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Olympian
(00:26:48, 18 August)
When I was a kid I dreamed of being an Olympic sprinter. I would run several kilometers with my dad on weekends, and do a few more by myself on weekdays. During PE, I would cream my classmates and they would hate me for it. I laughed inside, knowing that I was well on my way to being an Olympian! But it turns out there is a difference between PE and the Olympiad. Who would've thought?
When I competed in the 100 meter dash against my schoolmate, Chris, my Olympic dream started falling apart. See, when Chris ran, everyone else knew they were running for second -- he was that fast. It didn't take long for me to realize that Olympians in the making look different, even at 13 years old. In the years that followed, I would keep an eye out for Chris during the Olympics, but I never saw him. He never made it -- which only means that real Olympians in the making, the ones who do make it, are far more amazing than Chris was! Even now, it's hard to imagine because he was a running machine that ate all-weather track for breakfast!
My Olympic aspirations were dashed to even more miniscule pieces when I realized that there weren't very many southeast Asian sprinters in the Olympics, much less Filipinos. In the 90's, word about a Fil-Am decathlete had me excited about our country actually making some ripples in the world of track and field. But that guy didn't do to well. Seeing such an impressive man fail only helped awaken me to reality. It wasn't gonna happen for me, either.
And so faded my Olympic dream without my ever realizing it. I still dreamed of making it to the games -- but as a spectator. Talk about a step back! I should have taken more Milo. I could have made history.
My running has now regressed to an all time low. Over the years, I have had my shots at redemption by joining fun runs here and there: the Milo run, the ones sponsored by the big shoe companies, and my personal favorite, the Slimmers World one, during which Cesar Montano fired the starting gun. I always stayed comfortably unnoticed in the middle of the pack, happy to simply finish. And so now, I would not even consider myself a runner. When I do run, it is a task.
This is because I am no Olympian.
And you know what? I'm okay with that. I can join the other six billion people who aren't Olympians. Like them, I can live a normal life! I can eat whatever I like, stay up late, not have to train, not have to even sweat if I don't feel like it. I don't have to feel compelled to perform well in sports, or represent my country well, or do anything exceptionally well. All this, because I am not in contention for a top prize.
I am not made for such greatness.
But here's the thing: I can't seem to let myself believe that I am not made for greatness. True, every kid was told that they were. But that only lasts until they walk out their door into the so-called "real world" where on every corner they meet someone who was told the exact same thing. It hits them that not everyone can have lofty aspirations, that glory is reserved only for a select few, and so they might as well accept reality.
Accept reality...
The danger for me comes when I begin to accept that crap. See, as a person of faith, I believe in a destiny of glory and cannot deny it, no matter what great philosophers and thinkers have said to oppose this conviction. It's a deep belief and I feel it inside.
That is why I cannot let go. I cannot treat life the way I treat a broken Olympic dream, because my prize is still up for grabs. It doesn't matter if I'm weary or disillusioned. It doesn't matter if I've failed. It doesn't matter if I don't think I'm cut out for anything great. The fact is, I am.
Because I profess belief in a great God who made me in His image, I must believe in a destiny of greatness. When I go to Church in worship of Jesus, I concede to the reality of eternal life with God that He won for us on the cross. If I do not believe in that hope of glory, why should I even keep going to church, or claiming a belief in Jesus?
The fact is, deep down, I know it to be true. Otherwise, I would have quit long ago. So, since I do believe in such a destiny of glory, how should I live? It no longer makes sense for me to ever live as someone with no dreams, or no goal. It makes no sense to "just get by."
When St Paul talks about life in Christ, he says we are to "run." Not crawl, not walk, not just get by. In fact, we must "run so as to win."
I kissed my running dream goodbye when I realized I wasn't built for Olympic greatness. But here's the really cool thing for all who believe: we were built for a greater glory -- eternal life on high with Christ. I believe this, even when I don't always feel it.
And so I will run.
You've all been to the stadium and seen the athletes race. Everyone runs; one wins. Run to win. All good athletes train hard. They do it for a gold medal that tarnishes and fades. You're after one that's gold eternally. I don't know about you, but I'm running hard for the finish line. I'm giving it everything I've got. No sloppy living for me! I'm staying alert and in top condition. I'm not going to get caught napping, telling everyone else all about it and then missing out myself. (1 Corinthians 9:24-27)
Write, You Fool!
(00:23:21, 04 June)
I come to my desk, gingerly placing my fingers on the fragile computer keyboard that on some days I fear destroying by way of violent type. Those are the days when my hands have got inspiration leaking from them like honey from a glass jar, quickly fallen to the ground. Unstoppable, it leaves an amber mess that glistens as it slowly creeps over the tiles and into the grooves between. Words are everywhere, and no matter how messy it may be, it is sweet and the aroma fills the room. Those are the good days. But today is not one of them. Today I've got writers' block. And that honey bit -- yes, it was a terrible metaphor.
