Faith is intensely private.
When it goes public ... it is intensely privately viewed.
Flight
Born.
Laughter.
Joy.
Play.
Run.
Applause.
Tears.
Joy.
Discovery.
Wings.
Flight.
Joy.
My youngest daughter Kara soars on fuel of God's indefatigable grace.
Graphic Design Intern at Chloe + Isabel / Creative Director at Diwa Dollhouse
Sweet Delight
The halo-halo (mix-mix) is one of the Philippine's fine dessert. With laced shaved ice, succulent sweets intercourse for a truly satiating gourmet.
The originating recipe seems Japanese: mongo-ya. There are competing traditions like the Singaporean "ais kachang," the Malaysian "air batu campur," and the Vietnamese "cha ba mau." No Filipino fiesta is quite complete sans its finale.
My issue with this delight involves the optics. My eyes bulge while impatiently seeking to get down to the good stuff. So I spill a lot while slurping.
A Franciscan brother once shared a French version of this delicacy. He demonstrated how the Parisian engaged the tall glass.
I normally thrust my long spoon directly to the mix, often frustrated by the stubbornness of compacted ice. It takes effort to punch through the slush before one gets the goodies.
Not for the frenchman.
The spoon is gently slid towards the side, all the way down. Then ... the magic of a few soft lifts from the bottom up: the ice surprisingly melts ... ushering the glory of taste.
But that's halo-halo.
Why do I catch myself in such similar predicament each time I find attraction?
I went through life cascading through the brutalities of life's winding roads. The path's are well beaten and iced. All sorts of travelers seeking the best of luck. One day ... I got introduced to a tour guide, not from France, but from another world.
He showed me the dig for true delight.
photography: Yen Baet
Sky
"The point is the love story. We live in a love story in the midst of war." John Eldredge
The image of chaos both in the ancient times and now, finds representation in the mystery of water. On board a vessel over the Atlantic, I gazed with reasonable fear at what seemed like the unrelenting chant of an unknown warrior. The monster of war waves its flag.
On the second day of creation, the element of expanse constantly intrigued me:
And God said, "Let there be an expanse in the midst of the waters, and let it separate the waters from the waters." And God made the expanse and separated the waters that were under the expanse from the waters that were above the expanse. And it was so. And God called the expanse Heaven. And there was evening and there was morning the second day. Genesis 1:6-8 ESV
There is the obvious context of existing warfare. A divine space had to be created to set the dividing wall.
I guess the reason why we have the Sky is for us to be reminded of a protective vest that is made available through the auspice of God's shielding love.
Whenever I droop in spirit, I force my senses to look upward.
I do put on the armor but I am quick in asking God to guard my heart.
All Hat No Cattle
The gimmickry of unaccounted possession betrays worth that is directly proportional to the emptiness of its bearer.
Some years back, I read a book on the true nature of millionaires revealing their ironic propensity towards simplicity. On the contrary, those who feign opulence seek to go for the exotic and rare.
I do understand the practical distinction between cheap and dear. I once heard the adage that it is the lesser stuff that makes our lives complicated. You buy a lemon, you get juiced.
The allure of the hats we wear however is in their capability to hide what is truly in our hearts. I know a handful of opulent men who shine bright not because of swag but depth. I know a fleet of desperate men with shiny steeds but all husk.
God owns the cattle of a thousand hills.
He is the One who give out hats and boots to those who are willing to purvey simplicity.
I Do
The origin of marriage finds its true roots in the Garden of Eden.
When God declared that it was not good for man to be alone, the first female was introduced to form a most unique entity.
I have had the privilege of up-close scrutiny towards this one-flesh mystery.
Do you take this man to be your husband?
Do you take this woman to be your wife?
Wonder never leaves.
The gravitas of marriage is found in its primary essence.
It is a gift granted by God for a singular purpose.
It is to demonstrate divine loyal love from the One who crafted it.
No wonder, God thought that it was very good.
photography: AlexMpix
Mediacre
Media was meant to facilitate good report.
I grew up with TV.
I often wondered why commercial interruptions incessantly tripped my favorite episodes. From a child's perspective, the repetitious innuendo of peddled products was non-sense. I just had to live with it, not mindful of its subliminal thrust to my soul.
The assault of advertising is insidiously epic.
