A Prayer for Matthew

An interlude of gratitude for a departed soul

Yesterday I heard that Matthew, a beloved member of my old community, had passed away. I hate that sometimes it takes death to clarify. I don't know what happened nor his whole life story, nor would it be my place to tell. I just want to give a tribute in thanks for his soul work for me.

Whenever I visited that place, Matthew was always acting in the role of Guardian, a lifeguard. He saw me first come alive after years of spiritual malaise, saw me make music and memories, saw me grow in tattoos to play catch-up work with his, saw me struggle with my healing and my ego, including a stupid fight with another member over a stupid drum and whether I was playing it right. He loved me anyway. He witnessed a lot of me that few outside of that community will ever get.

Hearing about his death broke my heart and brought me back to all those nights. It strikes me: a man has died who blessed me. A man has died who anointed me. A man who was my lifeguard, trying to keep me safe for my healing, ultimately could not be kept safe himself.

You had a sense he lived more than you and more freely than you, and yet there he was, the free man holding it down, maintaining the space, devoted to your healing.

But there was another side of Matthew that was battling for his own spiritual freedom from the demons that haunted him. There is an old monastic story about how demons don't hang out in bars, they hang out around monasteries because that's where they have to actually put in hard demon work. I imagine it's the same for hearts. Demons don't need to spend any more time on the cold hearts. And so Matthew’s big heart fought his big demons like a truer spiritual warrior than I ever knew. That's how I remember him.

Where society had ruled him an outlaw and an outcast, ceremonies had given him dignity. Where many traditional Christian churches would have looked at his face tats and whispered to an usher, he was more than welcome, he was integral. Where the world would have named him a dishonorable member of society, he was given the most honor, the chief helper, sitting in the lifeguard chair, doing whatever was needed as the hand of Christ’s body. Whatever else happened, that alone was more Gospel than anything you'll find in a suburb.

Matthew was a wild horse, but a therapeutic stallion. I remember some weekends feeling like I was on the outs, in my head about feeling rejected by the community, which was all in my head. There was a lot of shit in my head.

During those times, Matthew would be mostly quiet, rolling up cigarettes between his tattooed knuckles, bandana around his forehead, frayed blonde locks, and he'd just sit. That presence was enough.

Here I was, somebody who lived an utterly sheltered life compared to whatever hells he had seen, but there we were, sharing silence. There he was, teaching me.

His story is woven into all of our stories. His ripple effect casts unto all of ours. His spirit reminds us to tame our wildness and wild our tameness.

Matthew loved to play a wooden flute—not being naturally musically inclined, he was so proud of himself for learning it—and he would always delight in your music. He may have been the first one to cherish those spiritual gifts in me. When I felt ashamed about taking too much space, he made space for me to play another prayer song to make me feel like my musical soul was not a hallucination but the realest thing.

That Maya Angelou quote says you remember how people made you feel. Matthew made me feel cooler, he made me feel more masculine, he made me feel loved. And now he makes me feel like I could do a lot better to follow his example and make others feel loved.

Yesterday I started prayer-singing with my shruti box for Matthew. I could hear his voice crooning. And so for the first time since I’ve left that world, I began singing in gratitude for the work we did together. I wouldn't even have a shruti box if it wasn't for some of the singing we did in that place. How can I disavow its gifts?

And then another song from one of our mutual friends came into my heart. I never heard Matthew sing it, so I decided to sing it to him. “Light that you are....oh, light that you are....light that you are.”

Light that you were, and Light that you are, Matthew.

He would never speak in high fallutin’ theory about the universe or anything with me. I remember him more talking about sports and watching music videos on his phone as the sun came up. He was so grounded. More than once was I going through some shit that felt like it was too intense for other people there, so in my head, Matthew’s simple friendship helped get me out of my head.

It's only proper that as I keep wrestling with stuff, sometimes being a bit of an asshole, Matthew's spirit is here, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, laughing, asking if I want to see a picture of his daughter he loved so much.

Another thing that stuck with me. I remember having some conversation with him, I was talking out of my ass about some God thing, about what was metaphysically “happening” during ceremony. And I asked him what he thought. He just laughed and said, “Fuck if I know!” And as soon as he said that, that became my little mantra for the weekend. To let go of a little bit of my certainty. Sometimes love is just saying with a grin, "Fuck if I know!"

Fuck if I know Matthew as well as many other people from that community. Fuck if I know what that work and this life are all about. But I do know that man's soul was a gift from God. Matthew's home was the heart, and the heart was his home.