I wonder if any of the world's best writing has come out of a writers' block. I wonder if my literary heroes -- that guy who wrote the Mr. Men series, for example -- ever came up with anything groundbreaking in their moments of drought. I think about the legends who have gone before me on this road called literature. I hesitate to name them for fear of trying to project the persona of one who is well read. The truth is I am not well read, and much of what I have read, I did so out of compulsion. Sure, I've read many classics. But I've also read a lot of Wikipedia.
So here I sit at the keyboard, my fingers have paused. I think I pause more than I type. I remember watching the movie "Finding Forrester," where Sean Connery tells his pupil that when one writes, he doesn't stop to think. He just types. No editing. Just typing. Even if it's nonsense. Or garbage. You've got to keep writing. I find myself in a room, with the white-haired, sage-like Sean Connery breathing words of wisdom and frustration down my stiff neck, in Scottish. C'mon, laddie! Write! Write, you fool! Inspired and insulted, but in the good way, I rise to the challenge. Yes Sean... I mean, Mr. Connery... I mean, Mr. Forrester. I will keep writing. Never stop typing. Just type...
The "just type" method of writing gives me problems on days like these. See, I always feel like I must put out the best material I possibly can. I have to emit meaning into the world, or I might as well just be passing gas. I have to feel like my writing is achieving something, stirring people up, in its thought-provoking depth. But what if "best" isn't the point? What if thought-provoking isn't a goal, but the mere byproduct of something deeper going on?
I wonder if the greats, as they penned their masterpieces, ever anticipated the masses revering them and hailing their works as legendary. Similarly, it's not likely that the prophets and scribes of old thought to themselves that their names would be remembered centuries later, or their writings translated into many versions.
Maybe I've got delusions of grandeur about writing, and quite possibly, everything else that I do: life in general. Maybe it's not about being the best, or the greatest, or thought-provoking.
Maybe it's about being earnest. Genuine. Sincere.
Real.
If writer's block is real, then I should be writing from that place.
Maybe the pillars of literature stand so tall because they wrote from that place -- a region deeper than agendas and ambition. Maybe they are great because greatness was not their aspiration, as much as it was the creation of something heartfelt and true, coupled with the desire to share it.
Maybe an attempt in the midst of a drought is far more valuable than an essay written in an oasis of inspiration. People may remember the the oasis piece. But I might never have reached that point, had I not kept walking this path through the parched earth. Had I not wrestled with reality. Had I not been true to what I must do: write.
So I sit in front of my desk. My fingers have slowly punched out letters on this fragile keyboard for over an hour. The screen that was white earlier, is now covered in words, and I have no idea if they are any good, or thought-provoking, or legendary. But I have labored, and these thoughts are real. They are true.
And yes -- at the risk of spoon-feeding -- this was all just one big fat metaphor.
Borderline Insanity
(02:23:55, 22 May)
Some days I wonder if I'm insane.
I stood on the balcony and three birds zipped by in triangle formation, dropping in on each other repeatedly as they played and traveled. In a single moment, it was artistry and physics at play. My mind tried to make sense of it all, stopping when sense ultimately eluded me. There I stood in awe. Of birds. In flight. "Am I going nuts?" I thought to myself. On the one hand, we see birds flying everyday. But on the other hand, doesn't that make it all the more amazing?
Some days after work, I head to the park. Being enclosed in concrete makes my soul long for grass beneath my feet and trees overhead. Even for just a few minutes. I lie down on a bench and stare into the leaves of trees as they reveal the sky to me. It's shapes and lines everywhere, with light and cloud peering through like shy little boys hiding from a beautiful lady. It's a kaleidoscope, the original psychedelic with no need for neons. The purity of the sight is its raw energy...
We drove through strawberry fields last Saturday. I stuck my head out of the truck window like a dog. I savored the wind, the almost-rain hanging overhead, the vast expanse of valley rolled out before us like a picnic for the gods. I waved at the rosey-cheeked vegetable seller, all bundled up. She smiled. We drove on. I took a breath.
In the bus today, it was city noise. But it all faded into the background as I noticed people. People. Not faces. Not extras in a cast of thousands, but stars of their own life stories. Each of whom is the image and likeness of God. Each of whom has a story to tell that is not inferior to mine, though their voice may not be as loud. Each of whom is loved by God just as fiercely as I am.
You know, some days I really wonder if I'm insane. Am I reading too much into the world around me? Is this earnestness in appreciating creation real, or is it an artificial attempt to cope with what I don't understand? Maybe there really is nothing between the lines, I think. Some days, the cynic in me convinces the rest of me that my awe and wonder are contrived. But those are the days when I'm being an idiot.
If God is omnipresent, it's my job to notice Him. Nothing could make more sense. My life would be so much holier if worship was not just a church thing, but an everything thing.
Reflections from a Cramped Bus Seat
(03:20:55, 18 May)
I'm back in Baguio again. Man, time flies. I feel like I hopped off a bus in Manila, only to take a little stroll around the block and hop on another bus bound for Baguio again.
