What God does to Death

I will die.

A few seconds before this inevitable occurrence, all that I have measured by way of belief comes to a breath-taking curiosity. 

The subject of mortality runs every Philosophy towards utopian heights. Religion seeks to impose the ex cathedra of how one fights the quietus. Humanity subversively hides in denial resorting to divergent technological spas.

Christianity stands alone in its presentation of its prognosis.

The Scriptural meta-narrative reveals death's character not as an anomaly but as the necessary consequence of our choosing to ignore the primary claim of life's creator that He is God.

Being God, he determines both the personality and functionality of all. To miss the mark of his inscrutable wisdom is to join the ranks of self-defined rebels. God calls this arrangement Sin. When this independence is imbibed, the consequential malignancy is earned. God cannot stop the justice of death, because He is God.

The story does not end though. Leveraged from infinite compassion, the impossible mission was conceived. God's incredible love takes on the fury of judgment upon Himself. His Son suits up in human form and battles death towards submission.

I almost had a son.

Luke was conceived with delight. I somehow knew what he'd be like. He will play good basketball and learn Economics. My third child would have been the recipient of learned parenting. I would have spared him from all my previous flub. While imagining a most ideal fatherhood, a drop of blood burst my dream. He died in his mother's womb.

I do not have any categories to grasp the abysmal conundrum and thus I turn to the unrelenting tenacity of Christ's claim. He alone claimed the true stare-down toward this nemesis: Oh Death, where is now your sting? In my oceanic distress, I hold to the anchor of the One who did something to resect my son's corpse.

God's story pulls me to believe where my unborn son now lives. In the meantime, I am granted the grace of hope that there is truly nothing that can ever separate me from his victorious grip. The story of gloom is displaced by his hopeful bloom. I am enabled to move on despite the temporal loss.

Last month, the young cavalier who is pursuing my youngest daughter came in to visit. He quickly disarmed me with his stellar charm. He played guard for Colgate University's Men's Basketball Team (NCAA Div. 1). Surprisingly, he too majored in Economics and currently works for a European Financial Group. I was not able to resist the shot to engage him in a game or two.

It was more of a wild circus. He was fiercely unforgiving in registering his depth and dominance. I was more watching than playing. More than once, he skywalks and flies over for a thunder.

While all this blur was taking place, it just occurred to me: his name is Luke. He plays basketball. He knows Economics. Truly, my Creator's wise humor blows me away.

After all, He is God.

Small wonder, I catch myself with a momentary beam when I think of my son's demise and that of my own future hop. Death is forever rendered benign by my everlasting Father: the true conditor of humans, basketball, economics and yes, of the insuperable gift of eternal life.

Despicable without Christ

My youngest daughter lives up to her name pure joy. If I am curious about her state of happiness, all I have to do is observe her wiggly feet. Gladness is somehow wired to the crescendo of her foot tremors.

When God sprinkled seeds of glee, she must have caught a ton. Sometimes one gets introduced to a remarkable person and their presence changes your mood with unexplained brisk. I just seek to be a better person when she is around.

I guess it's all about the essence of purity. When we behold what is pristine, our shadows somehow flee. That is probably why I miss her a lot. Who does not crave incandescence?

Her vocation is design. She is currently finishing school at FIT NYC, while working as artisan for a major fashion group. Etched conspicuously in both forearms is a lovely tattoo that betrays the vertical extent of her cover: I am Yours. You are Mine. (Isaiah 54:5)

Her love for Christ defines who she is.

Just this Christmas, she was in her usual cavernous chat with her Mom. The conversation took on a deep reflective trek. They both went rehearsing their stories of life and prequel. With casual poise, she told my wife: "Mom, you always see me as your perfect child. You need to know that I am not." Perceptively, she got this response: "Honey, you will forever remain a perfect child in our eyes. There is absolutely nothing that you do, will do, or have done that will ever change that."

The words of the prophet reflect the personal sting: "we are all unclean ... all we do are like filthy rags." But the news that shatter this stigma hauls all our every smut towards the unfathomable incinerator of Christ's available forgiveness. No wonder, as we receive this grace, we are enabled to experience unabridged joy.

This is so true in Kara's life. No wonder, I am always deeply honored each time she is joyfully around.

