Fake Accounting

Our generation is blighted with what the Psalmist calls endemic lies. 

The social media has gone viral in its scope of delusion. We amass an incredible network of friends without really knowing anything about these, except for a few lines of personal acclaim.

Gone were the days, when one had a friend or two, running on deep answerability.

Even churches have followed the Pied Piper's lead. The mega-sized congregation has entered the era of the Big Greet. We turn to the person next to us and we exchange chums. We lead them to believe that "we care and love them in the love of the Lord." Whatever. 

How can one truly care and love someone whom they barely know?

The reason for Christ's Incarnation rebukes our expressive catastrophe. God did not seek redemption from a distance. He sent His Son, not only to bridge the gap, but to enter our world. It is in the context of personal abiding relationship that salvation has come.

This leaves us with a challenge to audit our current list. It is either we know our friends or we merely know how to use them.

God never used a fake accounting system. He calls us to adopt true accountability by repenting from our relational pretensions while turning toward a bold resolve to enter deeply into the reality of our connected lives.

It is with hope that we shall find Christ wonderfully mediating there.

photography: Stella P. Sison

Secret Dance

The first occurrence of dance in Scriptures reveals the primacy of joyful worship. The bondage of Egypt was broken and Miriam initiated the expression of affective gratitude with tambourine and song.

Dance, like any other human mien, reveals a brewing mood.

During my recent birthday celebration, energetic youngsters shared a riveting number. Their moves flung with joie de vivre. While watching, I felt my own joints replicating the breaks. One thing quite conspicuous was their preference to cover their eyes to style their gig. They looked awesome but it somehow registered what I perceived was reflective of my own secret dance.

I groove metaphorically. How can I not express my daily gratitude for the consistency of God's blessing in my life. But then, my sway is somehow covert. 

One Sunday, right after church, I took my family to a Vietnamese Bistro. I noticed a young couple chatting while waiting for their food. I reckoned from their looks that they are actors: tattooed and with outlandish garb. My myopic bias stapled a label: with a crop of hair like those, they are dope-regular.

When food was served, I was put to shame by their witness. He held her hand while praying loud to Jesus with sustained thanksgiving for close to a minute.

I was challenged to take off my blinders when I declare thanks. Indeed, in all things I must bless the Lord of Dance without veil.

I just did that yesterday at a Muslim-run Dimassi's grill. I felt the stare of people while I popped my inner soul with glee for an extended mixx of praise.

Photography: Paul Supelana

Eusebio's Legacy

My grandfather, Eusebio C. Manalili (1903-1990) although silent, declares from his epitaph his life words: "In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths."

My mother fondly recalls the incredible entrepreneurial genius of this opulent man. He traded all sorts of things from medicine to real estate. Wary about the banking system, he hid most of his money in sacks. His manner and decorum were impeccable as his fashion was. He first introduced me to the necessity of preppy. Thus, he bought me my first wingtips. 

I only disdained visiting Lolo Eusebio for two things: First, two minutes right after a road travel, he would immediately coerce me to a walk to his barber. He would always require a full trim. I often wondered why Mom would always demand that I travel with a full pint-size coat and tie just to see my old man. He was so eccentric with details: he folded his soiled clothes. I remember always being reprimanded for not shining my shoes.

Secondly, he would always pull me out of bed to read the Bible. When this is imposed at 4 in the morning, the dereliction is disturbing.

On one of those mornings, he was reading the story of Joseph. He began sharing his own journey as a businessman. He spoke about the gift of wealth and who gives it. He intimated that I pursue the world of Economics as a way to honor God. This was rather confusing from the perspective of my adolescent digs. How can money and God tango? I once heard someone tag moola as root of all evil. But then, his long stories spoke as though God and money were never enemies.

One day, he laid hands on me and whispered a most unusual prayer: "May the blessing of Joseph be yours."

I never understood the implications of a patriarchal bestowal. What's with a mere uttered wish anyway? 

When I followed Jesus, I was led to consider the meta-narrative of wealth. I took Economics, I taught Economics, I tried Economics. My limited observation led me to a point of discernment.

Grandfather was indeed right. There are only two kinds of men: those who acknowledge God and are directed well; and those who act knowledgeable and are nothing but empty husks.

Warning: Explicit Prayer

I never understood prayer the way I encountered it on August of 2013. Everything that I had known from Sunday School and Seminary did not quite prepare me for a most staggering encounter.

