No Gospel Here
There was never any question which song would end this chapter.
Long before No Gospel Here became the final release in a year-long string of songs, it existed as a poem called Forgive This Brief Intrusion. I gave that poem the same title as my first self-published poetry collection because it represented something I've always felt whenever I share my work: an apology for taking up someone else's time. It appeared as the afterword to the book, almost as a disclaimer. I wasn't claiming great insight or some privileged connection to God, Spirit, or ultimate truth. I was simply saying, "This is me." Looking back, it feels strangely inevitable that the same piece would become the closing statement of my first body of music. It was always meant to be the period at the end of the sentence.
I've spent much of my life wrestling with the fear that putting my work into the world is somehow embarrassing. Every writer knows that little voice that whispers you're being self-important, that you're making a fool of yourself, that no one asked to hear any of this. Even the title Forgive This Brief Intrusion is an apology before anyone has the chance to object. That anxiety never really left me. What changed was my response to it. When I wrote, "I offer not regret or plea, just this: the best you'll get from me," I wasn't claiming the work was perfect. I was saying something much simpler: my intentions were good, and maybe for the first time in my life, I sincerely tried my very best.
One of the central images in the song comes from Plato's Allegory of the Cave, an idea that has lived in the back of my mind since graduate school, where I earned my master's degree in philosophy. The metaphor has never interested me because it promises certainty. Quite the opposite. It reminds me that language can never hand someone an experience directly. Every poem, every song, every metaphor is just another shadow cast upon the wall. We shape something with ink, rhythm, memory, and hope, then trust another person to recognize something of themselves inside it. The goal isn't to deliver truth intact. It's to create the possibility of connection.
Ironically, that search for connection was born from isolation. This entire project has been a solo endeavor from beginning to end. It probably couldn't have happened any other way. Had there been someone nearby telling me I was being silly, or that I should give it up, they might have succeeded. Solitude protected the work long enough for it to exist. But solitude has a cost. It became increasingly clear to me that the very loneliness making these songs possible was also the thing I hoped they might help me escape. That's why the line, "If one line still hits your heart..." means so much to me. It's not about praise or success. It's about the possibility that one honest line might briefly close the distance between two people who have never met.
The title No Gospel Here has worried me a little because I know some people will assume it's an attack on religion. It isn't. It's almost the opposite. The song isn't saying there is no gospel. It's saying this isn't it. These songs aren't scripture. They aren't sacred. They're just ink and breath. And both were mine. If they're good, I deserve the credit. If they're flawed, I deserve the blame. Either way, they belong to me. As I look back on twenty-eight songs and a book of poetry, the feeling that remains isn't triumph so much as satisfaction. For however long that feeling lasts, I can honestly say I gave everything I had. If these songs outlive me, I hope they do so for one simple reason: they convince someone that another human being was here. I was real. I was here. I wrote.
#songwriter #poetrycommunity #plato #conclusion #spotifymusic
Reflecting on the journey of creating "No Gospel Here" and its roots as the poem "Forgive This Brief Intrusion," I've come to deeply appreciate the vulnerability required to share personal work. The feeling of almost apologizing for taking someone else's time is something many artists and writers experience but seldom discuss openly. This dichotomy between wanting to express oneself and fearing judgment is a universal struggle in creative fields. The reference to Plato's Allegory of the Cave resonates profoundly with me, as it highlights how art can never fully convey experience or truth but can instead offer glimpses or shadows that invite introspection. It reminds me that the real value lies not in delivering an absolute truth but in opening a space where others might find parts of their own experiences reflected. This connection—no matter how fleeting or indirect—is what makes sharing art worthwhile. Creating this collection of songs in solitude reinforced how isolation can both protect and challenge creative expression. The silence and distance from immediate criticism allowed the work to develop authentically, yet it also underscored the human need for connection. Knowing that even a single line from a song might resonate with a listener, offering a momentary bridge between two strangers, is profoundly reassuring and motivating. The concern about misunderstanding the title "No Gospel Here" is valid and speaks to the nuanced relationship many have with language and labels. Clarifying that this isn't a rejection of spirituality but rather a statement about the nature of these works—as imperfect, human, and personal creations—emphasizes an honest and grounded perspective on creativity. For anyone grappling with creative fears or the feeling that their work might be insignificant, this story is a reminder: genuine effort and heartfelt expression carry their own weight and meaning. Ultimately, art's power lies in its ability to affirm our shared humanity and to say, "I was here. I mattered." Embracing imperfection and ownership of one's work can be liberating and deeply fulfilling.