Extravagant Freedom

Darkness covers the face of our world.

Everywhere we turn, we get hit by shrapnels of lies. The father of deceit truly roams the earth with cunning coverage.

Every square inch of human relation is replaced with duplicitous transaction.

Thus was the cry of the Psalmist (Psalm 120).

He awakens to the drum beat of spurious advertising. Mad Men march purveying manufactured claims pursuing delusive gains. And so he cries out for lavish freedom.

I get this strong suspicion that we deserve the kind of world we chose to make.

The circus of politics and economics condone the rendezvous of clowns.

Today at 1 pm ... the podcast "Disconnect" will go live to address this bad news.

Disconnect the Podcast / Launch 1 PM CST Today {photography: Paolo Esquivel}

The Good News will be heard from the vantage point of the Pilgrim Psalms.

Listen and Glisten.

Captured Joy

Joy is most elusive in the context of family.

We silently endure the unspoken pain of this irony. Home has turned to anything but sweet. Bitter is perhaps its sustained hymn. The curse of Genesis speaks well.

My own journey digs deep from throwbacks that makes no sense. I thought I had a pristine childhood. Time reveals the warp that impregnates all our living rooms. I had to endure nights of bickering while seeking to drown my parent's incessant chatter on infidelity.

I always thought of our family as iconic. We were deeply respected. What was unseen, however was never suspected.

The allure of duplicity crept unawares during my father's midlife. They call it crisis. I name it hell.

My mother's heart bled with confusion as she'd confide about father's lies. I did not quite understand why I ignored her while staunchly defending father's reputation. "No, he could never do that ... I know him," was my constant apologetic.

It was one night when I got home from some unscheduled visit. The phone rang and my father's mistress was on the other line:

Miss Tress: Hello, Tom ... Hi Sweetheart!

Me: (stunned ...) uh ...hello.... I couldn't quite hear you ... who is this?

Miss Tress: This is ... Carol...

Me: (doubly stunned ... my mother's name is Carol) oh ... so how are you?

Miss Tress: Aren't you coming tonight?

Me: .... This is not Tom ... this is his son .... (click)

When the frame breaks, the heart follows. The organic corruption exempts no one.

If it were not for the rescue of Christ's grace, I would have remained incarcerated with despondency.

Following Christ introduced me to a new set of family.

The Church is both mystical and actual. Without its weight, there is simply no way for us to take joy seriously within our fragmented relations.

My parents got divorced ...

... but the depth of Christ's intervention is beyond measure.

Before father died, I had the staggering privilege of officiating their remarriage.

Go snap the group-selfie!

Welcome Home.

photography: Paul Supelana / home-life: Grace & Mercy

Holy Craft

The first thing I learn about God in Scriptures is that He works.

God crafts the universe with signatures of beauty. His evaluation affirms solidity: it is good!

I have always admired people whose passion for work mirrors the imago Dei.

I know of one Master Plumber whose hands resemble that of a surgeon while loosening the grime in dark creepy spots. Thank you, Mark.

I know of one coiffeuse whose eye for hair symmetry translates into silent masterpieces. Thank you, Rocelyn.

I know of one Nurse-Anesthetist whose knowledge for surgical preparation pushes his devotion towards inspiring precision. Thank you, Gerald.

I know of one School Teacher whose love for music turns every Parent-Teacher meet into a world premiere of classical genius. Thank you, David.

I know of one Accountant whose zest for integrity carries his numbers to impressive heights. Thank you, Voltaire.

I know of one Pastor whose hands are soiled to bring the gospel without seeking pay, Thank you, Paul.

I am about to set out to work ...

May I be blessed with unbridled resolve to pursue my vocation without duplicity but with utmost integrity.

Deep Sleep

The prequel of Christ's glory harks back to the Garden of Gethsemane. Not one of his disciples survived the assault of fatigue. They chose sleep over the prod to keep watch and pray.

While in agony, the Messiah fought torments of surrender by anchoring his soul to what has always been true: God never sleeps. He never slumbers.