It was C. S. Lewis who once said: "I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen, not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else."

I just came off from an involved 12-hour surgery. With my face swollen to a watermelon, and about seven tubes of blood rushing, I was wide awake at the ICU of Baylor Hospital. I was quietly alone. I could not move my face. My leg was tied to a machine while throbbing. I just lost my lower jaw and my fibula, but not my spirit. I was wide alert, thinking of family and church.

Since I was not able to sleep, I turned to my usual conversations with God. I told him that since I had so much time in my hands, maybe He could obliged me with a long chat.

What ensued was intensely alien and holy.

With eyes wide opened, I was ushered into a vista much similar to the dark battle of The Lord of the Rings. There was a surge of hideous monsters rushing with fury. The army was so thick, it seemed like the onrush of an ominous cold front. As I prayed, I was overwhelmed by the virtual transformation of my uttered words to balls of fire. Each time, I versed a prayer, a giant ball catapulted to the enemies. They were so scared of the meteor-like push. They were retreating in droves. And thus, I prayed and prayed. Names of persons were being downloaded to memory as I engaged in what has turned to an exhilarating offensive.

While all this was happening, I noticed a man standing about 3 inches next to me. I never saw such creature before.

About 9 to 10 feet tall. His face was about 2 feet long. His was the most beautiful facial symmetry I had ever seen; eyes were brown/blue. There was no smile, but serious delight. His body was so buff. Absolute zero body fat. No human skin but feathery-like eagle tone. No wings but strong and stable. His legs were massive like pillars. He was looking at me and was communicating not with words but through mind: "Continue your prayers. Do not be afraid, no one will harm you, I am assigned to protect you."

I was smitten with abiding peace.

The occurrence started at around midnight, when I roused Dr. Oxford was on his early-bird rounds. The surgeon asked how my night was. I was hardly able to mutter any words. I was too intoxicated with wonder.

Since that day, I never took prayer playfully.

Just last Wednesday, at the church prayer meeting, a young father was praying for  a young teenager. I stood from a distance shooting the picture of a raging invisible combat.

At the center of it all, is our LORD who guaranteed that as we pray, His peace that surpasses our understanding shall keep us sane and safe.

Pure Joy

Joy

comes

from

only 

ONE 

source.

It comes from a world not our own.

Joy

comes

from

knowing

only

JESUS CHRIST

the author of life.

He came to share His World to us. 

(the battery of Joy, included).

Deep Joy

The Bible is harsh but accurate. All of us are sinners. No one escapes.

I am a sinner by heritage and orientation.

No matter what I do, the 10 pounds of flesh I drag pulls me towards the dust.

Thus even my offsprings are infected. The Adamic plague is viral.

Since there is no human egress to my perdition, the evidence of my decay validates my fast descent to Sheol.

If not for Christ's scandalous largesse, my iniquitous identity would have been my fast-pass to an eternal surprise that God is not a prankster.

When I received the message of Christ's Cross, I was imputed holy dialysis. Whatever death-inducing cells I had, met their end. I now run the blood of my Redeemer who spared not a single drop.

In the kindred faith-narrative of my two daughters, their sinfulness only equals mine. By Christ's mercies, they have likewise been invited to the feast of unmitigated Redemption. 

Every single day, I witness the depths of this joy.

Soli Deo Gloria!

Supernatural Hope

There is hope that is natural.

There is one that is supernatural.

It is my privilege to know a man whose demonstration of the latter deepens my own.

It has been part of my morning exercise to shoot free throws. It is a routine that helps me focus on the discipline of being sure and steady. I have been using a method popularized by Tom Amberry. He once held the record of the most consecutive free throws (2,750 in 12 hours). What seems supernatural, is most natural for Tom. He just shoots with impeccable hope.

My current shooting percentage has been rising. I attribute it solely to the science of the perfect stroke. I follow a system of seven little fluid movements. Once done with muscle memory, the basketball hits nothing but net, even with my eyes closed.

The joy of this hopeful exercise is in knowing for sure that the ball will reach the rim with precision. The swish merely affirms it.

There is only one impediment to the process, if I get distracted and lose my scientific flow.