We end up buying stuff not because we need it but because of a push from some savvy corporate force that won't stop at anything but sell.
It has been rumored that Coca-Cola sold 25 bottles the first year.
The longevity of soda is truly borne out from intentional fizzle. The thinking tanks are paid to do their job. We need to heed their need.
Redemption is necessary in our world-gone-crazy over stuff. There is really nothing inherently wicked in the products we buy. It is in the mindless paradigms of consumption that we fall prey to mediocrity.
The scare of media is when I catch myself hurrying to secure my lot on some goods that are supposedly good but are not.
I have to watch what I buy. And that includes the watch that I buy.
Somewhere Joy
Joy to the world?
How?
Earthquakes!
Famine!
Greed!
Ambush!
Rape!
Joy to the World?
How?
What if ...
God
took all these monsters
and inflicted
all of them
all at once
to Himself.
How?
The foolishness of the Cross.
The ironic grip of Christ.
Somewhere ...
JOY
took place.
How?
Gethsemane.
Golgotha.
3:00 PM.
Blood and Vinegar.
"Tetelestai!" (It is Finished!)
Hush.
Empty Tomb.
Empty Hearts.
Sudden Truth.
Somewhere JOY.
Now.
photography: Renchi Arce / Ilugin Pinagbuhatan
The Day I Stopped Parenting
My family orientation bred me towards micro-management. Ironic as it was, my parents never shackled me with restrictions. They were quite liberal in approach. Somehow, I envied those who had more fixed points to deal with. I was granted lots of freedom on stuff that I was not quite competent to handle.
Thus grew my subconscious resolve to take the opposite route when my turn came.
I was parenting my first-born with tentacles, to say the least. I thought I had it all figured out. If only I could shape her according to my perceived competence, then all shall be well.
I silently languished my growing suspicion that my style was simply not working. My daughter would feign obedience but swim from Alcatraz the next beat.
I remember tucking her for little naps, only to discover that she'd wiggle undetected to a blissful play where the sun shone with glee. I had come to realize that my rearing mode was more of a combination of the Dark Ages and Holy Guess.
I was granted Divine Grace out of this mess.
I stumbled upon the true but audacious claim that we do have only One parent. All of us are wobbly kids. As such, learning must take on a fundamental necessity.
"Train up a child in the way that he should go ..."
That route is the road less traveled.
It calls for a true friendship that gains its access only through sanctions of genuine concern for the other.
I remember this conversation just like it took place yesterday:
Nika: (in tears) Dad: Can you please stop being a pastor to me? What I just need is a friend.
Me: (irritated) What do you mean? How can I stop being a pastor, I am a pastor ...
Nika: You don't get it, Dad ... All I need is you to be my friend ...
It took seasons of wrestling with my ex-cathedra pride before I finally got this message.
That was the day I stopped parenting and switched to loving.
Plethora of Lights
The world is dark.
One wonders why light seems scant.
I was listening to NPR recently and the discussion was about the phenomena of light.
Theory has it that darkness is made up of micro-units that obviously dim our paths. It is proposed that light, in the same paradigm, is comprised of minuscule particles that overshadow its counterpart.
Thus, the imagery is presented: during night driving, the lumens of car headlights virtually eat up the elements of darkness that barricades.
This goes for an interesting scientific validation, but I am not a scientist.
What I do know however lies in the sphere of witness:
When I intentionally live out the sphere of Christlikeness, whatever murk I encounter shudders under the sheer weight of holy resplendence.
Ahh, I do not quite have "this little light" that seeks to shine ...
I am enabled to purvey the Light of the World that beams mercy upon all prevailing dusk.
photography: Yen Baet / Champs Elysees, Paris
Wise Number
The Tax deadline speaks of urgency.
I did mine last month with one who counts with exacting precision.
I almost signed up for bean counting. My father talked me into it. Logging three semesters of analyzing income and expenses daunted my biased right brain. I shifted to Economics just to plunge into more theoretical abstracts. It was still a numbers game, though. I just cruised on wondering why numerical analysis hounds me. There was one midterm exam when I held the highest score in Quantitative Analysis. It was not because I understood it. I borrowed and reviewed the full notes of Mandy, the guy who really knows.
There are simply guys who simply know digits.