A Perfect Spiral

My eldest daughter was born with an ingrained passion for dress. The allure of enchantment that accompanies a laced goune has always enthused her joy. She would sleep in her flower-girl gown with glee. 

As time went by, her stirring for clothing held its ground. One day, she asked permission to leave Texas to study fashion in New York. With reasoned trepidation, I asked why. Her response was terse: "Dad, I will be the next Coco Chanel. but I will be different, ... God will shine through my work."

She finished summa cum laude when she graduated with a degree in Fashion Merchandising. She now manages the portal of an authenticated luxury consignment company in Manhattan. When she was an intern for Ermenegildo Zegna, she was asked why she starts her day by reading the Bible. When she was humored for her claim that it was her daily date with Jesus, she all the more disclosed that she likewise meets with Christ during daily lunch and dinner dates. She turns to the Master Cloth-Maker for current mentorship, with no apologies.

Nika's future follows the promise of a perfectly thrown anchor. In a world struggling to make its mark through bows and arrows, she has discovered the true way to prosperity: by standing firm on God's divine blog.

Just this past Christmas, she gave me a most unusual gift. It was an old Macbook with a worn-out case. I was kept intrigued until she flipped it open revealing the gift of a personal website: www.russelldiwa.com. She knew my love for diaries and blogs. I once told her that I started blogging when dinosaurs roamed the earth. I did not realize that my old blog somehow gained some following (28,000). Her acumen for metrics kicked in. She thought of my blog site and of its potential leverage to further advance the lumens of Christ. 

That is why this writing space seems rather trendy. The heart of a fashionable saint just threw in a perfect spiral.

Thank you Nika for quarter-backing my little thoughts about our Majestic God.

Boxing with Jake

The movie Southpaw moved me like no other. Jake Gyllenhaal's character reflected much of what I go through in my struggles towards repentance. Reaching the pinnacle of his boxing career, he loses everything. Redemption came when his daughter cried out for true repentance instead of all his brute efforts to make things right.

I get rebuked. But often, I hide and pay more attention to the embarrassing pain it induces. It reveals the fabric of my feigned remorse: I do not really hate the discovered sin. It is the consequence of what it does to me that I hate. And so I turn to self-pity. I feel bad about myself and I seek retaliation towards those who dug up my mess. This is not repentance. It is a lurid editorial of my propensity toward self-righteousness. It is the sin of Adam. It is the sin that facilitated our corporate fall.

True repentance ignores the personal pain of having been discovered with sin. A deep recognition of what sin does to Christ becomes the only agenda. It brings out the cosmic treason and insult it hurls at the Cross of Christ. Jesus spared nothing to grant me freedom from sin's bondage. All that he requires is the adoption of his imputed righteousness, even when I fall. And so, I repent by not taking sin to my puny mountain of self-righteousness but towards the resplendent glory of Mt. Calvary.

When I turn to the cross when I fail, I find the outstretched arms of my Savior reminding me all over again of the depth and wonder of His loyal love. I am engulfed by his grace and mercy.

Truly, as grace and mercy are Christ's one and two punches, I never last a second at Round One. I am always declared winner even before the bout begins.

Why My Vote Is A Trump

[trump] n. 1. a card of a suit any of whose cards will win over a card that is not of this suit. 2. a decisive overriding factor or final resource. 3. a decisive and exemplary person. (Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

The former first lady, Imelda Romualdez Marcos,  is a blood relative. When I got baptized, she stood as my godmother. Lola Carmen (my grandmother) fondly recalls her proud mentorship towards the young Imelda. When she rose to prominence, her correspondence with my Lola kept steady. I do have a copy of her sincere request for prayers for the candidacy of the young senator Ferdinand. I witnessed the rise and fall of the Marcoses. There were times that I was prompted to leverage our relations for my personal advance. Since I went to San Beda College, the presidential palace was literally a few hundred steps away. For some reasons, I kept my distance. It was rather prescient for me to do so.

The boon of politics has remained on its slippery slope. Leaders come and go. Promises are made and never kept. Yet, the world remains in a mysterious waiting stance. There is the insatiable clamor for the rise of the best president ever; the king of all kings. I remember the veil of despair when JFK's vision banished at the grassy knoll. The outstanding popularity of Obama has become a social relic. Not to mention, the demise of Julius Caesar in the hands of Gaius Cassius Longinus and Marcus Junius Brutus. It is rather sad that the world's most powerful died on a spot that is now a mere bus stop known for its putrid urine scent. Kings do come and go, rather unfashionably.

