Screwtape Leaks

The following conversation was retrieved from the encrypted text message between Screwytape (Head Demon) and Wormywood (Newbie Recruit) last March 7, 2016 at 3:00 AM HDT (Hades Standard Time):

Screwytape: You need to understand how your mission in the next hour determines the residual outcome of your initiation, right?

Wormywood: Absolutely Boss! Tony and May are prime enemies for years now. Their witness is insane. We almost had them to ourselves until that stupid Valentines Banquet when in a moment of weakness, the hunk junked all our seductions. I know it, Boss. Both need to be shelved. The highways of Dallas are running at speeds of 81 mph on average. The projections are ready: an oversized truck will hit his car with impunity. They will not stand any chance of luck, promise.

Screwytape: The damage they have been causing our movement is off the charts. The man works overtime for righteousness and she, despite all ailments we caused, stands upright with incredible beauty. May has to die today ... Do you understand this?

Wormywood: I have to go. The mess is scheduled to happen in a few minutes, Watch it on the monitor, Boss. This is my gift for our kingdom anniversary!

BREAKING NEWS: A white BMW is wrecked by a wayward truck which spun and turn-turtled twice. In what seemed like a sure fatal hit, both driver and passenger escaped unscathed. The driver of the big monster was spotted fleeing on foot. Police caught up with the culprit. The couple are both in the ER recuperating from whiplash.

Screwytape: You realize, you stupid neophyte what this will cost you, right?

Wormywood: Boss, I don't know what to say. The winged creatures intercepted our sharp daggers. They are too swift and strong. You know, we have no weapons against their invisible support. It happens all the time ... give me another chance please?

Screwytape: You are asking for another chance? Do you realize what just happened? They just registered their gratitude towards their Protector and a major crash in our stocks just demoralized half of my kingdom. If it were not for your mother, I would have chopped your head right now. Get out of my sight!

BREAKING NEWS (Heaven's Morning Version)

Michael Angel: My Lord, mission accomplished! Only their chariot got wrinkled. Both your precious agents are safe. I recommend an immediate flush of energy and logistical provision.

Holy Boss: I saw your timely intervention, my faithful assistant. Be sure to hold their hearts and sling their minds to Level One. Bless them with our full support. Stir their family to rally with deep affections. The Kingdom remains in its advance, as scheduled. Good work today, troops!

Reversing the Pyramid

The word enterprise finds its biblical roots in the Parable of the Talents.

Interestingly, the concept of business is presented from the vantage point of purpose. Jesus used the imagery of an opulent master entrusting his wealth to his servants. The transaction was based on a trustee relationship. The grant was accompanied by the master's discernment. Three persons were chosen. The first person was entrusted 20 years of salary. The second about 8 years worth, the third, 4 years worth. As the master went on a journey, they were left with a simple charge: work the resource.

The first immediately traded the 20 and it yielded 20 more. The second did the same: the 8 yielded 8 more. The first was paralyzed by fear, he did nothing. He buried his talent.

The Master arrived with an audit. The first two were complemented with sincere applause and promotion. The unwilling servant was reprimanded and sent away.

The parable is both deep and simple. It speaks of a unique perspective towards work.

It takes work seriously as it is received as an endowment from a benevolent Person who delights in good business.

I know of a man whose life and work are seamless beams of this diligent paradigm. Glenn reverses the corporate triangle by bridling his work to serve God and not mammon.

He mentored me recently about my tent-making. He emphasized the necessity of writing a covenant before one launches into the tumultuous market sea.

He said:" A contract must be signed first to effect the reason why we really work."

Thus I notarized mine: "I seek to reclaim God's wealth for His purposes."

photography: Paul Supelana

Things We Hold Dear

We own stuff.

At least, that is what we perceive.

We accumulate all sorts of implements to suit our preferences. Our propensity to acquire goods stems from the myth that one has to fend for his own. There lies within us the brokenness of abandon. We seem to share an imaginary shipwrecked existence where islands of goods are necessary. And so the law of supply and demand hums our musical cinematography.