It's raining outside, and the wind is cold. But I feel warm inside, just being here on this mountain, again. With the awesome Pentecost event that happened here last week conducted by Elim, it seems that doors for ministry have blasted open. Needless to say, I feel very excited and privileged to stand on the brink of some great stuff that I know will be happening here in the Northern Philippines. Yes, there's more to the North than just surfing. But there is also surfing... God is good.
Sitting in the bus this morning, I made it a personal goal to sleep the entire way. I think I am hyperactive and a little tall for bus seats, and so the only relief I have in small spaces is usually sleep. I kept waking up, asking myself, "are we there yet?" only to look out the window and see that we were many miles from the destination.
Time and distance are killers. Long journeys: learning experiences.
They are both good for me, and bad for me. They make me impatient, but they also teach (force) me to wait. See, there's a part of me that wants everything now. Sitting on a bus, with my knees knocking against the seat in front of me, I'd give anything to be somewhere else right now. I feel the same way about airplanes. It's not the fear of crashing that gets to me. It's the small spaces, and the thought that the destination is far better than these food trays and in-flight movies. But if I didn't submit to the bus ride, I would never have made it to Baguio. If I didn't sit through the plane ride, I would have missed Europe.
It is at this point that I conclude: journeys are good for the soul.
I sat at the adoration chapel at Baguio Cathedral earlier. And God's message to me was clear.
"Love is patient."
When Paul wrote the Corinthians about love, the first characteristic he thought to mention was love's patience. It will sit through the here and now with hope for the future. It will celebrate the here and now, because the future is beautiful; but I'll miss out if it's all I am obsessed with. Live fully right now, with hope for tomorrow. This is the essence of love's patience, I think. And if love is patient, it also never fails.
Now why these thoughts and reflections? Well, in the words of Switchfoot, "I wanna see miracles, see the world change." There are many things about the world, about life that I want to be happening right here, right now. I want to see social justice. I want to see communities of faith rising all over the place, proving to the world that you change the world when you let God change you. I want to hold the girl of my dreams. I want a family. I want to live the ultimate road trip. I want to be a really good surfer and musician who writes songs that stir people up, deep in their hearts.
But I admit. If I had all that now, I don't know that I'd be ready. I honestly don't know how I'd cope, or if the fulfillment of all these things in the twinkling of an eye would be to my betterment. I doubt it.
That is why I find wisdom in the journey. I find truth in cramped buses and planes, and journeys that are longer than I want them to be. I celebrate the here and now. Won't you celebrate with me? Because love is patient. And God has a great future for us. If we love the here and now.
On Rock and Roll, Surf and Self Preservation
(13:06:32, 07 May)
God desires the heart. Affection in the most hidden and intimate part, at the core of our being. It will not do if we should attempt to see how much we can keep for ourselves.
In music, hesitation can ruin the most powerful progression of notes and chords. An uncertain rock and roll solo doesn't deserve to be heard. But even the simplest song, played with a giving heart, certain hands and sung with an earnest voice, can change the world.
Some months back, I was paddling into my first overhead wave. But at the moment I was dropping in, my friend yelled out to me: "Don't take it! It's too big!" A split second of hesitation. I was taken by the size and power of that thing. All of a sudden I was afraid to get hurt in a wipeout, so I pulled back, only to realized it was too late. The only way to catch a powerful wave is to do it with all your heart. I lost heart and learned the hard way: a vicious wipeout.
Self preservation at the moment of truth can very well cost you your life. And throwing yourself entirely into what you know you've got to do may feel deadly, but there's life at the other side of the risk.
This morning, God led me to the book of Hosea, where God doesn't merely desire tokens of belonging. He wants our heart: everything. No holding back.
It's easy to hold back from God. And sometimes, we don't realize we are doing that to Him until He touches what is most precious to us. God doesn't touch our treasure in the hopes of taking it away. He does so in the hopes that we will look and see that His is more valuable than whatever it is we're holding on to. He is the real treasure.
So. Let it go. Whatever it is you're holding on to. Release that struggle into the wind with no hesitation. Self preservation ruins rock songs and good waves. And it steals your heart. But reckless abandon... well, it may kill you. But it will also resurrect you.
Lose yourself. Don't hold back.
Bubble
(01:01:33, 23 April)
So I guess this is the continuation of my previous entry on jeep rides.
I found myself hopping a jeep last week, and it enriched me in ways I never expected. See, I've been driving since I was 16; so I've gotten used to cruising the world in my own little bubble of a beat-up van. But I hardly realized how much said bubble so easily insulated me from the world outside. There are certain things I would never do, and certain attitudes I may never have developed if I hadn't been so safely protected from people by a capsule of glass and sheet metal. In contrast, there are things I would never have noticed about people until I crammed myself with them in some sort of public transportation vehicle.