Oh, one more thing, If while I am aiming and releasing, some hidden Kareem Abdul Jabbar intercepts it from behind while airborne. This may throw me into some baffling inquiry on how my sphere mysteriously disappeared.

This is quite like the question of supernatural miracles. The hard truth that faith is not scientifically anchored is point well taken, just because faithful hope is anchored in a most unexpected intervention.

My good friend recently lost his wife. He believes she is now in heaven. He is looking forward to a future reunion. There seems to be a scientific-disconnect to his noble hope.

Well, not quite.

If God is God and science is science, science must yield to God's ambush.

If hope is from God, one day Florie and Zeny will meet just as the ball kisses its promised goal.

Photography: Paul Supelana

The First Selfie

In the Garden of Eden, there was no need for lens.

No mirrors.

No cameras.

No need to review one's image.

All that mattered was Imago Dei (Image of God).

The fall promised a better shot: Imago Hominis (Image of Man).

When humans chose themselves over God, self became god.

The colossal fib in the garden had gone viral.

We are obsessed with pictures of personal acclaim.

We send out self-edited press releases.

Nothing escapes our trigger. We shoot to boast.

The world subscribes nonchalantly but just like the crash of Babel (Genesis 11), instead of being known, we sense a gnawing rejection.

The Redeemer exposes the sham of self-absorption and redirects our focus back to God.

As we behold this by grace, we retrieve our shutter and discover our selfies shattered.

The glory of God shines as we kneel to pose.

Photography: Paolo Esquivel

Golden Mouth

Oh the things we say, matter!

It was first day of high school. I got introduced to a class of arts. I get to draw and craft. What could be more rousing?

The midterms required a project. I was assigned to construct a model. I hurried to acquire the logistics. I was not to be disturbed. A genius must never be disrupted.

Burning the midnight diesel, I enlisted help from mother who stayed up adoring the masterpiece. I had the building painted with true enamel. For effects, I wrapped the 2"x2" replica with cover paper.

In the morning of submission, I came in to register my contribution to the world of design.

I began noticing the other entries. They were equally spectacular. I couldn't wait to receive the critical acclaim from Mr. Doloroso (not his real name).

With throbbing anticipation, it was time for his ocular assessment. 

This was his verbatim review:

"What piece of crap is this? Look at the paint ... so dull and rough! Look at your window louvers, they are not even ... the structure is crooked! You need to throw this to the garbage bin, Butch."

The reprimand was like a descent to Sheol. It was a day of silence. I was thrown into a decimated Alcatraz.

It was also the minute where all my love for architectonics died.

I later learned from Scriptures how potent the spoken word is. It has the power of life and death.

Every so often, I catch myself engaged in such tussles. Just yesterday, with no provocation, I cut my wife with marble-like syllables. The tongue is a true brat. A bridle is always necessary.

With much desperation, I always turn to the WORD who became flesh. Jesus shows me how to speak well.

Whenever He utters anything, it is always apt and forcefully gentle. 

Recently a friend shared:

Christ preached the gospel at all times. He only spoke when necessary.

Photography: Paolo Esquivel

Light Obsession

A young lady called me to pray for her pure light. 

We were in some deep conversation about the outrageous canon she and her boyfriend imposed on themselves: no kissing allowed.

I asked two questions about the puritan puzzle: Why and How?

Her answer was swift: "I am obsessed."

The simplicity of her alien resolve led me to a theological hike: Why would a normal young lady refrain from kissing just because of Jesus?

A kiss is so much more than an exercise of oral tenderness. You never kiss someone without your heart being thrown ahead in the room. A kiss is a seal of advanced commitment. it is a promise to stay forever true. No wonder, when I officiate weddings, I get to say: "You may now kiss the bride." 

The finality of Christ's presence has tremendous implications on kissing. N.T. Wright caught this in a most pressing statement:

How can you cope with the end of a world and the beginning of another one? How can you put an earthquake into a test-tube, or the sea into a bottle? How can you live with the terrifying thought that the hurricane has become human, that the fire has become flesh, that life itself came to life and walked in our midst? Christianity either means that, or it means nothing. It is either the more devastating disclosure of the deepest reality in the world, or it’s a sham, a nonsense, a bit of deceitful play-acting. Most of us, unable to cope with saying either of those things, condemn ourselves to live in the shallow world in between…

When one truly meets Christ, it is either you kiss Him or your turn away and osculate with your boyfriend in the "shallow world in between."