We have been raped by a fatalistic deception. We are made to believe that all provision comes from human toil. To a certain extent, there is some truth in this but there lies a deeper reality: the curse of work has met its cure. 

When Christ hung on the cross of Calvary, he declared: τετέλεσται (It is finished!). With his work, our present labor takes on a different meaning. We travail not to secure our lot. We engage in diligent work to anticipate guaranteed blessing.

We enter into a new economy of trust. God gave us His Son. He will never withhold anything less. As we are endowed with gifts and talents, there is an accompanying invitation to consider holy entrepreneurship where we sign up as trustees under God's benefaction.

We recognize true wealth. God owns everything. We receive our calling as stewards. Our stuff is given to facilitate God's incredible magnanimity.

Our Boss owns the wealth of nations.

Adam Smith, the Scottish economist and author of the classic An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, was on point in referring to the Invisible Hand that steers all our transactions to where they ought to be.

Sketches: Jesse Sosa

Walk to Talk

I am troubled by conversations.

Words never quite represent the fulness of one's thoughts. Not unless, the one speaking clearly grasps what is being conveyed.

More often than not, I mumble for jargon not because I lack word-power but I leak in terms of substance. I have nothing good to say.

If it were not for the WORD who transpierced my world, I would have remained a monotonous clanging cymbal.

Late last night, I had one of those moments where my heart was registering a truth so opaque, my tongue simply proved inept. And so again, I caused unnecessary hurt.

Words are different when they are spoken without anchor. They are detonated with a thousand and one meanings. The recipient is either built or shattered in a million pieces.

I turn to the ONE who purifies His converse with blue flame. Every syllable given induces life.

I rise today surrendering my talk to a walk that leads to a holy bridle. I just hope my daughter forgives me for slicing her soul.

Photography: Renchi Arce

True Expression

The curse of our expressive generation stems from our wide but shallow accountabilities.

We are quick with hello and hug without true content. Ours is a social milieu clad with acceptable pretensions. Thus, when we get a glimpse of a true bond, we are drawn to its gleam.

My daughters beam this resplendence. Nika is getting married this June. Her younger sister will serve as Head Bridesangel. Their friendship is undeniably alien. This week, they both flew in from the Big Apple to host a bridal shower in hometown Texas. The production of this memory reveals much heart.

I find myself awed by this glow.

Oh how I long for a big brother who will pour out such devotion ... and I know ... how my younger brother craves for the same.

It is in moments of such capture that I am reminded of Christ's affection towards us. He has become our true brother. In our metaphorical role as bride, By will, He assumes the commitment to serve us with His utmost sacrifice.

Our shallow existence meets the depth of His outstanding grace: a true personal relationship with no guile but only enduring honesty.

Pool of Grace

During the economic hiccup of 1996, I worked as maintenance technician for one of Dallas's fine swimming pool companies. Prior to this necessity, I never had any previous experience of manual labor except for a few skirmishes with garden work.

The code was sterling. My assignments were all located in the snooty Highland Park. The new mansion of Deion Sanders (#21 Dallas Cowboys) was on my clean list.

I would leave home at 5:00 am and be done with 12 swimming pools by 2:00 pm. I would then proceed to Dallas Seminary for my PhD course work. 

Work seemed relatively easy until one stormy night. Since most of my pools were ornate, trees were plenty. There was a concerted test the following day. Thick leaves carpeted my work to a degree of impossibility. That entire day, I had no room for breakfast or lunch and on through dinner. At 9:00 pm, I was still vacuuming my last pool. As I slumped bone tired behind the wheel, my hands shook wild. My head throbbed while thoughts of pity cascaded. I began railing at God for putting me through such a trying day, while my peers were busy engaged in white-collared library work.

God does not buy drama. He was quick to redirect my heart. I was reminded of Paul who was given the privilege of emaciating work in order to facilitate Christ's news. If I was on to training, there was no other option but imitation.