Life's brutal pace requires the balm of bed. We run through the rigor of hours draining our batteries quickly than iPhones & Androids. While plodding in toil, we walk amidst seductions that allure us to competing allegiances.

Money, Sex, and Power form mountain ranges that purvey delusive promises meant to disrupt our gaze upon the True Delight.

No wonder, God shuns sleep.

His desire to see us through every single day reflects an eternal lullaby that only ends in a rouse in His house.

Detailed Art: Lisa Grosfeld Psalm 121

Long Obedience

The majestic occurrence of transformation in tree life provides a parable:

First, it is ushered by the seed of a sower.

Then comes the release to its death.

Tiny sprouts spring.

Life crawls out from its resected shell.

Trunk appears.

Twigs arrive.

Growth forms.

Slowly but sorely.

While sap coalesce with wonder ...

... long obedience remains.

Life in Christ is pretty much so.

It is in the mundane and rugged following that we are thus formed.

Detailed Art: Lisa Grosfeld / Eucalyptus Deglupta (Rainbow Eucalyptus Tree)

Invisible Invincibility

If God is God, what seems invisible is thus invincible.

I read of scriptural accounts of hidden creatures who serve His purposes with great obedience.

The witness of brightly shining ones at the tomb of Easter was beguiling. If angels are mere hallucinated figments, then the entire narrative of the gospel is a joke.

But the report seems free from intentional fiction.

Angels were Christ's companions in the desert.

Mary received her first order of conception from one named Gabriel.

The visibility of these unseen persons is quite the norm in God's story.

Often, I ponder the mystery of what feels like a constant field of protection that seems to hem me in like a firewall.

Alas, I caught a glimpse one ordinary day ... of all moments, when I was most emaciated from a twelve hour surgery.

If God is God, His angels must truly be encamping around those who fear Him.

Rendition of Actual Recollection / Artisan: David Talaguit

Kind Stallion

Papa has been gone for several years but his Seabiscuited heart remains.

His 1965 Mustang was my first love. I polished the steed with fanatical zest. I raced trucks and donkeys with victorious glee. I especially got my adrenaline by beating records between exit points. I never got over the powerful overdrive where the snout would lift and breathe crazy strokes.

I was 14 when I began driving.

One night, I stole dad's car while he was asleep. I rolled it out of the garage manually and sped quickly to a girl's house. Those were days of misplaced ego. I was at my best game ... trying to be who I was not. 

It was past midnight and raining cats and dogs. On the way out, I noticed the road's shoulder turned marshmallow. When I started the engine, the car began pulling sideways and instantaneously fell into the ditch. Foul-smelling murk filled the cabin like a jester's prank. I was frozen with panic. How in the world can I recover the mess?

I called home:

Me: Papa ...

Dad: Uhmm ... (just roused from sleep)

Me: Your car fell sideways ...

Dad: Uh ... it's parked in the garage ...

Me: No, Pa ... I drove it ... I am at Jennifer's house ...

Dad: What? ... What happened?

Me: Sorry, Pa ... there was an accident ... the Mustang is half-buried in water ...

Click.

Five minutes later, three strong men were helping us pull the soiled horse out from the pit.

Moments later ... father and I were walking side by side in the drizzle:

Me: So Sorry ... Pa ...

Dad: It happens ...

Me: So sorry ...

Dad: If you need the car, just tell me ... you don't need to steal ...

Me: Sorry, Pa ...

Dad: (Silence) [puts his arm around my drooped shoulders].

I wonder if I should consider buying a Shelby just to honor the gracious mercy I took one embarrassing night.

Light Light

The depth of change in my journey with Christ leads to an awareness of His desire to usher me towards renewal.

I am a most difficult person to transform.

I think I got my stubbornness from rocks. I always thought of myself as the official last word on anything. My opinions are ex cathedra. Thus, I deal with a misguided sense of infallibility.

As I go through life in Christ, I began noticing how God takes me lightly. Indeed, if He were to take me seriously, I would have been decimated in hell several times over. The duplicity of the human soul is deathly pronounced.

