,
but not the
whitewashed sunday school one.
the brown-skinned revolutionary one
who broke generational curses like bread
and cried in gardens
because he still loved the ones
who hurt him.
stop looking for god
in places you’ve never bled.
the divine doesn’t live
in your perfection.
they live in your pussy.
in your panic attacks.
in your dickhead opinions.
in your porn search history.
in the silence
after you almost called your ex.
god isn’t hiding from you.
they’re hiding as you.
this might sound crazy,
but the part of me that wanted to fuck everyone
was the same part that just wanted
to be held as a child.
i asked my shadows
what they believed in.
they said: "you.
the version of you
that kept going when
you couldn't see the light."
when no one chose me,
my darkness did.
it stayed awake
so i could make it to morning.
when people ask me who i am,
i want to hand them a guest list:
rage, joy, addiction, devotion,
kink, wonder, regret,
and rebirth.
what if your self isn’t
something you lose or find?
what if it’s something you host?
a dinner party of misfits.
a family reunion
for every version of you
that never got to come home.
set the table. pour the wine.
and for god’s sake, don’t
make the addict sit
in the corner
again.
when i let the addict speak,
he didn’t ask for sobriety
or preach about some
12-step program.
he asked for a seat,
and said…
stop calling me broken.
i’m the one who stayed alive
when everyone else left.
wanna know how i became who i am today?
i stopped trying to fix myself.
and started french kissing
every fucked-up fragment
that thought it had to hide.
people call me grounded,
but really i just learned
how to make love
with every part of me
i was told to bury.
so don’t ask me who i am.
ask me who i’ve made room for.
9
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On Sundays we write…
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