So there I was boarding a jeep at the terminal. My journey had thus far consisted of a tricycle ride and two train rides. This was the last leg. I had a harmonica in my pocket, so I figured a little social experiment was in order: try to light up everyone's lazy Sunday afternoon. Let me warn you that playing musical instruments while in transit can annoy people, so it's a risk. But in this case, peoples' eyes lit up. They smiled. And the shy kid in front of me visibly enjoyed the music. I looked around and realized that healing the world starts with the simple, through simple shifts in how we choose to view the world and respond accordingly.
It was at that moment I realized other peoples' humanity and God-likeness in a deeper sense. This realization hits me every so often, such as when I'm at the mall shopping, chilling at a park full of kids, or when I'm pissed off with people on the road and catch myself. God loves people. Our streets are packed with human beings with deep cares and concerns; and God loves them as much as He loves me. I mean, I've always been aware of the general populace. But rarely does the weight of an individual's value hit me in such a real sense as when I get to look into the pupils of their eyes from across a jeep, or as we share a greasy handrail on a train, no longer separated by man-made layers.
I think experiences such as these, though simple, must be celebrated and shared. It's when we recognize God's move in small ways, that we realize a deep spiritual truth: that He comes to us like a whisper, so easily ignored.
What I'm advocating is getting outside of our vans, our cars, our bubbles. A man once preached to me, "you'll never change the world, until you step into another man's world!" This truth is vital to the Christian life, and the times I was disillusioned with Christianity were the times I turned a blind eye to the world that I needed to step into. We are the salt of the earth; and as Bro Willy so often quotes: "the salt must be in the soup."
When we change our standpoint, we change our perspective. And so our mindsets change. And consequently our actions. And consequently our convictions. And before we know it, bubbles are bursting all over the place. I love the sound of bubbles popping, don't you?
Sabit
(17:18:42, 21 April)
Naaalala ko nung una akong sumakay ng jeep. Iba yung feeling: masarap na nakakapanibago na di ko maintindihan... kagaya nitong pagsusulat ko sa Tagalog-English. Para sa ibang tao, siguro di masyadong mahalaga yung mga bagay na to. Okey, sumakay ka ng jeep. Ano ngayon? Magsusulat ka ng article sa Tagalog. So? Pero, para sa akin, di ko makalimutan yung first ride ko. At tong pagsusulat sa Tagalog na to, medyo mahirap din siya para sakin, kaya pagbigyan niyo na ako!
Labing tatlong taong gulang ako noong first jeep ride ko na mag-isa, at nasiyahan ako nung nalaman ko na kailangan ko magcommute para bumili ng pagkain, isang gabi. Kailangan niyong malaman na mula nung bata pa ako, tuwing umuuwi kami sa Manila kapag summer vacation, nakikita ko yung mga sumasabit sa likod ng jeep, at nakikita ko yung sarili ko na nakasabit din: mabilis yung takbo ng jeep at nagugulo yung buhok ko ng hangin na puno ng alikabok at dumi. Nung mga panahon na yon, hindi ko pa siya nararanasan, pero nasa isip ko na -- at ang saya!
Kaya nung nakasabit na ako dun sa likod ng jeep, naalala ko yung mga childhood fantasies ko, at feeling ko natutupad na. Nagmukhang malabo yung itsura ng mga tao at bagay na nadadaanan namin, sa bilis ng patakbo ng driver. At ang sarap nga ng feeling na nagugulo ang buhok ng hangin na puno ng alikabok at dumi. Di lang siya masaya -- ang saya-saya!
Pero kagaya ng maraming bagay sa mundo, may panira. Di laging natutupad yung mga pangarap natin, na walang sabit, hindi ba? Nagpreno yung driver ng jeep na biglaan, at tumama yung mukha ko kung saan ako nakakapit: yung bubong ng jeep. Dumugo yung bibig ko, at nalasahan ko yung flavor ng dugo na parang kalawang, na may halong dumi na galing sa bubong at pawis mula sa kamay ng mga ibang tao na sumabit din sa jeep sa buong maghapon.
Nung panahon na yon, di ko naisip na may matututanan ako sa karanasan na yon, maliban sa "wag nang sumabit sa jeep." Pero ngayon na lumipas na ang ilang taon, feeling ko maganda siyang halimbawa ng pag-asa at pananampalataya.
Lahat kasi tayo may pangarap, may sariling isip kung ano yung gusto natin: sa hanap buhay, sa pag-ibig, sa kinabukasan... sa buhay. Minsan kumbinsido tayo na "Ito ang gusto ko!" at gagawin natin ang lahat para lang maabot yon. Doon tayo umaasa. Doon nakataya ang ating kaligayahan. Pero madalas nangyayari, pag nagawa na natin ang lahat na kaya nating gawin para maabot yung gusto natin... may sabit. Di nagkakaroon ng katuparan ang ating mga pinangarap. Yung ninanais nating maging perfect, nagiging baduy na lang. Bitin. At napapaisip tayo, "Teka lang. Parang di ganito yung nangyari nung pinangarap ko siya."