As I drove home that night, I restocked my allegiance. I vowed to restart with holy fury. I reported early and had a talk with the boss:

Mr. Volholzer: It was pretty rough last night, huh?

Me: It was a nightmare but I made it through. I do have a request, though ...

Mr. Volholzer: You are not quitting, right?

Me: No, I'm not. May you please increase my training so that I can be your best pool cleaner?

Mr. Volholzer: What did you just say?

He went on to take me seriously as I sought God's grace to turn my menial work into stamps of holy demonstrations. I never left any of my assignments without signing my name. I gained a reputation for extreme clean and was dubbed "The Asian Guy."

It was not too long thereafter, the Lord took me from the waters and into the pond. Now that I serve as fisher of men, I look back at the gift of hard labor and the ease of grace that ushered me through.

Who Fights For You?

I once met a young manager endowed with an entrepreneurial and artistic hybrid. I was a frequent visitor at his work and as I observed, branded by his remarkable looks, he was constantly the center of lady-attraction. There was one instance when he initiated a conversation:

JeSo: I see you frequently here. You seem to be a man of thoughts. What is your craft?

Me: Oh ... I ... teach.

JeSo: Philosophy?

Me: Well, I'd take that. I teach about ... life.

JeSo: I have tons of questions ... do you have time to talk?

That was the start of a conversation which led to a friendship with a man whose search for a good fight led to a willing surrender.

It was close to Valentines when I offered him free tickets to a night of love songs. The Renaissance ballroom was full. The steak was good. The music was classy. He came fashionably late with his gorgeous girlfriend.

JeSo is the sort of a man who goes deep. His gym work goes insane. He spots for minute muscular tones. His physique only equals the graphic genius of his craft. That night, our conversation hovered on the nuance of redemptive love.

I never disclosed my work as pastor and so when I rose to speak during intermission, he was mildly chagrined. 

He began understanding life through the context of War and Peace. JeSo used to live his life with all sorts of battles. He saw the ineptness of any human effort to win against forces that one cannot even see.

Someone had to fight his battles. Someone whose scars and wounds have been shed for cred.

Recently, he confided about incessant battles that are insidiously pressing him down. I had to remind him that the war is over.

The scary nemesis are mere drawings with no real gravitas. 

Artiste/Illustrateur: Jesse Sosa

Why We Run

We run for life.

I met a beautiful man who asked me to mentor him through his life marathon.

There was no bible on our first discipleship. I asked him to bring his mountain bike.

The trail was engaging as it took us to a Japanese-bamboo route. He was thrilled with much frolic. And then, the throw-down: there were three consecutive 25 feet dips on rock descent. I screeched to a halt, while he (a veteran marine) went for the jugular. I heard his rambunctious glee as he went down and up, down and up, down and up.

Of course, he wondered where I was:

Tévan: Hey brother, where are you?

Me: I am still here ... turn around ... 

Tévan: Why did you stop? Are you tired?

Me: I cannot do the drop. This is why I took you here. The last time I faced this hole, I waited for the guys to pass and I had to walk it.

Tévan: Come on, just ride it. You can't be serious!

Me: I am dead serious. My past shackles me. When I was 9, I was on a bike race and I got into a serious accident. My bike was split and so was my boldness. I can't go past this dip. You have to mentor me.

Tévan: We will never leave this place not until you are able to negotiate this monster. I will show you how its done. Let's do this!

After a rigorous half-hour drill from master sergeant, there were two men zooming to and fro like unbridled boys.

We concluded the afternoon with Gatorade reflections. Tévan got the significance of a true teach. Iron has to sharpen Iron. When I asked what he learned through the overture, he quipped: "Indeed, life has its way of pounding us. We do need each other to take the u-Turns ."

We both run and have been falling quite hard. The bruises and scars serve as evidence to the brutalities and of the Grace-laden Rescue that comes with it.

Yesterday, I just called him asking if we can run again.

He said: "your timing is perfect."

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