They are the ones who somehow really get rich.
When decisions are run through statistical scrutiny, the favor of prudence kicks in.
My friend Volt Pineda is God's gift towards my propensity to circumnavigate the world without compass. With tenacity, he teaches me the sine qua non of accountability.
Does God work through numbers?
He does.
He blesses sevenfold those whose integers are free from scam.
photography: Paul Supelana
Auto Mission
I knew Voltaire back when the Acura Legend reigned.
He was one of tech industry's fast young rising stars.
All his toys were current and cool.
Through these years of observing God's imprint in his life, I have noticed a most unusual flair for subversive camouflage.
He always gets the best to bring in the Good News.
Recently, his ride was featured at the Hot Import Nights in Dallas. His Maxima stood out with a bold mission statement.
He is presently our point person for Missions. It is my deep honor to know his inner motor.
The streets are always astounded by his approach. He zooms for the lost.
Photography: Voltaire Cacal {Senior Director CAM & Missions Pastor BCC}
Sabbath
Rest is most potent when it is pregnant with joy.
Most leisure is misconstrued as Shalom. Although recreation is a good thing, it can never mirror Sabbath. There is much busyness in these arrangements. True rest is defined by its pause.
Life in North America follows a cycle that hums like a machine. The disciplined march to work clocks in and out with vigor. Our candles are tenured to their last gleam. At the end of each day, our cognition reaches silly valley. No capacity to reflect. Bones are weary; Flesh quivers. Once the body hits bed, the spin awakens in fifteen minutes. The incessant pressure underscores that hurriedness is not from the devil. It is the devil.
This is why Sabbath gets introduced.
God works. His example on the seventh day of creation is both literal and referral. There is a proper rhythm to our existence. Work is important but not as crucial as its focal point.
To merely play and crash on the day of rest significantly misses the point.
God rested not for recuperation. He pulled out from work in order to reorganize the centrality of why He is working in the first place: to see all things through God's applause. All of His labor has been good. Goodness is a by-product of beauty. Beauty happens to be His first Name.
Rest takes place when worship becomes its only intent.
When one fights for worship on the first day of the week, the following six days will take on the creative ease of His Divine Assist.
photography: Stella P. Sison / Talisay Batangas
Zest
In studying the nuance of work in Scriptures, I got introduced to vocational entrepreneurship.
I have always been confused by the dichotomy set between secular work and religious occupation. For most, it is either worldly business or mission for God. I just found out the heresy of this paradigm.
The substance of work is found in vocation. As such, all tasks are divine grants. Although we were not meant to be defined by what we do, our present toil does represent our prevailing purpose.
Entrepreneurship is a thoroughly biblical word. The occurrence of business in the gospels has more matrix than Christ's discussion on the Kingdom of God. It seems that money does matter in Christ's economy. The reflection of the parable of talents where diligence was placed on scrutiny over three workers is truly convicting. The one granted with five talents proved most zestful. The person entrusted with a single talent demonstrated the delusion of false ownership. The former understood why he is working: it is all for his master's benefit. The latter cared for no one except himself.
There is no such thing as secular work and religious work. All endeavor is holy before God. As such, vigor and discipline must accompany the joyful endowment.
We work for God. If there is any other employer involved, the heart of intent is compromised.
Empty Nest
The feeling of empty is emaciating.
Our home used to echo with constant little feet traffic. Loud music camps in full decibel. The pantry revolves like a carousel. Laughter and tears flow like rain.
Nika and Bianca now both live in Manhattan.
Their tiny but sassy apartment seems at times like a distant shore. When kids leave home, they seem trekked to another galaxy. FaceTime never does justice to real conversation. They're too near yet so far.
Thus, I am caught with a profundity: why go through all the trouble of raising little ones when a sure day of release is a heave away?
There is no cognitive resolution to this.
The mystery gets untangled only through the proper lens of my Heavenly Father.
There really is no empty nest.
I was never granted the option to own my kids. They are God's.
What I was called to do was to build a lovely nest and prioritize utmost nurture with one given purpose:
To release them on eagle's wings to build their own in order to usher the echo of constant little feet traffic. Loud music camping in full decibel. The pantry revolving like a carousel. Laughter and tears flowing like rain.
The feeling of empty suddenly makes sense.
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)