Hanggang ngayon, umaabot ako minsan sa mga moment na ganito. Hindi talaga natutupad ang lahat ng gusto natin sa mundong ito. Sa mga panahong ganito, parang mas lalong nagiging totoo yung sinabi ni Hesus, "Ang sinumang nagnanais na magligtas ng kaniyang buhay ay mawawala niya ito..." Minsan, umaasa tayo sa pangarap, at tumataya sa mga bagay na feeling natin pag matupad o mangyari, magiging masaya na tayo.
Pero, paano na pag di siya matupad?
Paano na pag may sabit?
YHWH
(10:45:36, 02 April)
The word "Yahweh" is taken from the Hebrew letters "YHWH".
I recently learned that those letters, spoken in the original language of the Scriptures, produce an intentionally breathy sound. And the scriptural noun for God's Spirit is literally translated as "breath." The idea is that with every breath, we are speaking God's name. We allude to His existence. Whether or not we know it. Whether or not we believe it. The fact that we breathe pays tribute to the Creator. For if He were to withdraw His presence, we could no longer breathe, we could no longer say His name. We would simply cease to be. As we grasp for oxygen to hold up our fragile existence, we think we are making the effort. But it is actually our being calling out for God, and exclaiming that without Yahweh, there is no existence. There is no breath. There is no life.
Let everything that has breath praise Yahweh.
Psalm 150:6
Uncomfortable with Confession
(11:19:03, 18 March)
I hated going to confession. The guilt of my sin would eat me up, and the shame of having to articulate what I'd done wrong was irritating, at best. The idea of revealing my dark side to another individual was a bitter pill. So I would always feel uneasy about it.
I've met people who have given up on confession, entirely. For one reason or another, they have disconnected with its value and significance. Some say it doesn't work for them; they just feel more guilty for the sins that they end up committing again, anyway. Others say that God knows their heart is sorry, so why talk to a priest about it? And still others say that priests are sinners too -- hence, what gives them the authority to forgive sins?
I understand the many arguments against confession, because they've gone through my mind, too. I don't wish to refute any of them by clever reasoning or theological discourse. All I want to say is that because it made me uncomfortable, confession helped set me free from sin. Treatment for sickness tends to be uncomfortable. And all the more, when a sickness is serious. Sin is a serious sickness.
The chief thing that confession does for me, is that it makes me uncomfortable with sin. Many of mankind's problems stem from the fact that we've grown comfortable with sin. Thieving politicians didn't get there overnight. At some point, maybe in their youth, they began to get comfortable with dishonesty, and the sin simply progressed. Notorious womanizers or sexual offenders didn't get there overnight. It started with an unchecked sexual appetite -- they got comfortable with lust. Serious social ills begin when we become comfortable with sin. Confession simply gets us uncomfortable and makes us accountable.
Confession reminds me that sin is a social thing; it never remains within the confines of my personal space. Sin always takes its toll on society, because I am a social being that affects others. If sin affects my life, it affects the way I affect others.
I remember when I was dealing with heavy sins of lust, some years back. I committed to go to confession each and every time I seriously sinned. I ended up going to confession every single week for a what felt like a few months, because I kept committing the same sins over and over again. Still, I stuck to my commitment. I kept going to confession.
It was shameful to have to face the priest again. It was shameful to have to get up from my pew in front of my family, and go to confession...again. It was shameful to have to sit out holy communion, when I couldn't confess. Some might argue that I didn't have to do that, that I was tormenting myself. But you know what -- the discomfort made me change. Through that action, I was refusing to succumb to my fallen nature; I was believing in my original, God-like innocence. Eventually, I got over that particular bondage to sin. I was a free man. I always tell people that freedom tastes better than the pleasure of sin. And sin sure does feel good, sometimes. Freedom is immeasurably better.
Getting over that sin changed my outlook on life. It changed the way I respected women. It gave me a confidence before people that has been instrumental in my life and calling. When I dealt with serious mortal sin through confession, my life opened up before me like a vast ocean of possibilities. I've done things in life that I could only dream of when I was a captive of sin. Now, I live my dreams.
I am still a sinner. Daily, I grapple with many of the same temptations I've always had to contend with. That is why I go to confession monthly (I highly recommend this). I may come across as a religious prude, but at least I live my life a free man.
Here's to a good confession for all of us, this Holy Week. May we celebrate reconciliation with God and others through a good confession. May discomfort with sin drive us back to original innocence.
One Leg
(04:01:20, 03 March)
I was walking down the beach early this afternoon, when I saw a crutch standing in the sand. I looked around to see who it might belong to. Then, out beyond the break, I saw the owner: a surfer with one leg (his shorter leg is cut at the knee). But this guy was shredding it up like there was no tomorrow, pulling off moves that many surfers with two legs only wish they could do. I stood there watching him, convicted: "I sure make a lot of excuses in life," I thought to myself.
I've never met the guy, but his friends told me he was born with the condition and knows no other reality. I couldn't help but remember our in-born condition as fallen and flawed beings.This tends to be our excuse for chronic failure and sin, or a life of not dreaming. We point at our disability and make it the reason we don't rise above situations in life. Because we're only human right? There's only so much we can do.