I get it.

The young maiden is on to something here. It is not about building a prudish wall but all about celebrating the context of her consuming passion.

When one truly sees Christ, all else grow strangely pale.

I Used To Prey on Gay

I was called Mama's boy.

Papa took me to school but mother cleaned me up well. I looked like an overly sanitized acolyte entering first grade.

My demeanor carried a gait of shyness and I remember crying over the slightest provocation. This did not escape the notoriety of peers. I would hear: "Obat makanyan ya ing kumag a yan. Maka-ima ya ... lawen me, pane yang masanting piblas ... Bakla yata." (Look at the nincompoop: he seems tied to his mom ... look how well dressed he is ... he is probably gay.)

I enjoyed play but avoided unnecessary roughness. I preferred mind-games. This sponged more jeers. One day, I decided to take arms. I uncloaked my timidity and turned gangsta.

I got initiated into the wild of brusque young men. I took on their guns and began the hunt for weaklings. I joined the raucous chants towards lame. Gay-taunt proved most satisfying to my new induction.

As I went deep into the labyrinth, I began to notice the sissyness of my strong company. We were all trying to enthrone ourselves as boss at the expense of weaklings. Such a cowardly agenda, by all estimates.

When I became a follower of Christ, I received a deviation from my DNA. Gone was my need to be superior. I was made to realize that in God's eyes, all humans act the same way because of an inherited malignancy. The Sin of Adam is upon us. We prey on gay. They tail us. No one wins.

If God is God, then His purview is absolute. His word is clear. Straight or gay, moral or otherwise, religious or pagan, no one escapes the assault of our deep spiritual acquiescence: we have all been transplanted a rebellious heart. We take on our puny existence and throat-shove a curriculum of life according to our own terms. In order to survive, we hunt to kill.

There is no escape route for human depravity. God has given us the world we deserve. What we seek by way of bespoke passion invites God's wrath. When we are granted concession to live the way we desire: a true divine curse has just been granted. 

It is with mere grace that I had been granted freedom. The foolishness of the message of the Cross did the hunting for my soul.

That is why, I can no longer prey on Gay. 

I just pray.

Photography: Paolo Esquivel

You Will Need This Rope

My daughter just recently got engaged.

My future son-in-law vowed to keep her pure in the eyes of the Lord.

I told him this was impossible ...

... not unless, he took my short advice.

Here is a verbatim transcript of our conversation at Brooklyn Bridge a few months ago:

Emeka: Poppa, are there any thoughts that you deem important for me during this time of engagement?

Me: About what?

Emeka: My love for your daughter rushes from my heart, I will do all my best to make her happy. Please pray that I achieve this.

Me: Your love for my daughter is really weak. Our hearts are deluded with our own whimsical imaginations. We migrate from lust to love and love to lust in six seconds flat.

Emeka: You make me laugh, Poppa.

Me: No, I am not trying to be a clown. I am just exposing my own struggle. You have a year before the marriage. That is a brutal time of waiting. All these months, you have committed to a life of purity. These next months, are going to be hellish.

Emeka: Why, so?

Me: The human flesh always yields to the heart. When love is at stake, the heart is the last muscle that can be trusted. You will be tempted a million times to violate the pearl that just got reserved for you.

Emeka: I will fight for it, Poppa.

Me: I know you are strong, Emeka. But you will lose.

Emeka: How can I win?

Me: Only if you take my gift seriously.

Emeka: What gift?

Me: Show me your palms. 

Emeka: (Unfolds his palms and offers them up for reception) Here they are ...

Me: Here is an invisible rope. It is crafted from Asia. We call it the Abaca Hemp. It is rigid and unbreakable.

Emeka: What is it for?

Me: Draw your palms near, If you wish, I will give you this rope.

Emeka: By all means please, but what is it for?

Me: This is my line. God gave it to me before I got married. The Lord redeemed me from a lustful pigsty and walked me through  a new kind of disciplined obedience. He gave me the cord to usher His strength towards my frailty.

Emeka: How did you use it?

Me: On the night of our engagement, I revealed my dark libidinous past to my future bride. I sought her help to aid me in my battle to protect her.

Emeka: How was her reaction?

Me: She stayed on. I said: "I am a lustful man. Apart from God's intervening grace, my beastly greed will destroy your beauty. God has given me this hawser for you to use. I beg you, please thrust this rope to strap me when you sense my sure upheaval.

