The Lies of Ego

Today I've been thinking about a quote from Carl Jung: "The first half of life is devoted to forming a healthy ego, the second half is going inward and letting go of it." And as I pondered the meaning of this, another quote entered my mind, from the movie "Supergirl" that I just saw with my family last weekend - there is a moment where Kara's father says to her: "You are our souls unfolding into the future." And so I've been thinking about how fatherhood helps me to release my Ego. And as someone who is naturally pretty introverted, I've also been thinking about how Ego prevents a person like me from living life to the fullest sometimes, as I hold things inside myself without showing them to others out of fear of rejection. And all of these thoughts are the ground from which this poem grew:

 

 

The Lies of Ego

We spend so much of our lives building a lie called Ego

Ego is a story we tell about who we are

"I did this", we say, and we show off the trophies of our youth

But when our bodies can no longer move 

As they did in our youth 

We still are

And Ego lies when it says we've lost any beauty

We are so much more than the ways we moved in our youth

 

Ego says we are what we believe

As if changing our minds meant killing our selves

And in a strange way that's true

But the lie is revealed

When we kill our old self and yet still live

When the true "I" resurrects after every painful admission

Every time we admitted we were wrong and kept living

It reveals that we are so much more than these prisons 

The walls we build for our selves

 

Do not let them confine you

In the prisons of their beliefs

You are so much more

 

You are lightning

A flash in the night that startles all who behold

A resounding boom

Don't let them tell you to use your indoor voice

Let it echo its insistence

 

Don't listen to the lie

You are wild

Untamed

Let your voice roar

Don't mew "thank you"

When they leave you water in the cage they made

 

You are like the weeds
That grow out of the tiny cracks in my porch

Insisting on life in the harshest of conditions
Don't let them tell you to stop growing
Make every crack bigger
Tear apart the concrete they build

 

They tell us the concrete cathedrals are holy

But concrete is not what is holy

Holy is the insistent growth

It is the part in each of us that just won't stop

Holy is the laughter that bursts out even on our darkest days

That stubborn joy that just won't die

 

Holiness is the tired mother

She says "I can't go on like this"

But then her child runs into the room

Crashes into her open arms 

Smiles and says "Mommy!"

And then she goes on anyways

 

The lie Ego tells us is not that the things we did weren't important

Every mother and father knows this

They know how important that T-Ball home run was

Or how beautiful the music of Hot Cross Buns was at that first recital

They treasure the memory of that Kindergarten graduation

Each of those moments are holy to them

 

But the lie is that the story ever ends

Or that it wasn't important because someone else did "more"

The lie the mother tells herself is that her story ended with her youth

Even though she knows her child's refrigerator art is a sacred act of beauty

The lie the father tells himself is that he needs that promotion to matter

Even though his child knows her father's hugs are a holy sacrament

 

The lie Ego tells us is that it is only holy

When we speak the words men wrote two thousand years ago

Even though we know our little boy's first terrible knock-knock joke

Is truly the funniest thing we've ever heard

We tell everyone about it

But are afraid to call it holy

Or to share the beauty inside our own souls

 

The lie Ego tells us is that it is only holy

When we sing a hymn a man wrote about being washed in blood

Even though we know that the child singing The Dandelion Song

Is truly the most beautiful song we've ever heard

And it was sung to a "weed"

But we are afraid to call this sacred

Or to sing our own songs to the "mundane"

 

The lie Ego tells us is that we are only beautiful

When our hair and makeup are perfect

And yet our favorite Facebook memory is that picture

When our child did their hair themselves

With extra ponytails sticking out all over

Or the time they discovered that shampoo can be used to make spikes

Or the time they used every barrette they had

"Beautiful!" we gasped in awe when they showed us

And we meant it

And then we spent hours trying to flatten every raised hair on our own heads

 

We spend so much time trying to create a perfection

A lie we can tell everyone so they will think we are "beautiful"

But we know that beauty encompasses so much more

We know the beauty of our dirty dog

We laugh when we see him rolling in the grass with his limbs akimbo

And then we're afraid to let anyone see us when we are "dirty"

 

If ever anyone tried to tell us our child was not perfect

We would know the lie right away

If ever anyone tried to tell us our dog's sloppy kisses were not beautiful

We would know the lie right away

But Ego tells us not to tell our own story

Ego tells us to stay quiet because our song warbles

Ego tells us our voice doesn't matter because we are "ordinary"

Even though we would rage if anyone ever said this to our child

 

So learn this practice

Break that cage called Ego
And let your voice roar
Strike fear into the hearts of the cage-makers

Kill your Ego every day

And find the meaning of resurrection

All’ve It by Matt Moberg

This is not a poem I wrote - it is one I thought was so good that I would want to read it again and again, and so I wanted to save it in a place where I can find it easily.