But what if there's a deeper reality than that? Sure, there are givens. We are flawed. We are human. "I was a sinner, even as my mother conceived me," King David once wrote. Sin changed many things about us. But -- before man fell, he was made in the image and likeness of God: pure and untainted, a heart beating with the strong character of the Divine, for Whom nothing is impossible. We possess original innocence and God-likeness, that dates earlier than sin. In Christ, that nature is restored.
And so, nothing is impossible.
And I'm not just throwing that idea out, for the sake of being trite. There is a deeper reality than the unfortunate things life has dealt us. The pulse of a deeper life rises in us whenever someone challenges us to reach for greater things. Jesus is constantly reminding us of who we really are, of what we can achieve by His grace-empowerment, in spite of our supposed lack. By the call to repentance and conversion, Jesus doesn't talk down on us, dictate rules and tell us how bad we are. No. He awakens us to who we really are and what we can do, through Him.
He shows us that there is a deeper reality than our flawed nature.
So may we believe more in our original innocence and God-likeness, than in the power of our flaws. May we dream and achieve great things. May we overcome our trials because of who we are in Christ. May that deeper reality be our context for living.
In some way, maybe even unknowingly, the surfer with one leg understands that very well.
Pilipinas Kong Mahal
(00:25:13, 27 February)
When I was a kid, I would get lonely on Monday evenings. Living abroad is like that. The sun would start heading to bed, around seven; cartoons had wrapped up around six. So I would sit on the balcony of our sixth-floor apartment, watching the sky turn amber over a lush valley filled with trees and condominiums. It was almost a weekly ritual, and those are my first memories of disillusionment. I would be inexplicably lonely. I would long for Manila, my home. Dirty, smoggy, traffic-laden Manila.
Coming home on holiday was always a treat. In the '80s and early '90s, Pasay City greeted travellers heading into Metro Manila with its rowdy jeepneys and hand-painted movie billboards of matinee idol likenesses. You know, the ones that look nothing like the actual matinee idols, save for similarities like a mustache or jet black hair. In the car, I would ask Mom for money to buy chewing gum or cigarettes from persistent street vendors. "You don't really want that stuff," she'd say. And she was right. I just wanted to buy something from a street vendor, as if they were some newfangled machine at the arcade.
When we moved home for good, it was a dream come true. The Philippines was my earthly Promised Land. And though only twelve, I felt like a returned exile. Like the pope, I wanted to bend over and kiss the ground. It was surreal. After living my whole life away, I couldn't believe it. We were here to stay.
It's been more than a decade since we moved home, and I've come to love the Philippines progressively more, with each year.
I drive home late some nights and I remember all over again. God, I love my country.
It's the people, and their humor. It's my friends and relatives: a very long list. It's the poor and the reality check I get every time I hang out with them. It's the friendly locals on the beach who call me "bro" and give me surf tips. It's the probinsiyana manangs all over the place who have let me, a stranger, use their bathroom. It's the playful street kids who just want you to hug them. It's our coastlines, mountain ranges and forests. It's our festivals. Our distinct culture. Our musicality. Our smiles. Our history and heroes. And don't get me started on the food. It's the Filipino language that speaks to the soul, and not just the ears. You feel the Filipino language; you don't just use it to communicate.
I was praying about what to write in these grave times that we face as a nation. I was thinking of writing something militant and critical, to fit the social climate in our country these days. But I think celebrating the land I love makes me a better person.
Because it's more than just being right. It's more than changing a government or a system. It may even be more than justice. Lest we forget, it's about love. It's about keeping something we love alive and breathing. It's this beautiful set of islands, this endeavor, this legacy, this faith, these ideals, this character, this people...this beautiful country that we don't just belong to. We love it. We've got to love it, lest we lose sight of who we are and where God has rooted us. So raise your glasses with me and celebrate, 'cause this is a toast to the Philippines.
Mabuhay ang Pilipinas!
Easy Ruins You
(10:32:00, 19 February)
A new friend of mine mentioned that there's a type of surfer who gets stoked, even from a wipeout. It's a deranged sense of fulfillment, I'd say. But I realized that I am one such person – and gladly so. This way, you can't lose. You catch something, you get the stoke. You botch something entirely, and you still get the stoke. And while we're on the topic, it turns out, there's a chemistry to getting stoked – a combination of lots of dopamine and adrenaline bubbling in your brain. A natural high. Fun fact right there.
Sometimes you learn more from getting beat up than from coming out without a scratch. Difficulty is a great teacher. I tried my luck at more progressive stuff, last weekend. This by no means entails that I was doing any tricky moves. But I did paddle out farther and attempt to surf the reef break at The Point: bigger, faster, more powerful – and dangerous – waves than my novice skills have ever been tested by.