Emeka: Did she have to use it?

Me: In the course of our six-months engagement, She had to tie me to a chair, twelve times.

Emeka: Please give me the rope, Papa.

Me: By all means, Emeka. You just have to remember, it is no longer your strength that matters. My son, it has to be solely God's.

Photography: Chester Canasa / Manhattan 

The Mood of Simplicity

Wall Street lore relates of J.P. Morgan's prediction about the mood of stock marketing: "It will fluctuate."

From its inception on a roofless courtyard at Amsterdam in 1611, the sociological test-tube has indeed revealed much about human temperaments. Once referred to as the "gambling hell," the iconic symbol of business economics has been demonstrating the unceasing ups and downs of emotive involvement.

Quite like the world of finance, the rise and falls of affections have been reasonably predictable. We are glad when our cups are full. We turn sad when they are half empty.

Mad Men have been successful in crafting our insatiable needs. We have traded simplicity for intricacy. And so, to a large extent, our hearts have been wandering in the desert for the past 40 years. Unlike the exilic Jews, our guidance comes from a virtual iCloud that merely mimics our cumulative theories and speculative sentiments.

Amidst this rigmarole, I hear a lonely call to pursue detour.

Simplicity in place of Complexity.

The clarion to heed the chase of God's Kingdom first and foremost, leads to this road less traveled. 

The birds in the air, the flowers in the garden, the grass in the field ... they are never left without provision. Jesus beckons me to consider His forceful reminder that I have been grafted to an endowment as large as His kingdom.

Christ is the one in whom all the treasures of knowledge and wisdom are hid. 

The simplicity of faith calls for a review of what is being offered: God has given us His best. There is no way, He would renege on anything else.

This is the sole reason why life was meant to be gloriously simple at its core. When Christ is known from a level of soul-awareness, the attachment towards all sorts of unpredictable stocks quickly fall. The rise of a warrantied ARG (divine aggressive revenue growth) takes over.

Glee wins with the most simplest of conquest.

Christ becomes more than a Wall-Street bullish unicorn.

He unloads His life to guarantee our solid eternal gain.

Photography: Renchi Arce / Art and Soul

I See Your Hypocrisy

Shakespeare was quite adept with masks of hypocrisy.

"I will speak daggers to her, but use none; In this my soul and tongue be hypocrites ... Such an act, that blurs the grace and blush of modesty, calls virtue hypocrite." (Hamlet 3.2.396-7; 3.4.40-2) By rigid definition, falseness reveals a deliberate plot of deception to gain reward.

It is quite interesting that a third of the gospel speaks on phoniness. The religious and impeccably moral Pharisees were most guilty.

Empty talk stems from a true disconnect. We subscribe to something and we act it out only in pretense. The superficiality of duplicity is always bold. Although hidden, it leaks like vapor.

The primary reason of contention for those who disdain the religious is precisely due to the annoying witness of sanctimoniousness. I find myself constantly at odds with this bug.

The difference between religion and the Christian faith lies in its source. All religion comes from man's innate desire for good. Atheism at its finest seeks premium morality. It is defined by evolutionary jargon, but nonetheless, it attempts to form order amidst chaos. Buddhism seeks to provide reclusive mantra against the madness of hurriedness. Islam introduces the depth of reverential piety to claim blessings. All these organic involvements are sourced from the core of human thirst. The insatiability of our soul's longing for rest is universal.

I delved into religion with serious zest. I even tried windows to the occult. I was being drawn into a narrative that strips me naked. I have to be cloaked.

However, the more I put on the clad of religiosity, the more I find myself acting like a seasoned thespian. My soul defects from my intent. I perform before crowds: all too convincing to win Oscars. But then, when the applause dissipates, the clown is left alone, bearing the dagger of my own fraud. Jesus was right: I am a mere white-washed tomb with hidden atrocities.

All these lament are confronted by the startling offer of the Messiah. It is not towards acting that I am called. It is towards a grant that finds no merit in me.

That gift is called η δικαιοσύνη του Θεού (the Righteousness of God).

This imputed grace is diametrically opposed to religiosity. It does not deal with acting rehearsals but precisely involves the heart not with reformation but transformation.

