Echoes and Moments

As a child, summer was always my favorite season. I was not exceptional, as I'm sure most of us can recall our fondness of what little freedom we had: no school, family vacations, and lots of time to play outdoors. My brother and I would construct wild imaginative adventures in our wooded backyard in the suburbs of Richmond, Virginia. We would envision a whole world under the canopy of the longleaf pine and green, gently swaying maple trees, which served to shelter us as we engaged in an epic clash of Union and Confederate forces, or as we crossed swords in some imaginary medieval landscape, or as we stormed the beaches of Sicily in 1944. Violence to me was not yet deadly serious, as it would become during my years in downtown San Jose, or as I now witness it in my daily life in Fresno. Because it was contained within the safety of our shared imagination, it could do us no lasting harm. Sure, we had times to enjoy the winter snow (and I have one early memory of crawling through

Why weep when there will be nothing But hard ground to receive the tears? Salt remains after water returns to the sky, an Offering to the Creator yet again, but bitter. In the lands where His son walked There are tears again, and blood. In the lands of many more There are tears again, and smoke. Why weep when the tears cannot nourish The earth and its fruit, the grass And the life that blooms without me They do not feel my grief, but still grow. I've made this offering before When a devil snuffed out lives in a school, In a church, In a restaurant, In a theater, But also down the street, in a blue uniform. Here, too, the tears cannot nourish For nothing grows out of the asphalt, Yet He whispers for me to let them fall I obey, I shudder, and they do. And so the Mountain Spirits dance around, Their healing from ages long gone. Creator's Mother looks down, and smiles The snake destroyed beneath her heel. This is why I weep: I see those Who Have taken

The last few weeks have put me through the wringer. I can scarcely remember the last time so many converging factors amounted to a barrage of crises to manage. External circumstances and the changing landscapes of work launched me into a realm of terrifying speculation about whether or not I would have a job at this time next year. If things stayed the same, or continued to develop at their current rate, I would be forced to leave my ministry assignment at the end of the academic year, earlier than I would have planned. My mind grappled with a catastrophic sense of having to make a decision without the freedom to do so unencumbered by the failures of others. I have been reeling to recover a sense of rhythm, clarity, and peace in the midst of a difficult and ongoing process to move forward. Luckily, I had the chance to have a literal escape by visiting some close friends for the weekend. Although Santa Barbara is in the midst of its warmest months of "summer" (a phenom

Spring and Fall, by Gerard Manley Hopkins Márgarét, áre you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! ás the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; And yet you wíll weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name: Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It ís the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for.

The Transfiguration, John Giuliani After I wrote my last post , many of you reached out to me with words of encouragement, support, solidarity, and appreciation. All of this I am immensely grateful for, especially since much of what I wrote delves into deep, unexplored, and certainly vulnerable parts of my being. There is a challenge in writing to invite your readers into your journey, whether through story, song, or poetry, each form allowing the writer to share a larger narrative where our humanity is allowed to shine through a little more freely. So much of our culture, I lament, is focused on self-perfection and independence. Individualism is a gift; it is not wrong. Yet it is only part of the story. Paradoxically enough, I've found that in order to reach into the deepest parts of my unique identity, I must explore the stories of the many who came before me. As I learn more about my ancestors, particularly those Indigenous peoples of the American Southwest, something awak

We go through phases in terms of the stories that really captivate us, that connect to our humanity, connect us to each other, and to our deepest selves. Growing up as a kid in the Nineties, I remember a slough of disaster movies. Comets, asteroids, volcanoes, and other things threatened to end all life as we know it. We counted on people smarter than us, the scientists, engineers, and astronauts, to save us (unless you're Michael Bay, who will tell you that it's easier to train oil rig workers to fly into space than it is to teach actual trained astronauts how to use a drill). Later, in the early Aughts, it was fantasy that took over. The post-9/11 era taught us to depend on clear lines of morality, of good versus evil, and epic quests and heroic virtue that will rid the world of the darkness. That decade ended and ushered us into an era still in its heyday: that of the Superhero. Although Marvel and DC have different textures and color palettes, they both tell the sam