All’ve It
by Matt Moberg

I think every human being
eventually has a moment
where they are standing outside in sweatpants
that have lost the will to be pants,
holding a trash bag, a divorce, a parking ticket,
or some other receipt from the universe
that says, “surprise, this too is part of it.”

And then the sky bruises purple.

And the air touches your face
like it knows your whole story.

And suddenly you realize:

all the real is actually unreal.

The dirt.
The breath.
The weird little bones in your hands.
The fact that we are here,
on a floating rock with pollen counts,
paying bills,
missing dead people,
loving living people
who say “leaving now”
while still fully naked and looking for socks.

And still,
the moon clocks in.

No applause.
No benefits.
No note from management saying,
“Great work being ancient and luminous again.”

Just the moon,
working nights
like a single mother with no applause,
packing silver lunches
for every dark thing
that still has to rise.

Tell me that isn’t holy.
Tell me there is a better word
than sacred
for the way light keeps returning
with no guarantee
we will actually stop and take note.

I know people who believe in therapy,
probiotics,
tarot,
twelve-step meetings,
manifestation journals,
and waiting exactly eleven minutes
before texting back
so they do not appear emotionally available,
even though their whole nervous system
is standing in the driveway holding flowers.

And underneath all of it,
every ritual,
every doctrine,
every smoothie with chia seeds,
the prayer is the same:
Please let me be loved.
Please let me be forgiven.
Please let this strange little life
mean something
before my lower back
submits its formal resignation.

What is going on?

For real tho—What is this place?

This unbearable tenderness
of being alive long enough
to watch steam lift from coffee in winter
like a soul practicing leaving.

To see your friend laugh so hard
they slap the table
as if joy is a mosquito
they are trying to kill.

To hear a child say “pisghetti”
and, for one shining second,
realize language
has finally been improved.

I know I already noted this in the first piece,
but the older I get,
the less use I have for certainty.

Certainty has never made me pull over
because the sunset looked like God
dropped a jar of peach jam
across the whole midwestern sky
and decided to be lazy
and not clean up.

Certainty has never made me gasp
at rain on hot pavement.

Certainty has never found me
in the cereal aisle,
holding Captain Crunch,
suddenly remembering
that everyone I have ever loved
was made from stardust,
hunger,
and a series of decisions
we probably should have slept on.

No.
It has always been awe.

Awe was the first church.

Before steeples.
Before committees.
Before men got involved
and started making rules about skirts.

Awe was there
with its wild hair
and muddy feet,
saying:

Look.
Look again.
Look until looking
becomes love.

Awe, and soup.

Awe, and someone rubbing your back
when you are sick.

Awe, and old couples at Target
arguing gently about avocados,
as if marriage is not one vow
but ten thousand errands
performed beside the person
who knows exactly
how you like the cart pushed.

Maybe gratitude
was never meant to sound elegant.

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Damn.
That woodpecker is trying
to beat that tree from itself.”

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Thank you, body,
for continuing to drag me through this world
despite the many slim jims
I have done to you
at gas stations.”

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Thank you to the dogs
who lose their entire minds
when we come home
as if we have returned from war
and not Walgreens.”

For me, that might be my gospel.

That joy that does not wait for us
to be impressive but only needs us
to come through the door.

Because the truth is,
this life is devastating.

And ridiculous.

One minute you are 22 and invincible,
driving too fast,
eating gas station nachos
with the confidence of a Greek god.

The next minute you are googling,
“Can sneezing cause a hamstring injury?”
and the answer is,
apparently,
“Welcome to the second half of your life.”

But even now—

even tired,
even grieving,
even emotionally held together
by iced coffee, playlists,
and one very specific wolves hoodie—

we keep finding reasons
to stay soft.

We plant tomatoes
even though grief is real.

We bake bread
even though the news is on fire.

We send photos of the sky
to people we love
with captions like,
“LOOK,”
as if beauty is an emergency
and we are all volunteer firefighters.

We keep saying,
“You have to see this,”
because wonder
is the oldest form
of resurrection.

So here’s to the believers
and the atheists
and the agnostics
and the people whose entire theology
is just trying not to cry
in the DMV line.

