The Garden is a permission slip — to be true to yourself, and that includes acting like a fool in the eyes of the world, for the glory of God.
And it includes stinking. Not the stink of shame — the stink of compost. The most fragrant roses grow out of the stinkiest compost. We don’t hide the weeds; we turn them face-up so Grace has something to work with.
The quiet revival is beautiful and we honor that. But Paul boasted of his weaknesses and called himself a fool for Christ — µωρὸς διὰ Χριστόν. Francis called his brothers God’s jesters and preached to the birds. Luther chased the devil off with a fart. The Russians made a whole calling of it — юродивые, the holy fools.
You’ll know our revival is getting big and beautiful when the fools appear. And no scandal: if you catch us with weeds, you’ll find us already singing. And stinking.
If you’re a gardener of your soul, you’re a composter, too.
click to play: Our Big Beautiful Stinky Revival
Beloved brother Justin,
Grace and peace and a few things that don’t translate into the Queen’s English.
I’ve decided the trouble with you Brits is you’re too nice.
Too gentle. Too measured. Too
The house is on fire, the machines are naming our children,
Big Mammon’s doing the lambada on the altar,
And you’re over there whispering “quiet revival”
Into a cup of Earl Grey like you’re ordering a scone.
They yanked your survey, YouGov pulled the plug,
Atheists threw a party and you stood there like a gentleman—
Because that’s what English gentlemen do!
You said the data was flawed but the rebirth is real…
And I wanted to punt my IV stand through the window.
IT’S A BIG BEAUTIFUL STINKY REVIVAL,
It’s loud! AND YEAH -- SOMETIMES it stinks!
from the compost comes the rose
from the stink comes the wink!
Somebody’s gotta say so and apparently that somebody
Is a sixty-something shmuck from the wrong side of Atlantic City
With a vocabulary that would make a desert monk run back to a committee!
No seminary,
no degree,
no institution,
no permission,
No board,
no budget,
no plan B.
Doctors told me to go home and write my will
At a hundred and twelve pounds of skin and grievance.
Decade after decade of “no” from every gatekeeper, not even a blip—
And somehow I coined a thousand new words for the interior life
From a wheelchair hooked up to a drip.
If this nobody, this neandershmuck can do it, brother,
Then the tide is in, the water’s at our waist,
The revival is coming and the CRAPTURE IS turned BY grace..
brother Justin, can I be vulnerable here?
I built the garden because I had thousands of weeds,
and they were killing me.
Resentment weeds.
Anger weeds.
Fear weeds,
shame weeds.
guilt weeds.
Worry weeds.
Shmuck weeds.
I don’t even know what a shmuck weed is —
Though the AI says it knows.
the AI that claims with absolute certainty that it knows.
the same AI that never slept in the inlet section of Atlantic City
With the lost souls and the broken glass.
So no—the Garden is not a boast,
It’s a confession!
The inventory of a single overgrown plot!
If you want to know how much grace it takes to make a garden,
Count the weeds.
I’m not being modest!
I’m a graveyard of flaws and weaknesses,!
So lavishly, ludicrously, comically unqualified
That the only possible explanation is
God got bored, looked down and said,
IT’S A REVIVAL OR IT’S A CRAPTURE—
We either take this most powerful medium ever built
And consecrate it room by room, soul by soul—
Or we get the data-rapture, the upload, the singularity,
The great frictionless scroll that promises to lift you
Out of your inconvenient flesh
And deposit you in a heaven with no body, no wound, and nothing sacred in it!
I was four when the belt came down.
My brother took his own life on mother’s day.
A hundred and twelve pounds. Wheelchair. Four hundred infusions.
Grace looked at all of it—the belt, the inlet, my brother, the wheelchair, the tears —
And she did not see a tragedy.
She saw soil.
Grace sees soil in all of us.
We’re blooming now, brother Justin,
It’s a big beautiful revival, full of love and laughter,
even when it stinks, it winks
Συγχάρητέ μοι.
Come rejoice with me.
Martin
Lyrics: written 100% by Martin Butterfly.
Engine: generated with Suno 5.5
Production: human editing, detailed notes, iterations
Versions: 43
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