My tongue bears witness to this anomaly. The little muscle speaks of heaven for an hour, in the next bleep, hell spews from it like lava. The book of Proverbs is spot on: words are commissioned with both life and death. They either give birth to a lift or kill without mercy.

How many times have I spoken to edify someone?

How many times have I spoken to crucify someone?

How can one even remember? The heart is too arrogant to edit.

Thus, I have resolved to commit to  a strong witness of lightness about my light.

I now take myself lightly and vow to take only the Person of God seriously.

Lawful Love

Banjo sat in front of me. We plodded through theories of microeconomics together. San Beda College was quite a haven. It represented a deep sense of ethnocentrism.

My classmate was the stalwart. His basketball panache reflected most of his brilliance. He is a deep thinker. He always engaged in discourse. I somehow sensed that one day, he will make his mark.

More than three decades have gone by and I note that we have become relatives by the blood of the Lamb.

He has become an outstanding lawyer. He serves as ambassador to the verdict of the Cross.

It is invigorating to observe God's work for those who are willing to abandon all things for His name's sake.

Constantino Banjo Navarro III is currently running for a seat at Philippine Congress.

I know why he is doing this: it has everything to do with his lawful love for His law-fulfilling Messiah.

Little wonder, the truly wise catch the gleam and kiss him.

Spot the Light

Delight has been a rare affect.

I constantly catch myself taken in by the currents of utilitarianism. The mantra of our age lifts the golden calf of optimization as its primary ethic. And so we work to promote that which works.

We are quick to dismiss things that no longer function. A faulty part is all that is required for a new appliance.

The same applies to our relational usage. A faulty quirk is all that is required for a delete on Facebook.

I stumbled upon the witness of my fig tree.

It is almost summer and the juicy fruits are well expected. I consume about ten of these goodies once they're out. What is the use of the fig tree? According to utility: it must simply bear fruit.

It is no different from any food that is served at Japan House. I crave sushi. Once it lands on my plate, I devour its usefulness.

There is something misplaced in these episodes. Something really amiss.

Well, the fig tree was seeded with beauty. The foliage is exuberant. Its form is sensual.

The Japanese chef had allure in mind while rendering the uni and hamachi. Food was not meant to be ingested without appreciation. Little wonder, I salivate first before it touches my mouth. Often, I eat forgetting to pray just because my taste buds dim my lumens.

God infused beauty in all things. There is a call to halt the obsessive rush to utility.

Beauteousness is deeper than workability. 

We were not created just for work.

We were crafted to exude God's resplendent pulchritude.

British Accent

I refer to 2012 as my Year of Descent.

My prognosis offered no elbow room. My jaw had an anomaly that was waiting to burst since inception. The benign suffering had only one cure: remove the lower mandible and all its enamel dwellers. Harvest my leg-fibula and donate it to my mouth. 

I was discreetly hinted to prepare for acquaintance with three new things:

1) The need to practice smiling with my eyes.

2) My speech will not be clear.

3) I will walk with a limp.

My world was about to take on a different spin.

1) I smile a lot.

2) I talk a lot.

3) I run a lot.

The relationship of faith and science has long been debated ad infinitum.

In my own world, however ... the barrier was lifted without a fight.

I strongly believe that the deepest realities of scientific knowledge are subservient to unbridled faith.

But where does one go for such arrangement?

I found mine after my involved surgery.

1) Although bloated like a cucumber, I began smiling not only with my eyes.

2) Although I love Asian diction, I just sound more British now.

3) Although I probably won't do the marathon, I now gallop.

This is not my face today. I just keep it to remind me of better days.

swollen smile a week after a 12-hour surgical strike

Guard Garden

The urgency of hurriedness shows no mercy.

I was told that hurry is not from the devil. It is the devil.

I often wonder why my propensity to gravitate towards stress is chronic.

It has everything to do with the Garden.

Ahh ... my parents fell at Eden.

My distant father, the gardener, had to be relocated for health issues.

He contracted malignant sin.

All was dying until the coming of the new CareTaker.

I now experience a settled existence.

I am bought back to the Garden.

Not the Garden of Eden ...