Marcos held power and so do the rest. But the prophet Daniel was on to something as he declares: It is God who changes times and seasons; he removes kings and sets up kings; he gives wisdom to the wise and knowledge to those who have understanding. (Daniel 2:21)

I now live in America.  I will vote soon for a president. I am not deluded by the sophisticated spiels rallied towards my allegiance.

I turn to the wisdom of the prophet. It is the LORD God who holds the key.

I was told to take the role of god-parenting rather seriously. But most of the time, with casual neglect, I just forget the vow to serve the little ones. For as far back as I can recall, all that I ever got from Ninang Imelda was a tiny infant bracelet. I gave it to my daughter when she was three. She lost it at church while pretending to be a queen.

I guess, I would have to be more forgiving. The winning card can never be found in human pledges.

The Foolishness of Being Born-Again

I am born-again and I'd be lying if I do not admit experiencing a sense of edginess each time I get to disclose the central core of my existence. A recent survey indicates that it is no longer cool to have born-again neighbors. We are seen as caricatures of alien stiffness.

I find contemporary culture's disdain over the metaphor riding on two presuppositions: the opiate of a new birth is for the emotionally weak and the morally distressed. All others: the strong, the intelligent, and the self-made have no need for such, in the same manner that Bill Gates won't grant minute attention to an Amish Elder speaking about the perils of technology.

There was however an archived development. A stalwart of intellectual vigor and emotional stability met with Jesus one stormy night (Gospel of John / Chapter 3). Nicodemus had absolutely no intent to subscribe to his teaching. He came as a representative of the most supercilious intellectual/moral class of his day (Pharisees). He came merely to invite the popular teacher to beef up their religious league. Jesus ignored the overtone and shot straight: you will not understand any of life unless you are born again.

In clarifying the imagery, Jesus introduced the necessary mystery that accompanies the proposition: like the wind that invisibly blows, so goes the message of the metaphor. In speaking to the cultural icon of intellectual suave and emotional fortitude, Jesus made a clear point: no one gets an exemption. Every person needs to be born again.

Of course, Nicodemus doesn't get it. How can a person be born again? Jesus emphasized the radical nature of his offer: there is nothing in human achievement or pedigree that merits intimacy with God. Only one thing holds: when all our efforts are recognized for their true lack and Christ is received as life's sole originator and administrator.

When this is believed, the wind takes over. The Holy Spirit completely transforms the willing vessel: born again in every sense of the word.

Augustine of Hippo once lived a life of debauchery. His lust consumed his hours with prostitutes. Upon conversion to Christ, it is told that he once visited a village where a young lady used to be his doodad. Upon a chance meeting, he treated her kindly, with warmth and dignity. There was no hint of lustful advance but its inverse. The young lady stood perplexed as Augustine bid goodbye. She thought that perhaps she had been unrecognized. After a few moments of thought, the lady pursued Augustine saying: "Augustine, Augustine ... It is I!"

Augustine replied: "I know dear Lady, but It is no longer I." The wind has blown.

I met the quintessence of Nicodemus's profile a few years back. The man was intelligent, affluent, and self-made. We once talked about my faith and in a most genteel intimation, he quipped that he does respect my foolishness but it's just not for him.

As time went by, my good friend contracted a terminal illness. Days of confused anger filled his search for an anchor. His son, who knows Jesus, one day delivered the package of Christ's offer: "Dad, there is no other way ... you must be born again."

Two months before he met his Maker, he called me to register his new birth. I was just imagining the personal upheaval when he gave everything up for what seems utterly foolish in exchange for Christ's guaranteed life. His joyful transition provided the resplendent powerpoint.

I walk this foolish path, all day, all night. There was once a Rabbi named Saul who took on this journey. His name was changed to Paul in lieu of his new birth. His grass marker is quite revealing: "I am a fool for Christ's sake."

A fool indeed, but there is not a day that I fail to receive the exhilarating surge of divine affection and wise fortitude that I know by heart, comes from the the Holy Wind.

Hard Shelter

Just a few days ago, I could not even squeeze myself into the stairs closet. Nine persons plus one puppy hoping for the tornado sirens to stop.

