Jake and I went to the Vancouver Poetry Slam on Commercial Drive last night and despite the use of the words “fuck” and “cum“, I noticed a huge correlation between the people in that place and the people in a church space, and between the guy on stage and the various pastors I have watched and listened to over the years. And years. And yeeeeears.
There was so much passion. Maybe a little more weed, but probably a lot less prescription drug abuse.
This is probably the worst picture to date of Jake and I. But the only other option was to take a screen shot of the accidental video I took of the bathroom floor.
I feel like I’m in this awkward position between Christianity and oh, I don’t know what to call it. Syncretism? Yeah, I guess so. Because most people who grow up saturated in Jesus and then who take a sharp left at the corner of “Holy Road” and “Holy Shit Where the Fuck Am I” leave their faith entirely behind in the same way that most people can’t touch tequila after doing 8 body shots off of some orange-hued bartender donning no-name underwear and a faux face mole. Andrew is scarred for life. Jk. They probably just both need Jesus.
But I still like tequila, and I still like Jesus. The Bible is not only a brilliant piece of writing but it’s history, and I can tolerate history if it’s a captivating read.
So where does this put me? In the confessional.
Christians feel free to tell me their darkest truths because they know I not only won’t judge them but that I won’t desert them in that space. I’ll stand there like a fucking idiot myself, right beside them, and breathe in and breathe out.
I feel honoured to know that people trust me with their sacred spaces, their darknesses. I have Christian friends that have told me things that will get their pastor husbands fired in a hot second. If I could never again touch tequila, they wouldn’t have trusted me with this. But they know that my heart is soft, my mind is open, and my spirit is loving. Because that’s how Jesus would be? No. But He would be anyway.
Have you ever been to a poetry reading?
Did you grow up in a religious family? School? What kind? Did you get to wear a sexy kilt and knee highs?
What is church, to you?
I wrote on a napkin last night, “This is church” and pushed the napkin over to Jake’s side of the table so he could read it. He nodded. So it was.