Here’s to the people clinging to faith.

Here’s to the people clinging to Xanax
and oat milk
and the one group chat
where nobody pretends to be okay.

Here’s to the tender-hearted weirdos.

The accidental mystics.

The ones who can contemplate mortality
for six straight hours
and then become emotionally attached
to a perfect peach.

The ones who know
despair has a mouth,
but so does laughter.

May we never stop being drop-kicked by beauty
in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.

May we never become so polished
that we forget how to stand
in the Starbucks line of existence
with our dumb, gorgeous hearts open,
feeling the enormity of it all
rattle around in our bones
like thunder
looking for somewhere to laugh.

And may we remember:

whatever else this is,
whatever mess,
whatever miracle,
whatever cosmic group project
no one was prepped for—

all’ve it is astonishing.
that we are here.
that we have loved enough to be ruined.
that the moon keeps showing up.
that bread exists.

So pass it on.

Tear off a piece
with your bare hands.

Take it in as you take it down.

And then go outside and look at that moon.

Things I Wish I'd Said

Things I Wish I'd Said

There are so many things I wish I'd said

Before I had to say goodbye to you

To tell you what you've done for me

How much of me is wrapped up in you

I wish I'd said how much your laughter meant

How the volume of it taught me not to be bashful

To let go and share the joy of life with everyone

Your laugh is always the first thing I remember about you

I wish I'd said how much your smile meant

It was always there on your face

Even if it was just in your eyes

It was a constant comforting presence

Goodbye was the hardest thing for me to tell you

I watched them all say "we'll be back soon"

But I wouldn't be back and I didn't know if you'd understand

So I said it in the only way I knew how - the way you taught me

I gave you the biggest hug I could

I held it and didn't let go

Just like you always did when we parted

And I always wish I could have one more

There are so many things I wish I'd said
Before I had to say goodbye to you

So now I try to tell people what they mean to me

In whatever way I can while we still have time

On Earth As It Is In Heaven

On Earth As It Is In Heaven

Some people pray
That He would come and take us away
So we can all eat pie in the sky
Except some of us won't be there
For them, there will only be fire

I struggle to pray
To make sense out of speaking to the air
While being told He already knows what I'm going to ask
But one prayer does make sense to me
On earth as it is in heaven

If we all prayed:
On earth as it is in heaven
Would there be war?
Would there be poverty?
Would we hate over differences
Like religion,
Or skin tone,
Or whom we choose to love,
Or pronouns,
Or anything?

Letters to God

Well, I'm not...you know the routine.

 

I say "I'm not a poet", and then sometimes people say "but you keep writing poems - you seem like a poet to me." And then I come in and say something like "I don't know much about how to do meter or rhyme - I just try to bare my soul and write what's on my heart."

 

Poetry has been a way for me to turn off the filters and be raw and honest. And before you read my latest poem, I wanted you to know that this is what I'm trying to do here. I'm trying to show the most honest thoughts I've had about God and prayer and faith (whether recent thoughts or thoughts I've had in my past) - without filter, and without worrying what people will think or how they'll judge me for having had those thoughts. And I think about how, according to Matthew, Jesus said you must become like a little child to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. So maybe that's what I'm doing here. I dunno, it's my best guess at what he might have meant by that - and isn't that all any of us can do?

 

Letters to God

Dear God:
Are you really listening?
And does it matter what I say?
A certain writer wrote
That a certain son of yours said
That you know what I need before I ask.
And if that's so, what's the point in asking?
Is it just to stroke your ego?

Dear God:
They tell me you really care about who has sex with whom.
Why is that so important to you?
And if men on men or women on women make you so mad,
why do you let them come out that way?
Why not just make them all with hetero desire?
But really, who is it hurting?
Are you really like us - grossed out by anything different or unique?

Dear God:
They tell me Jesus is you.
They also said you couldn't forgive our sins without blood.
They said this was because you were so Holy.
Why does "Holy" sound like "bloodthirsty"?
And if Jesus is you, how does sacrificing yourself to yourself help anything?
And if Jesus said to forgive without demanding payment,
Why can't you?

Dear God:
Do you actually have a penis?
And if not, why does occasionally saying "She" make you so mad?
Or is all of that nonsense written by men with small imaginations?
Are you more like the Force?
Or consciousness itself, saturating and permeating everything in the Universe?
Or are you the Universe itself?
Or something else entirely?