All hypocrisy is confronted by the life-correcting infusion of God's enabling in our lives. This is made possible through the indescribable invitation of Jesus Christ for us to receive Him as mentor for our ineptness. We take His call. He takes our fall.

When I became Christian, I became recipient to extra nos. It is life lived from God's external grace. I no longer subscribe to pretensions. Every once in a while, my carnality shorts my identity. I still catch my propensity to feign but it always dies to the immeasurable love from Christ that is plummeted headlong towards my soul.

God sees through my hypocrisy and leads me out of its theatrical ruse.

No longer a hypocrite, I have become a dumbfounded spectator: I see grace everywhere! 

Photography: Renchi Arce / Art and Soul

Discerning Sex

The current version of sex is exilic.

We have redefined this magnificent wonder using mouse words.

The very first mention of its occurrence was made early in בראשית the book of Genesis. It originally meant deep relations.

Sexual intercourse was one of its features but it was not its main course. It offered a life-enriching platform for those who enter in.

Yes, it is not only meant for married couples just because of its organic vision.

We were designed to make love through good conversation, a hand-in-hand stroll in the park, tandem-biking, coffee-chatting, movie-viewing, cross-hiking, music listening, gourmet-sharing, weep-heaving, kayak-trolling ... good sex happens with a good game of tennis or a jog at Central Park. As it nurtures relationship, it is deemed as מִין yada. A deep kind of knowing birthed by intentional activity.

At the center of this grant resides the source of all true knowing: God orchestrates our relationships with deep commitment.

That is also the reason why coitus is reserved only for covenant marriage. The kind of knowing that takes place in the one-flesh union upgrades this sense of relations to its apex. When one commits to matrimony,  a complete yield to the other takes place. Sexual intercourse merely provides the exclamation point. That's why the single is joyfully exempt from it. This is not to say that singleness is inferior in weight. Marriage is a gift just as singleness is. The responsibilities are custom-fit. 

I have personally witnessed the relational holocaust of those who unknowingly succumb to the allure of premarital or extramarital yada. The viral infection is utterly undetected due to the Niagara-force invite. Flesh to flesh, fluids blend, orgasmic repetitions, torrid groans ... but feigned commitments. There is no knowing, but unperceived using.

In marriage, when the body touches the body, deep tenderness awakens a holy-kind of discovery. There is no inhibition. The bliss of deep integrity is experienced. When the soul touches the soul, the person of dreams and hopes collide. Trust is generated. When the spirit touches the spirit, prayer is rehearsed. The climax of joy reverbs. While the celebration of the bedroom booms, God in heaven applauds and declares that it is indeed ... very good!

The opposite exacts a knife. When the unmarried use the void license, after the body-collision, a feeling of dirt consumes the psyche. After the soul-meet, distrust and subversive anger germinates. The spirit to spirit rendezvous scars with dark depression. While the hidden heist takes place, God in heaven weeps and whispers that it is indeed ... a march of dying!

This is where humans suffer the inversion of becoming mere instruments of each other's lust. We buy labels calling it love but we silently die a thousand deaths famished by our lies.

I gathered from a recent scientific journal that one of the primary reasons for a henpecked husband is premarital coitus. it is disclosed that all women view their purity as supreme jewel. Whoever takes this away without covenant will be seen as irresponsible thief. This unknowing lover shall suffer a life-long assault. If the affair leads to marriage, the wife signs her vow: "I will teach this idiot every jot and tittle on how to be responsible."

Sex is holy. It is exhilarating in its proper boundaries. It does not hide in whispers of deceit. It exhibits its ecstasy in the language of knowing God and the accompanying benefit of knowing another person through His introduction.

If there has been any violation, redemption awaits. God calls each one to come into His reasoning. Although our sins are as red as crimson, He can obliterate the curse and ship us back a dazzling wedding attire, just because He knows us. 

Christ is our true Bridegroom.

My Mother has 9 Lives

This is a myth, of course.

Hello Kitty has only one.

The Old English aphorism: "A cat has nine lives; for three he plays; for three he strays; and for the last three he stays," probably hints more about the Labyrinthe Righting Relfex that allows for these cute creatures to perform aerial acrobats.

But Mother has been quite a feline in many ways.

When I was five, they were on their way to a personal appointment with President Marcos when our 1955 Ford bat-mobile plummeted from a 14 feet vertical-clearance bridge. During the pneumatic drift, my mother sliced a prayer: "Lord, my children are so young, please spare me." 