... but the Garden of Gethsemane.

It was there, where my soul was tilled back to life.

photography: Stella P. Sison

Ladies and Spices

The empty tomb was first discovered by women with spices.

They were early ... not really to capture a risen miracle.

They were there to pour preservative fragrance to a dead man.

They were startled by the rolled stone.

There was no corpse.

There were angels seeking to clarify.

Women always get what is true by intuition.

If I were to invent fiction right after crucifixion, I would not include ladies and spices.

Back in the days, no one listens to women chatter.

God has an uncanny sense of wit.

Just like when little girls do easter egg hunts. They ignore the shells.

They chase nothing but the good hope of what's hidden.

photography: Charlotte Mangona-Champigny

Official Job

Work is vocation.

It is a sacred calling.

God initiates the hiring.

He sustains the doing.

My work as father involves being involved.

I get this strong feeling that I had nothing to do whom to father.

I just know of it as holy.

I was merely favored to join God in raising Kara and Nika.

Sweet but Brief.

Kara: Dad, guess what?

Me: What's up?

Kara: I just got my New York State License!

Me: What happens now to your Texas one?

Kara: Yup, I'll miss that one ... they took it away.

Me: Uhmm.

Kara: Your little girl is officially a New Yorker now, Dad!

Me: I'm officially missing you ... now.

Holy Hole

I finally get it.

Holes are meant to be filled.

I've had too numerous of these to mention.

Doctors tag it with fancy: depression.

Friends whisper about our deep issues.

When it hits, we lose our name.

I was hit by its fury two years ago.

When this catastrophic squall breathes you down, the only escape seems to be death.

Thus, I have joined the league of those who have imagined such terminal release.

I feel the cry of the apostle who despaired even of life while being rocked to its dregs.

The hellish hole is too strong. Its fury is unrelenting.

When a man gets smitten by this deep dark night, one merely hopes for an angel.

My daughter saw through my veneer:

Nika: Dad, you have to get out of that hole.

Me: (slumbered in bed, pretending to be merely tired) What hole?

Nika: I know this Dad, trust me. I was in a hole myself. Do I need to remind you who pulled me out?

Me: (in silence, my thoughts race back to the empty tomb of Easter.)

Today is Christ's Resurrection.

It is the day when holes were granted the option of holy.

God's hole flung open and out came the Risen Messiah.

I was resected.

My clock reads the time as Redemption.

It was all because of that Sunday when death was fully filled by Eternal Life.

photography: Paolo Esquivel

Paul at Damascus

The fascinating narrative of Paul of Tarsus begins with a gripping light-blinding episode in the book of Acts. When the Risen Lord sets his mission on course, even the worst enemy is recruited and transformed into hero.

It is Black Saturday and I wonder about this designation.

Splintered in between Good Friday and Glorious Sunday, the seemingly insignificant weekend flaunts nothing but a wait.

When the first century Christians took to the streets, the impunity of social ostracism flared like hell. Saul was at the helm of its loot. He was a man obsessed in killing young roots. He signed approval sheets of death. All that believers could do was wait for God's hand of merciful protection.

Then the remarkable confrontation at Damascus Road happened. The Alpha and Omega stood strong inciting Paul's immediate surrender.

Saul was renamed Paul. His vision was altered forever.

I know of one Paul whom I first met while I was preaching in Dallas. One thing I recall: he left abruptly while I was sharing the sad news of our loss ... our baby boy did not make it. Heaven had to be his home.

The next time I heard from him was a phone call. It was an invitation if I may officiate his desire to lead in marriage and plant a family.

I am currently witnessing God's amazing hand in his young life. The road he took is a kindred hike.

When Christ showed up at Dallas, Paul was called never to be the same again.

The unabridged joy in his family serves as Powerpoint to a resplendence that will never have to wait for anything.

Blood Marks

Daniel doesn't speak much. He works much.

Each time I visit the gym, the young gentleman keeps up a beam that gives the hint that purposeful work is preeminently joyful.

His tattoo reveals his heart: propulsion for detailed glory.

Today is Good Friday.

