Oil and Dew
Thoughts & Musings
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
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.
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
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
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}
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
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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
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)
If God is God, what seems invisible is thus invincible.
I read of scriptural accounts of hidden creatures who serve His purposes with great obedience.
The witness of brightly shining ones at the tomb of Easter was beguiling. If angels are mere hallucinated figments, then the entire narrative of the gospel is a joke.
But the report seems free from intentional fiction.
Angels were Christ's companions in the desert.
Mary received her first order of conception from one named Gabriel.
The visibility of these unseen persons is quite the norm in God's story.
Often, I ponder the mystery of what feels like a constant field of protection that seems to hem me in like a firewall.
Alas, I caught a glimpse one ordinary day ... of all moments, when I was most emaciated from a twelve hour surgery.
If God is God, His angels must truly be encamping around those who fear Him.
Rendition of Actual Recollection / Artisan: David Talaguit
Papa has been gone for several years but his Seabiscuited heart remains.
His 1965 Mustang was my first love. I polished the steed with fanatical zest. I raced trucks and donkeys with victorious glee. I especially got my adrenaline by beating records between exit points. I never got over the powerful overdrive where the snout would lift and breathe crazy strokes.
I was 14 when I began driving.
One night, I stole dad's car while he was asleep. I rolled it out of the garage manually and sped quickly to a girl's house. Those were days of misplaced ego. I was at my best game ... trying to be who I was not.
It was past midnight and raining cats and dogs. On the way out, I noticed the road's shoulder turned marshmallow. When I started the engine, the car began pulling sideways and instantaneously fell into the ditch. Foul-smelling murk filled the cabin like a jester's prank. I was frozen with panic. How in the world can I recover the mess?
I called home:
Me: Papa ...
Dad: Uhmm ... (just roused from sleep)
Me: Your car fell sideways ...
Dad: Uh ... it's parked in the garage ...
Me: No, Pa ... I drove it ... I am at Jennifer's house ...
Dad: What? ... What happened?
Me: Sorry, Pa ... there was an accident ... the Mustang is half-buried in water ...
Click.
Five minutes later, three strong men were helping us pull the soiled horse out from the pit.
Moments later ... father and I were walking side by side in the drizzle:
Me: So Sorry ... Pa ...
Dad: It happens ...
Me: So sorry ...
Dad: If you need the car, just tell me ... you don't need to steal ...
Me: Sorry, Pa ...
Dad: (Silence) [puts his arm around my drooped shoulders].
I wonder if I should consider buying a Shelby just to honor the gracious mercy I took one embarrassing night.
The depth of change in my journey with Christ leads to an awareness of His desire to usher me towards renewal.
I am a most difficult person to transform.
I think I got my stubbornness from rocks. I always thought of myself as the official last word on anything. My opinions are ex cathedra. Thus, I deal with a misguided sense of infallibility.
As I go through life in Christ, I began noticing how God takes me lightly. Indeed, if He were to take me seriously, I would have been decimated in hell several times over. The duplicity of the human soul is deathly pronounced.
My tongue bears witness to this anomaly. The little muscle speaks of heaven for an hour, in the next bleep, hell spews from it like lava. The book of Proverbs is spot on: words are commissioned with both life and death. They either give birth to a lift or kill without mercy.
How many times have I spoken to edify someone?
How many times have I spoken to crucify someone?
How can one even remember? The heart is too arrogant to edit.
Thus, I have resolved to commit to a strong witness of lightness about my light.
I now take myself lightly and vow to take only the Person of God seriously.
Banjo sat in front of me. We plodded through theories of microeconomics together. San Beda College was quite a haven. It represented a deep sense of ethnocentrism.
My classmate was the stalwart. His basketball panache reflected most of his brilliance. He is a deep thinker. He always engaged in discourse. I somehow sensed that one day, he will make his mark.
More than three decades have gone by and I note that we have become relatives by the blood of the Lamb.
He has become an outstanding lawyer. He serves as ambassador to the verdict of the Cross.
It is invigorating to observe God's work for those who are willing to abandon all things for His name's sake.
Constantino Banjo Navarro III is currently running for a seat at Philippine Congress.
I know why he is doing this: it has everything to do with his lawful love for His law-fulfilling Messiah.
Little wonder, the truly wise catch the gleam and kiss him.
Delight has been a rare affect.
I constantly catch myself taken in by the currents of utilitarianism. The mantra of our age lifts the golden calf of optimization as its primary ethic. And so we work to promote that which works.
We are quick to dismiss things that no longer function. A faulty part is all that is required for a new appliance.
The same applies to our relational usage. A faulty quirk is all that is required for a delete on Facebook.
I stumbled upon the witness of my fig tree.
It is almost summer and the juicy fruits are well expected. I consume about ten of these goodies once they're out. What is the use of the fig tree? According to utility: it must simply bear fruit.
It is no different from any food that is served at Japan House. I crave sushi. Once it lands on my plate, I devour its usefulness.
There is something misplaced in these episodes. Something really amiss.
Well, the fig tree was seeded with beauty. The foliage is exuberant. Its form is sensual.
The Japanese chef had allure in mind while rendering the uni and hamachi. Food was not meant to be ingested without appreciation. Little wonder, I salivate first before it touches my mouth. Often, I eat forgetting to pray just because my taste buds dim my lumens.
God infused beauty in all things. There is a call to halt the obsessive rush to utility.
Beauteousness is deeper than workability.
We were not created just for work.
We were crafted to exude God's resplendent pulchritude.
I refer to 2012 as my Year of Descent.
My prognosis offered no elbow room. My jaw had an anomaly that was waiting to burst since inception. The benign suffering had only one cure: remove the lower mandible and all its enamel dwellers. Harvest my leg-fibula and donate it to my mouth.
I was discreetly hinted to prepare for acquaintance with three new things:
1) The need to practice smiling with my eyes.
2) My speech will not be clear.
3) I will walk with a limp.
My world was about to take on a different spin.
1) I smile a lot.
2) I talk a lot.
3) I run a lot.
The relationship of faith and science has long been debated ad infinitum.
In my own world, however ... the barrier was lifted without a fight.
I strongly believe that the deepest realities of scientific knowledge are subservient to unbridled faith.
But where does one go for such arrangement?
I found mine after my involved surgery.
1) Although bloated like a cucumber, I began smiling not only with my eyes.
2) Although I love Asian diction, I just sound more British now.
3) Although I probably won't do the marathon, I now gallop.
This is not my face today. I just keep it to remind me of better days.
swollen smile a week after a 12-hour surgical strike
The urgency of hurriedness shows no mercy.
I was told that hurry is not from the devil. It is the devil.
I often wonder why my propensity to gravitate towards stress is chronic.
It has everything to do with the Garden.
Ahh ... my parents fell at Eden.
My distant father, the gardener, had to be relocated for health issues.
He contracted malignant sin.
All was dying until the coming of the new CareTaker.
I now experience a settled existence.
I am bought back to the Garden.
Not the Garden of Eden ...
... but the Garden of Gethsemane.
It was there, where my soul was tilled back to life.
photography: Stella P. Sison
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