There was commotion not because of death. There was chaotic wonder on how this vehicle maintained its equilibrium while landing on all fours with only a cracked windshield. Papa's nose broke. Mama's spine was compressed, but breath was not snuffed.

And then, there was a massive stroke. Mother was taken to the nearest hospital which happened to be one of the more sophisticated rehab center in Manhattan. My sister called crying. They were going to charge Mama, 15 grand a day for about a month of recuperative stay. She prayed every single day. Her shine was dazzling. She gained the reputation of being the joyful angel of 9th floor. The good Jews decided not to charge her the actual rates. Her final assessment was 10 cents.

During my recent illness, she flew in to serve as nurse. The soup and care I received was unequaled balm. After all the caring, one night, I heard a loud cry for help. We were both limping as I took her to the ER. After multiple scans, the doctors couldn't find the trace of what appeared like a serious storm. Little wonder ... during her brief stay, she would always sing a song I wrote: " I'm getting stronger, when I sing your praises ... I'm getting stronger when I think of Jesus ..."

She is now traveling towards 90's. She still looks unbelievably young.

The renewal of her strength does not come from some pithy mythology. It is derived from an exchange: she waits upon her Lord ... thus she soars on wings like eagles. There is no tiring flapping, just unrelenting trusting.

By the way, she has more than 9 lives. Read her daily FB posts: she will cat-walk you through the alleys of her warrantied eternity.

Photography: Renchi Arce / Art and Soul

A Pig and A Pearl

What happens when a pig sees a pearl?

Perhaps due to its luster, the animal might attempt mastication.

Since it is awfully hard and tasteless, it is but apropos for the pig to spit the pearl.

The hog only cares for what is edible and what fills up its belly.

I once acted like swine. My agenda was simple: it was all about me. I never committed to anything not unless its instrumentality would clearly favor me. As I looked around, I began noticing that I was not the only porker. Everywhere I went, the herd was supremely attracted to its own existence. Just like the rest, I turned fat with ethnocentric-steroids.

One day, I met a prince. He told me that he was formerly a pig. At first, I did not believe him until he showed me his photo album.  He then revealed to me how one can be transported from the pigsty.

With measured trepidation, I considered the alluring possibility. One day, I was not able to stand the staggering reflection of beauty. I melted and asked him to lead me to the King who can undo my curse.

I was led to a Cross, instead. There hung a pulp-beaten King staring at me with utmost compassion. He saw right through my heart and in a mere twinkling, my snout was gone.

When a pig turns into a prince, he looks at a pearl of great price quite differently. Beauty takes on a different hue. The world stops revolving on the axis of self. It turns into a panoramic canvas of beauteousness.

When I got introduced to Danielle, the pearl-in-her was so resplendent to ignore. I was no longer a pig looking for corn husks. I was a prince ushered to an incredible benefaction of grace-laden royalty.

The most unusual thing was that I had absolutely nothing to do with it. I was a sardonic creature transformed unto Christlikeness.

My King is Jesus. I have become his little prince. I am not escorted by some valentine date. I had been endowed with a most ravishing princess that harks my feelings back to an old rugged tree where it all ironically began.

I worship Jesus Christ! ... I was once a lowly pig but now His nasikh (נסיך).

Core Issue

Three years ago I went through an involved surgical procedure that practically shifted my weight.

My lower jaw was resected. All accompanying teeth except for two went with it. The fibula that kept my right leg in balance was harvested to form a substitute mandible. The large stripes on my thighs are tattoos of grafted grace. The lacerated scar across my neck reviews the wonder of it all.

As of this writing, I have never been this physically fit.

The recovery has been miraculous. My doctors attribute the bounce to the prequel of my historical commitment. Prior to my operation, I went to the gym six days a week. I was told that all that hard work prepared me for the armageddon of August 2013.

At the helm of this preparation was a personal trainer. Somehow, I sensed the need for a true bolt to anchor, if I were to recover again.

I researched the vast field and was led to Kelly Maresch. She has the equivalent of a PhD in the aspects of core anatomy. During the brief but intense training, my mentor honed my psyche towards the center. The core muscles must be built.

Every now and then I get a glimpse of Kelly leading a flock of neophytes. With kindred involvement, I  also see her often with his son, bonding: pilates-parenting. It does seem that everthing in life stems from the core.