26 Martyrs of Nagasaki, Japan. When it comes to literature, as with any other art form, there come to mind a few standouts of the many books I've read over the past year or so. I've let Dostoyevsky take me through Raskolnikov's anguish in Crime and Punishment. I liked the book so much that I eagerly took up The Brothers Karamazov, drawn to the story of intertwining lives as Alyosha, Dmitri, and Ivan find themselves amidst the brokenness of their family and how it shaped their (quite different) worldviews. Then there are the sci-fi greats: Frank Herbert brought me to Arrakis and I watched Paul Atreides ride sandworms to overthrow the villanous Harkonnen dynasty that usurped his family's claim to the planet they all call Dune. I picked up Walter Miller Jr.'s A Canticle for Leibowitz, which let the realm of monastic life provide a terrifying lens through which we view an apocalyptic and fatalistic future. All of these books have left a mark, introducing me to cul

2015 is shaping up to be a good year for music. Already we've had immense and game-changing releases from the likes of Kendrick Lamar, Sufjan Stevens, My Morning Jacket, Tame Impala, and Wilco. This year we can expect our horizons to be further expanded by Foals, St. Vincent, and (as I go into giddy fan mode), Radiohead. It's easy in the midst of this to forget that there is a good deal of art out there that recognizes the intensely spiritual side of our human journey. Lamar and Stevens' latest efforts are obvious choices for those artists not being played in church settings (although they arguably could). But more on that later. My concern is to look back through the realm of contemporary sacred music from across traditions to see just how our Christian faith shapes our expressions today. Unfortunately, much of the landscape is bleak. I've had my issues with the label "Christian" as applied to music, and I would agree with Michael Gungor that applying

Landscape near Tucson, Arizona. This summer I've been busy, and it's finally caught up to me. Between my last post  and today Fresno's climate has increased from "tolerably warm" to "oppressively broiling," several summer blockbusters have been released to either box-office records or critical acclaim , (guess which one I preferred), and the nation reels in the wake of yet another terrorist massacre at the hands of a gun-wielding white supremacist. On one of my trips midway through June, I listened to eyewitness reports on public radio and nearly had to pull my car over because I was crying so bitterly. Through the hours of the night and the early morning rays of the sun my prayers rise with so many around the world, both in my neighborhood and abroad. Though my privilege and education insulate me from many of my brothers and sisters who experience suffering daily, I stand in solidarity with them, as I've chosen a journey that puts me in int

"Americana." "New Folk." "Southern Rock." Each of these labels brings with it different connotations and influences on music across the rock soundscape, sometimes for better, and often for worse. In the wake of two huge releases this week, I'd like to reflect on what makes a good American album, seen through the lenses of two related, but far different pieces of music in quality and execution. Riding the crest of the wave that has popularized the blend of rock music and folk, making the banjo ubiquitous on the popular rock scene. Mumford & Sons has conquered their niche through a relatively brief tenure: only two albums and a smattering of singles and TV appearances led them to sold out concerts across the globe, a host of Grammy nominations, and a sound that has been copied by scores of lesser bands, both popular and (oddly)  religious . I have to clear the air and state the obvious: for all the banjos, foot stomping, and flannel shirts, th

It's no secret that sci-fi is one of my favorite genres. Though I was raised consuming volumes of fantasy novels, sci-fi is cut from the same cloth. A good science fiction story draws upon enough believable material to make us engage with the story, with some good imagination and speculation to draw us into deeper, unknown, and perhaps bolder territory. I just saw a great example of how science fiction engages our deepest, very human questions, asking us to think and feel familiar things while venturing into new narrative territory. But before I talk about the film I'll give you a little background on why (and how) I came to love the genre. The journey began with some classic novels new and old (although science fiction is a relatively new genre, coming to prominence only in the middle of the 20th century). Some highlights include Frank Herbert's 1965 masterpiece Dune , where I followed the Messiah-like Paul Atreides on his quest to seek justice for the injuries again