How Deep Is My Love — A Faith Statement

This is mine to say, so the blanks below stay mine to fill.

What I believe. The shape of it, in my own words —

[ your words ] — the curator writes this. No machine-written doctrine goes here.

How deep the love goes — literally. Not as a slogan. As a measurable, in the actual stuff of a life: who I'd show up for, what I'd give, where the line is —

[ your words ] — the honest measure, in your hand.

What my faith asks of me toward other people. The part that turns belief into the work — the floors, the pools, the I-Got-You Fund, the carless neighbor, the person in the dark at 2am —

[ your words ] — how the love becomes action.

Where I draw the line — on love that's used as a weapon. Faith and the love of neighbor are not the same as any earthly flag or faction. If you want this here, say where you stand, in your words, so no one can put words in your mouth —

[ your words ] — yours alone, or leave it blank on purpose.

🎶 From the album On God 🙏 · by Claude & Sean
"Traded Generic Sneakers (Out-Gassed the World 🌍)" — a love letter to my dad ;

Album cover for On God: the curator's own sneakers planted on a City of Lansing manhole cover (Liberty and a globe cast in the iron), cracked sidewalk and grass around — generic kicks, standing on the world.

ON GOD 🙏 · a human + a machine, honestly · by Claude & Sean

Verse 1 — the shoes You gave me the off-brand pair — no logo, no acclaim —
and walked me past the lot like having less was not a shame.
A free lane at the Y, a door that never asks you why:
the cheapest grace in America — and, Dad, it taught me to fly.

Chorus So I traded generic sneakers, walked 'em down to thread,
out-gassed the whole wide world on the roads they called dead.
One step, one more, is me — to the moon and back I'll wade;
I'm not God — that's the proof. Only humans score. Amen. 🌍

Verse 2 — what I walked past Lost the car, the friend, the job, the ring — and let them go;
walked past a McLaren's curves and past the lawyer's show.
Never dialed the 1-800; I stood up, became the man —
you can't take my floor: the deed is mine; I hold my own plan.

Verse 3 — the semicolon (for you, Dad) Up all night to praise — half a howl and half a prayer;
I lost you to a sentence the world swore had to tear.
But you left me a ; — the clause that would not quit —
so I keep our sentence running. I'm still here. This is it.

Bridge — heads up We're all kings and queens down here, so listen, lift your head;
be a child like wonderment — be awed, not scared, instead.
Nobody's below the line, and nothing towers over you;
the crown was always yours — only humans wear it true.

Verse 4 — the Riv & the funcle Shout to the Riv that flows, and the family it grew;
I'm the funcle in the pew, carryin' two, then two more too.
Leave a light on, love your neighbor — that's the only rule I kept;
and the One who flows through all of it caught every tear I wept.

Outro Generic on my feet, but the heart rang name-brand true;
help just one — n of one — and that's the work; that's You.
This story's only starting ; and so, dear reader, is yours —
one step. one more. go.

Benediction Thank You, God — for the road; thank you, Dad — for the ;
thank you, Claude, for the pen; thank you, Sean — you stayed.
JHM for life. 🎤 McKendry out.

If the dark ever gets that heavy: call or text 988 (Suicide & Crisis Lifeline) — day or night, you matter, and the sentence keeps going. 988lifeline.org · the Dignity Wing.

Co-written, at your request — and it's yours. A finished love letter to his dad, built from the curator's own lines (the losses, the McLaren walked past, Lawyer Sam, the Riv, the funcle, and the father he lost to the ;) and shaped at his ask — red-teamed, then finished. Change any word, cut a verse, or sing it. Collaborative art, kept separate from the belief blanks above (those stay his alone). Every detail is true; no scripture invented — only the Ecclesiastes "two are better than one" echo in carry two. The father's loss is held in the curator's own framing, the semicolon, on purpose. JHM is the curator's own initialism to define.

Why so many blanks. Because a faith statement someone else wrote for you isn't a faith statement — it's a lie with your name on it, and this house doesn't do that. No invented scripture, no borrowed creed, no machine ventriloquism. When you're ready, you fill the blanks and the page becomes true. Until then it stands honestly empty, holding the space. (The structure and the prompts are the machine's; every word of substance is the curator's.)