It did, but only after leaving a horrific catastrophe. It seems so familiar: a dormant volcano half buried our home in the 90's; Some friends perished amidst the pulse of the Richter scale in the 80's. 

It just doesn't make any sense. And that is exactly why.

I reckon that none of my human senses will ever fathom these tragedies. Thus I stopped creating my indie films on these monstrosities. 

I still read the culture of despair that seeks to assuage our shared despondency. There has to be an outcry.

With all our registered complaints, one wail remains unique.

The Torah discloses a story like no other. It reveals the curious portal of why this world exhibits brutish tantrums. A bitter script that lays it down with no frills: we bought into deceit and the consequence is what we bear now.

The epic unfolds with sterling cinematography. The first two pages (Genesis) discloses how it all began. The last two pages (Revelation) on how it will all resolve. And then the vast middle, speaks of where we are and why things are so.

I am presently wrapped up in rumination of  who I am in this troubled world. I was merely 4 miles away from last week's Rowlett-Garland cataclysm. I was spared to think for another day.

It suddenly dawns on me that it is not about some religion or some philosophy anymore. It is just about the integrity of Christ's claim to have risen from the dead. If this script is dead-true then life stands with hope. Jesus claims to have come from His Father to offer no relief to our chaos. He offers full redemption not by any sensitive editorial release but by unleashing the unthinkable: God offers Himself. 

Not to heal but to redeem our fallenness and all else included.

This sounds so simple. No wonder Christ called it children-stuff. The witness of Scriptures beckons me to believe by faith. Thus I take shelter for now.

The hard truth will take care of me with much conviction.

Holy Pain

The language of pain is most articulate when it is spoken through the portal of blessing.

I thought I knew pain. Not quite.

Some three years ago while on a routine visit to the children's hospital, I discovered a deep emotional prognosis. While the infant's parents wept, I stood more curious over the anomaly. He was born without a jaw coupled with a hole in his heart. It was my first time to actually see an open chest cavity amazingly covered by a sophisticated plastic clear-wrap. After praying, I tried to force empathy with manufactured tears but there was none to drop. Something has gone wrong with my vocational core.

I don't know what I was thinking but I prayed: "Lord, I need your help. I think my heart has been numbed by years of religious pretension. Please set me free. Release my heart to feel what you feel. I beg to be ordained by your mercy."

God truly knows a serious prayer. He answers swiftly.

I was diagnosed with a rare mandibular anomaly. The only cure was resection. My lower jaw and lower teeth had to be removed. My leg fibula bone becomes donor for replacement. My thigh flesh will be harvested for skin and gum grafts. I was discreetly told to practice smiling with my eyes and perhaps adopt a slurred speech. It was a 12 hour microsurgery performed by Dallas' two finest surgeons. The only consolation was its benign nature.

For more than two years, I got inducted to the intermediate class of pain. The physical strain was peripheral to the psychological weight that never left. I was on a liquid diet while watching my body lose its mass. Words are too rigid to describe the tectonic jargon that took place every single day.

I was introduced to agony's middle name.

Through this long journey, there was one indescribable reality that subverted my heart. I began to know what it truly means to feel. My affections have been altered by the divine scalpel.

It has been three years since. The scars are settled but wild. The twenty-one titanium screws in my mouth have remained vise-gripped. I still tilt to the right if I fail to engage my core muscles. I have lost my Asian accent. I now sound more like a gagged Sean Connery.

But my heart has undergone a transplant: I finally know what it means to cry for my brothers and sisters.

I wish I had this pain earlier.

Grand Mercy

I have an African son.

Emeka Joseph calls me Poppa. He is fiancé to my eldest daughter.

His astonishing fortitude reflects his late father's vision to establish a seminary in Nigeria. His mother, a doctor, explains his acuity. His brother, a pedigreed NFL champion hints why only a few reps on the press rips his biceps brachii. His sister, a prolific fashion designer spills the vogue genetics. Not to mention, the other siblings with equal if not better endowments. 

What is truly remarkable about him is his intimacy with his Redeemer. He was a wild prodigal until God showed him the way to the egress.  If there is any strong argument for the colossal nature of divine mercy, Emeka stands nonpareil.

His love for my daughter resonates with a purity that is refreshingly alien. His regard for me beams with respect that seats me with proper humility. I have never met a man so resplendent in soul.