Let me just say that I was beaten up. Washing-machined. Spin-cycled. I drank a lot of seawater and got slammed toward the ocean floor a few times. I paddled more than I ever have. I twisted my wrist (I forget how that happened) and cut my foot...on the reef. Yes, friends, you can admire my machismo and coolness because of this legitimate surf injury: cut self on REEF.
But I'd rather live a life of trying than wishing, you know? I'd rather go home having said that I challenged myself, than knowing that I remained in my comfort zone, unchanged and uninspired. Even if it was hard to paddle beyond farther and bigger breaks, it was worth it. Difficulty makes you a better surfer; it makes you a better person.
It strikes me that Christianity has always thrived under difficulty. When Christians get too comofortable in their power, influence and place in the world, the movement begins to suffer. We become sissy and apathetic. We hold on to comfort at all cost. We begin waging stupid wars and justifying crimes like slavery and the Spanish Inquisition. We become armchair activists or pampered aristocrats and forget that there is a world that God is changing, and we need to get our hands dirty – Every. Single. Day. History shows us the evils that Christians are capable of in an extreme sense, and it's simply because we forget where our roots lie: on the underside of the power struggle, where life is difficult.
Easy ruins us. It is in difficulty that we thrive. It is when we are weak that we are strong.
People laugh at me for being so cheesy about surfing (you know who you are; this entry is dedicated to you!) and for reading so much meaning into it. But there is so much about life and God woven into surfing. Into the ocean. Into life. Or maybe it's the other way around – these things are woven into who God is, and they are the tones of His voice. "His voice is over the waters," it says in the Psalms.
As I was paddling out, I thought to myself. If I can go through hardship for a good ride and the momentary stoke, I can definitely make the effort for deeper things in life. I can pursue my vision with more effort. I can better relationships in my family. I can try harder to love the unlovable. I can forgive myself. I can live a life of devotion. I can stick it out and work for change in this country. I can keep preaching change when what I face is apathy.
It now makes more sense to do the difficult, because I do difficult things for the stoke. And though it doesn't always feel that way, there are more important things in the world than the stoke.
Easy ruins you. In difficulty, we thrive.
Isn't She Beautiful?
(04:48:26, 07 February)
We held hands.
Excited, she showed me around her hometown.
Jackie is an eight year-old girl; and we've grown fond of each other because of the weekly mission I serve at: Elim Rosario, Cavite. Jackie's neighborhood is a place called Dreamland -- an ironic name, at least. A prophetic one, at best.
Dreamland is a seaside dump. Our friends from there live on a plain of decomposing garbage, without electricity, running water, plumbing or any other luxuries. In many ways, Dreamland is still in the dark ages. Here, people stoke fires to cook meals. Some of them fish so they can eat. During the summer the heat is intense. During the rains, they risk getting washed out to sea, literally. Most noticable, is that the smell of decay is everywhere.
But this place is beautiful. It took my breath away... in the good sense.
As I walked their alleyways, I was almost in tears, not because I pitied the people of Dreamland. I envied them. I desired their simplicity. I wanted to be as earnest as they were in accepting visitors. I wanted to have such joy in the midst of darkness and injustice. What struck me the most was that in the midst of the decay of this worldly empire we have constructed, God was there. The Living God lives there among them.
Today, our regular prayer meeting at the church was cancelled. Instead Tito Alex, our mission head decided to keep things simple. No prayers. No songs. No preaching. But community was happening. The Church was breathing, kicking, showing signs of life.
We took a walk into their lives. They welcomed us. They showed us their homes. We took photos together. We played pool on a makeshift table. They recognized my friend, a former child star, The One and Only Chuckie Dreyfus. They showed us the chapel they are constructing. They sang "Happy Birthday" for my buddy Em, who was joining us for the very first time -- he said this was one of the best birthday experiences he's ever had. They showed us the fishing boats that they use to catch squid at night. It was like a shanty town block party.
We stared out to sea.
We watched the sunset together.
We held hands.
We experienced Jesus, in each other.
I've heard it said that when you serve the poor, you save yourself. I owe a lot to these people, because they've rescued me. In their lowly estate, and flimsy homes they stand as testaments of joy in suffering, faith in difficult times, hope in struggle. Love. Today, our friends from Dreamland showed me how to live.
Indeed, how blessed are the poor, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.
Don't Fight It
(11:10:02, 22 January)
I feel like I have to get out of the city every so often, so that I remember there's stuff that only God can make. Like clean oceans and really impressive mountains. Here in Manila, I get fooled into thinking mankind is quite accomplished with our skyscrapers, big enterprises and Starbucks on every other corner. But the truly awe-inspiring is often the stuff mankind hasn't had too much of a hand in.
So I got off the bus at La Union at 4am and it was stars all over the sky, like God had knocked over a jar of glitter somewhere in space. The water beat the coastline like a solemn tribal drummer, playing an entrance hymn for the sunrise that was on its way. And I sat alone on the damp sand drinking in the song that creation was playing for me.