What is good about the Golgotha massacre anyway?

The goodness ripples from the details of divine passion.

As Christ bled through Via Dolorosa, His heart signed in for unparalleled Glory.

Each time He checks His pulse, He finds the prompt of His Father ushering Him to finish well. It was with with deep joy that He obeyed to die..

At the cross of Calvary ...

Christ did not speak much.

He worked towards His last breath to declare ...

... that all that I need to do to be saved has been finished.

The Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world has been slain ... for Me.

His blood marks have been spilled on my soul.

tattoo artist: franciscosanchez

Free from Guilt

Jason is an incredible human being.

Whatever he set his sights on is engaged with unbridled tenacity.

He climbs.

He fights.

He contorts.

When he began attending church, he registered his initial trepidation yet grew with each ascent.

When a person demonstrates such weight of willing determination, the sky is usually the limit.

I was in conversation with him just the other day about the unfathomable mystery of deep relations. He rehearsed the agonizing reality of pain. We hurt deeply only when we love in depth.

I have wept in shrieking silence several times over halted friendships. The investment of soul always creates a hole when it is finally over.

While burying my faithful dog and warrior, Stuart .... I just dropped on my knees with heaves of lament. I still could not delete my dad's number considering his death a few years back. I still bleed each time I get reminded of a dear friend's decision to block me from any further advance just because of ideology. I guess, our hearts simply recognize execution as it regurgitates from lost connections.

When Christ hung on Calvary, there was a kindred anguish. His cry however was nuanced beyond comparison. While we wail from termination ... His pule comes from eternal rupture. He has always been with His Father through eternity. To be forsaken at the cross reveals the incomparable groan of His cry.

He died to confront the haunt of all our cumulative guilt. Humanity is flawed with perdition. This is why every conscience finds a hunting arrow for each transgression. The Sacrifice of Christ shatters the abysmal cuff.

Jason's inward countenance is without pretense.

He gets pulled up and out by the ONE who declares that ... Yes, He died just for his freedom.

Dissecting Mercy

I really deserve the wages of sins.

How can I even start the count?

The heart is most deceitful at its best.

The mind follows like a mindless slave.

I have lied a million times.

I have killed with jargon razors.

I raped innocent trust.

I stole cisterns dug by the poor.

I have worshipped golden calves.

I cursed my parents.

I blasphemed the name of God to spit gunk.

I have trampled Sabbath with zest.

I loved myself over and beyond God who pursues me unconditionally.

There is just no way out.

My guilt follows me like a shadow beamed from the specter of my soul.

But ....

There came the Friday when God met my disgrace with a scandal ... too pure to name.

Christ took my blame and granted me His name of Mercy.

Used with Permission. Photography: Yen Baet

Brother Tiger

In China jungle resides the Black Tiger.

Vincent is my wife's cousin. He is several times world champion in Muay Thai. He is Adjarn (Master Instructor) to MMA students in Beijing.

I salute him for following a path that leads right back to his passion. 

The way of wisdom reveals a specific plan determined by the Wise Creator. As we seek training through this grid, we find ourselves thrown in jungle but safe and sound.

The only thing that matters is cognizance of the Guide.

Story is told of the youngest Spartan.

One day, a florid teen barged through the ranks seeking initiation. As he was quickly dismissed, the Captain quickly thought how to decimate his arrogance. He was told to show up in the morning at Death Jungle.

Now this trap is a graveyard. No one ever enters through this forested hull. The fanged demons were too ferocious to consider any allowance.

The young man showed up much to their surprise. He was ushered to the entrance with a dirge.

After several hours, much to the astonishment of the Spartans, he appeared in the egress. Bloodied but alive! The Captain with bewilderment asks "How were you able to handle the wild beasts?" To this he replied:

"My father accompanied me all the way. He had his sharp sword. He told me not to veer to the right or left, but stay rigid behind his back. He did all the fighting ... I just followed his lead. He is one of your Spartans. You never required an unaccompanied journey."

I seek to follow the trek of the brave.

My True Warrior beckons me to stay safe while His blood spills with victory.