Dear God:
Why won't you talk to me?
Or give me a clear sign?
They say you talked to a lot of people in the Bible,
And you even did some cool magic tricks.
I'd like to see that.
Call me doubting Thomas if you want,
But even he got to touch the holes.

Dear God:
If you really made everything,
And if you really know everything,
And if you really are Love,
Why does it hurt so much?
I don't have that power and I don't know everything,
And my love isn't perfect like they say yours is.
But when I see someone I care about hurting, it makes me mad.
It makes me want to do something about it.
Where are you when it hurts?
Why aren't you flipping tables right now?

Dear God:
How am I doing? 
Did I get any of it right?
I know when I've messed up.
I hope you have more patience with me than some of your followers.
Do you really love me?
And if so, why?
And if so, how do I know?
And if so, won't you please visit?

Dear God:
Say hi to my Dad.
Tell him I miss him.
So much.
Sometimes I'm not sure if I believe in you.
But I believe in him.
I know he was good.
And I know he loved me.
And whether you're what he thought you were or not,
He loved you.
Maybe that's why I keep trying to.

Dear Dad:
I love you.

Deconstruction

Well, I'm not a poet. But I felt like writing this: 

Deconstruction

I was born totally depraved
Or so they say
My own mind could not be trusted
I must bend and accept the word of authority

My soul was sick
Or so they said
And while I had no symptoms then
They poured their fear into me and ill I became

But you showed me what love was
Taught me it was supreme
You showed me what it meant to accept someone
Even when "heretical" they might be

My sins, so great, demanded blood

Hell's flames licked at my heels with every step

For I knew, I feared God but did not love

How could I love one who would torment endlessly?

 

I simulated worship and adoration

Scanning to see if my performance satisfied

My friendships were skin-deep

I couldn't share my deepest self

 

When I fled, I knew I was lost

Knowing not who I was nor how to find "me"

You loved me just as I was - I was "son"

A constant reassuring truth

 

Who am I? Am I what they said about me?

Am I only the things I say and do?

Am I only the things I know and believe?

I was lost, restless, grieving my absent sense of self

 

And then I saw her - her face shone like the sun

I loved her and she loved me

And I hurt her and she hurt me

But you had taught me - love never fails - and we prevailed

 

And then came the day my son was born

I held his tiny body in my arms 

And when I looked at his face I knew you better - I was "father"

I knew what it meant to love someone who couldn't give anything in return

 

"God is love" and "perfect love casts out fear"

These became my creed

Love was all I wanted to be

Love, the name of my innermost being

 

Love was the only true thing in my past

Love, the only truth in my future

Love behind me, love before me

And all I can say to you is: thank you Dad

 

Heretic

When my father passed a month ago, writing poetry became an avenue through which I processed my thoughts and feelings. I don't claim to be a good poet - I just try to write what's on my heart. And I've been thinking a lot about how Dad actually triggered my own deconstruction when he taught me that love was what was most important to God, because God is love (I John 4:8 and 16). So I've been ruminating on this one for a while.

Heretic 

Grandma was the kindest woman you could ever know
Welcoming and compassionate to everyone she met
She went to a church with a woman preacher
Did you know I once thought she might be a heretic?

Jesus said to love your neighbor as yourself
"Who is my neighbor?" "Let me tell you about a Samaritan"
A Samaritan was like someone from a whole other religion
Did you know he was sent to be crucified for being a heretic?

What if we missed the whole point?
The Church says you can't be "Christian" without Trinity
Some churches say you must have the right ideas about Bible and atonement
Jesus said "they will know you are my disciples if you love"

The Devil is always in someone else
Never in your own heart
And don't you ever think about how his name is "Accuser"
Or how the Holy Spirit's is "Advocate"

George MacDonald taught that God's love was limitless
He wrote "Phantastes" and C.S. Lewis converted because of it
MacDonald called eternal torment a "loathsome lie"
Did you know he lost his pulpit because he was a heretic?

Jesus said "I and the Father are one"
They picked up stones to kill him
He said "let them be one, Father, as you and I are one"
Did you know he was sent to be crucified for being a heretic?

Heretic is a word we use to shut down dialogue
When authority fails and reason is an obstacle
We condemn people for having the wrong ideas about Jesus
But Jesus made it a question - "who do you say that I am?"

The Devil is always in someone else
Never in your own heart
And don't you ever think about how his name is "Accuser"
Or how the Holy Spirit's is "Advocate"

The Devil is "Accuser"
Jesus is a heretic
Holy Spirit, "Advocate"
Jesus died a heretic