At my nucleus is the centrality of an invitation: Christ is constantly offering what He deems as paramount workout. He pumps out all my weariness. He spots my deep issues. He grants me membership in gymnadzo: the life of sanctification.

A guarantee is thrown in: a lifetime set that always leads to blissed out rest.

The Ginseng of Gen Z

I had no need for adrenaline.

Ask any baby boomer.

Instead of conceptual depression, we had residual hypertension. I remember sleeping without bath just because I was bone-tired but joyfully-intoxicated from outside-play.

Home-made kites soared. Boats crafted from rubber flip-flops sailed. Guerrilla war-games were funded through wooden craps. Tin cans were treasured targets. Marbles filled the street tee-golf.

Oh, those days ... meals were missed just because of a universe offering unlimited glee. Creativity pulsated without boundaries.

I never stayed inside the house. Why should I? My bicycle won't let me. I was on to exploration the moment I rouse.

Those were the days ...

And now these days ...

With a current population of more than 23 million and growing, the Generation Z (born 1995-2012) are demonstrating a mind-boggling diversity. The intelligence of this batch is wild.

No wonder Steve Jobs had to raise his own fence.

Our marijuana was extreme sweat and dirty feet. Today's little tykes are into technological heroin. New York Times reporter Nick Bilton once assumed to have asked Jobs:

"So your kids must love the iPad?"

His response was quick:

"They haven't used it. We limit how much technology our kids use at home."

It is interesting that a trending preference among tech executives and engineers has been observed: their kids are sent to non-tech schools like the Waldorf School in Los Altos, where no computers are seen. The curriculum serves only focal hands-on learning.

I know it is not wise to judge these trends based on my personal bias. Who is to say that my crude outside glee was better? Opinions are always subjective and fleeting.

My anchor has been altered by the image set by Scriptures. I read about the necessity to train up a child according to the sacred blueprint implanted by God's wisdom.

I do things differently and I am told that this was not an accident. If I pay close attention to the craftsmanship of my Maker, I will not find a clue, not even a manual. I will awaken to a clear voice that tells me how fearfully and wonderfully I had been made.

I guess it has nothing to do with Gen X or Gen A. It has everything to do with what Steve Jobs had keenly seen: boundaries based on wisdom are non-negotiable anchors.

The question is therefore about the peg. Who holds my parameters? It is either the internal chip or the external blip. These won't both work, if the Bible truly holds water.

There is only one path that guarantees wisdom. It is devoid of an OS. It does not even have a play-space. It is not an IT. It is not some farm-playground. 

The path is a Person. His name is Wonder. Wonderful Counselor.

He knows where we ought to go and not to.

photography: Paul Supelana

I Really Thought I Was Right

99% sure.

I keep the 1% just to maintain a semblance of humility.

I have been in countless situations where I fume fury over some person whom I have quickly dismissed as marginal.

Too many to count.

Too many to retract.

I have made a fool of myself for not vetting into the 1%.

The honest tragicomedy The Big Short was on point to kick off the reel with Mark Twain's quote: "It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so."

I really thought my Dad was wicked.

I really thought VW Diesel was impeccable.

I really thought I was exempted from cancer.

I really thought Protestants were doomed to hell.

I really thought Rock music was stupid.

I have a million of these thought patterns ...

I would be lying if I pretend to have stopped. The list has exceeded the word-count but new jargon is added.

I find that I am prone to bang the verdict due to an insidious agenda: my self-esteem needs the fuel of self-absorption. Thus I become the Supreme Court for all.

No wonder, if it were not for Jesus Christ, I would have plummeted to deep incarceration. My Lord is firm: He beckons me not to judge. I get it. I do not have an iota of absolute proof on what is truly right.

I once thought my Alzheimer's-smitten Dad stole my mother's cash. I frisked him to my shame. Just yesterday, a well-meaning person requested that I remove my post from the FB portal because of my alleged self-promoting scheme. Apparently, there was clairvoyance involved. She knew me better than my cause. Quite shamed, I erased.

That's the reason why I struggle with my own deep propensity to put the cuffs on others. I had been released from the malignancy of my myopic froth. Why should I retool and spit the goo that was merely taken off my soul?

Praise be to Jesus, the only ONE who truly knows everything that is Right!