Love the lengthy argument, the heady discussion,

development of context. Want more

of everything soteriological. Be afraid

to have all of the right answers and to not.

.  .  .

And you will have to use words like ‘soteriological.’

Not even mutual indwelling will be a mystery

any more. Your mind will be sliced up into chapter headings

and neatly slid into your color coded Meade notebooks.

.  .  .

When they want you to say something

they will call you. When they want you

to die for God they will let you know.

.  .  .

So, friends, every day do something

that won’t systematize. Love the Lord.

Love the world. Love for nothing.

Take all that you know and be depraved.

Love someone who does not think like you do.

.  .  .

Denounce the institution and embrace

your neighbors. Hope to live in beloved

community despite our inclinations otherwise.

Launch your body into all you cannot

understand. Praise emptiness, for what we

have not confronted we have not believed.

.  .  .

Ask the questions that make you feel like floating (read ‘throwing up’)

Invest in parentheses. Go outside.

Say that your main thesis is the love

that you did not invent,

that you will not live to exhaust.

.  .  .

Say that the truths are exhausted

when they have flowered into lives.

Call that God. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the cast iron hammer

that will come out of the fire

blazing but not consumed.

.  .  .

Listen to silence – put your ear

close, and hear the words of the ones

that are too scared to speak.

Expect to be asked to dance. Be kind.

Kindness is immeasurable. Be joyful

though you have argued with your family.

So long as books do not pretend to

be people, please read more than write.

.  .  .

Ask yourself: will this satisfy

a person satisfied to watch the Real Housewives?

Will this disturb the sleep

of people who are not disturbed by violence?

.  .  .

Go with your love to the cantinas.

Sip margaritas on the patio. Rest your soul

in her arms. Cut ties

from all that keeps you tethered.

.  .  .

As soon as the pop stars and the preachers

can predict the thoughts of your mind,

toss it. Leave it as a sign

to mark a false trail, the way

you didn’t go.

.  .  .

Be like the inchworm

who flails about at the edge of all she knows,

wondering where her wings are.

.  .  .

Practice resurrection.

*a take on Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front by Wendell Berry