You might have noticed that the podcast has been missing since a couple Mondays ago. I am not bailing on it, but I am relegating it to the proper priority in my life. I have decided that I am not owned by it and as it was a labor of love it is subject to change as my heart shifts. I will continue producing and sharing content via the podcast, but it wont always be in the same format each week. This past week, I’ve been journeying through a pretty dark time.
As we’ve been planting our second church location, as the point man (and novice Campus Pastor) I’ve been struggling with the new pressure of campus success and church growth. I’m discovering that I’ve placed too much of the weight of the ministry on my shoulders and not appropriately rested in what Jesus is doing and allow that to be enough.
I don’t want to get to a place where I am not applying my energy toward forwarding the Gospel, but I can’t go back to a place of recognizing that I am giving out more of the truth than I am truly receiving.
This week’s audio release is a product of that painful realization. Click the image or the player to listen to my reading of the poem.
It is a poem I wrote this morning called, “High On My Supply.”
“High on my Own Supply”
By Arman Sheffey
Oh how it hurts! Jesus, come ease it.
Empty, sweaty, shaking hand just squeeze it.
Sometimes scared, afraid, caged bird —release it.
I want to fly high on my own supply.
I want to get lifted.
Don’t deal in powder, so there’s no need to sift it.
I’m a hope dealer… In the back chopping it up,
But I need the pure stuff…
Finger taste test it, like you know what’s up.
I dap pounds with my homie as we toast and raised the cup.
I give pounds to my homie down low and raise him up.
Sometimes an ounce ain’t enough to soften what’s rough, to unshackle the cuffs. Give me a word beyond fluff. Paint it how you want, but better be the right stuff… to Snuff – out – the darkness…
Bright – light – white, giving eyes their sight.
See you soon…
Fortune cookie theology… Brokenhearted philosophy… Quickfix, hit or miss, come Jesus and rescue me… From me… Again!
– With the words you’ve given me to give to a friend.
Time to shut down my corner and go get strung out – on the one that hung up – on the cross, paid the cost, that I couldn’t afford… As I bump that Propaganda “Crimson Cord…” I’m at a loss my Lord!
Shuffling between the sword
or my rip cord,
do I cut while they shoot
or float in on a para –
understanding a safe landing in the drop zone
is still out of my comfort zone
or maybe all I need is a jawbone
and locks past my shoulders
but I’m balding baby and this war is far from over.
Alert and sober as I take two gently under the tongue, wait until they dissipate.
You’re my quick dial number one.
So I’ll call you when up comes the sun. You’ll pull me away…
I won’t walk, but I’ll run!
I’ll run to you again… Fumbling for the matches I get high on you again! Twitching as I bypass the child safety lock,
I’ll get lost – in – your – embrace…
As you invade my system,
vein by vein.
You invade my system,
yet the high I can’t maintain.
As I slide – down –
like tears at a funeral…
You catch me in your hand before I touchdown. Hands up – six for Jesus. You can call it a touchdown.