Emeka is a restaurateur/sommelier running what was recently voted the best Italian Restaurant Eatery at Tribeca, Manhattan. Whenever I visit, he serves me four things: unbridled eye contact, cardiac smile, dinosaur hug and impeccable gourmet.

I invite you to meet him someday. He will either be at Gran Morsi or at Trinity Grace Church Chelsea.

Ask him for black coffee. Add brown sugar.

Chat about Grand Mercy.

Guaranteed Joy

When I was young, I languished over joy's elusiveness. I sought it on my own terms. I bought it from my own resources. I thought about it with my deluded conceit.

There was no true joy.

All that I can produce was a copy. I lived with a duplicate until I found the source in the person of Christ. Like a tree planted by the streams, my roots have anchored deep on God's abiding word. The seasons come and go yet I hold: I am being sheltered from each and every blight.

I thought joy was to be found when one finds a woman to marry. Not so. Another person in one's life merely highlights one's hidden poverty. If it were not for the life-altering offer of Christ's grace in my life and marriage, I would have gone the drifter's way.

I now experience the measure of joy daily through my converse with Manel. I have been given a life-long companion to grasp the truth that my marriage is a mere gift. I either subscribe to the jargon that man and wife are mere affectionate symbiotic commodities or I sign up to the primary design that this one-flesh union is a grace-developed picture of Christ's love for His people.

When I get a kiss from her, I know by intuitive theology that a miracle is taking place. True love only happens because God loved us first.

This is joy guaranteed to its highest exponent. Soli Deo Gloria!

Two Shoes

I am a walker.

I love to navigate through fields, streets, and more especially the road-less traveled.

I do not keep tabs of mileage but I might have circled the globe intuitively. I wear all sorts of shoes. At my trek to the ball drop of NYC in 2013, the steady Doc Martens kept me glued well for hours. I stand on my Imperial wingtips forever but the resiliency of the plain Moab Merrell defines comfort on a raised pedestal. And thus, I keep walking.

I find so much walking in the Bible. As I go through the narrative of faith, I see the metaphor of journey prevailing. At the center of these steps is the incredible witness of the Psalmist introducing life, using two steps. The common steps lead outwardly. The other step strides inside.

Life derives from within. Like a tree that find its nourished strength from deepened roots within, so goes our derivative. 

There are two kinds of shoes. Those worn out by the rugged confusion of our fallen world, and those kept taut by a good path. We wear these shoes. We get to pick which shoes to wear, and what path to take.

There is an invitation to consider the journey that leads to a most wonderful discovery: a place not found in our walls. The apt shoes to wear are the ones provided by the One who walked and demonstrated where we ought to go. He traveled from the City of God, to the city of men to show us the way.

My daughter gave me a pair of Cole Haans. I performed an experiment: I nurtured each shoe with divergent attention. I cared for the left shoe with utmost attention. I left the other one unattended. At some point, the appearance of distress on one and the loveliness on the other could not be hidden. The intentional path has determined their character.

No one chooses our route for us. We get to choose Christ's intentional care or enter into a decaying default.

New Car

My family roots led me to a deep awareness about cars. My great grandparents were horse traders. Small wonder, my affections towards metal steeds seem psychotic. I gave them names: Brutus, Pandora, Black Stallion ... to name a few.

I did a recent inventory of units I've herded in my garage and it was delightfully ginormous. Through the journeys the cars taught me well. A man must be careful not to steal their identity. Some men have lost their hearts thinking that their Porsche defines them. When this happens, a subversive oil change takes place: gladness dissipates as the poor car assumes the awkward posture of reversed ownership. The man is comically owned by the car.

I fall prey to this syndrome because I lust after cars: My first sports car had me with a tight leash. The classic Mustang forced me to fake my identity. My Audi affected my gait ... ad infinitum. 

By grace, I stumbled upon a firewall. I was introduced to a simple being: a used 2000 Honda Civic. His radical simplicity pulled my roots to where they ought to be.

I fondly refer to him as Green Cross. I drive him everyday. He never attempts to own me. Neither do I. I just drive him with an ever-increasing delight towards becoming a new person each driving day.

It is ironic: he is 16 years old but he takes me to treks of newness each passing day. Happy New Consciousness.