I wrapped up morning prayer with a little nap before hitting the waves to try my luck at happiness on a board. So far, the surf has not let me down, and that's why I've fallen in love with it so quickly. With all the lessons the ocean has been teaching me, I'm gonna start having to pay it tuition.
It's quite God-like, the ocean. With all its power and deadliness, it still offers you a good time if you play by its rules. Like God, it's got character, personality, rhythm and a modus operandi that we can sometimes decipher. But then, it's never 100% predictable. We cannot dictate upon it. We must simply accept the givens, and the fact that we can do nothing to change the way it is. By virtue of its size and our relative lack therof, it can pretty much do what it wants to us.
During an afternoon jeep ride, Larry, one of the locals explained some ocean dynamics. Basically, when you get caught in an angry rip current (quick, seaward flow), you have two options. The first is to relax and let it sweep you away. The second is to panic and get swept away anyway. Either way, you will get swept away. It's not a question of if you will be taken beyond control. You will be taken. You can't fight the ocean. But how you get through it is largely up to you.
The danger with option number two is that panic is a killer: it tires you out before you have the chance to get rescued. But if you simply let yourself get taken for however far the current takes you, you stand a better chance at survival. So just let the ocean have its way with you til it's done. Maintain composure; learn a new lesson. Save your energy for the swim back and fending off sharks. Just kidding about sharks. Then again, you never know...
It's a cliche by now, but let me say that the ocean is also a lot like life. There are givens that we have to accept. It's not about if bad stuff is going to happen, or if we will go through trials. Jesus said we would have trouble in the world. It's a given. But, He also said that we can take courage because He's overcome the world. There's beauty in the danger. And once we accept the givens, we come out stronger. In fact, good surfers use rips to their advantage, for getting out beyond the break with minimal effort. Cool, isn't it?
So this is my lesson: trials are a teacher, just like the ocean. It's all a matter of how we choose to go through them. Panic and die. Surrender and survive. It makes a lot of sense to me.
Peace.
"WHY?" : The Ever Pressing Question
(11:45:15, 15 January)
Why? is the ever pressing question. And no matter who we are, we grapple with it every so often.
Why do I go through crap while the crooked get through without a scratch? Have I not been good? Why does my earnestness result in brokenness? Why did my parents split up? Why did my ex- dump me? Why did I get taken advantage of? Why do I have everything I want, but still a gaping hole in my soul?
Notably, Why? is the foundation upon which the entire emo movement is built. I've always been fascinated with how the movement has become so fashionable in our culture, taking on the clothing of punk resurgence, goth make-up and asymmetrical haircuts. But as a fascinating movement, emo is over. It's even somewhat of a joke, as compared to the tip-of-the-iceberg novelty it once had, years ago. Still, it can't be discounted that its questions came from -- or come from -- a very real place. The world is broken, and we're all trying to deal with it.
In Scripture, Why? is everywhere. My favorite example is this dude named Job. Scripture remembers him as "blameless and upright." He is very wealthy and devoted to God. But as we all know, bad stuff happens to good people. And Job is no exception -- in fact, he is a classic case.
First, his business goes down the toilet. Then, all ten of his beloved children die when a building collapses, crushing them to death. Take note: all of them. Crushed to death. Then, he contracts a painful disease that leaves him bedridden and covered in boils. What did he do to deserve it? Nothing. Most of the book is an attempt to figure out why.
At the end of the book, God shows up but never answers Job. God never sits him down and says, "Well, here's why your kids died... And here's why your businesses were destroyed... Here's why you've got a painful sickness that's rotting you away..." No answers. Not one.
In fact God throws the questions in Job's face, asking a ton of questions, summed up in this phrase: Who do you think you are to question God?
I myself have many questions about the world and the terrible inequity, the glaring injustice, the screwed up political and economic systems, the crime, the brokenness, and how God could let it all happen. A friend of mine once said, "I can't believe in God; it's as if He's playing chess with the world, unaffected as it spins into chaos." Respect to my friend. But see, his misgivings about God wouldn't change the givens. Whether or not we like how the world looks, or believe God exists, doesn't change the fact that God exists, if He indeed does.
I admit. Initially, it seems weak to just have faith in God. To trust. It doesn't articulate answers to all of life's deepest questions. But maybe that's the point. Maybe we really are weak, and we've just got to accept it so we can let God can be strong for us.
Maybe God won't let us settle for answers. Maybe He won't let us be so cheap to enthrone answers as the ultimate pursuit. He wants to give us more than answers -- He wants to give us Himself.
Sometimes trouble is just what we need to open up our eyes and see that God is there. God is not a distant chess-playing deity. He is a loving King who could stand back and leave us to destruction, if He wanted to, and it wouldn't change His God-ness. But instead, He stands with us in a broken world where we will always have trouble. And more importantly, we can have deep, eternal peace that war or poverty could never steal. We can take courage because He's overcome the world in Christ. Deep in my bones, in my spirit, this is what I feel: God is bigger than answers.
Answers are overrated; and God is severely underrated. I refuse to settle for anwers. I want something bigger -- I want God.
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