Echoes and Moments

Heaven in 2017. As the shards of my consciousness reform after the inevitable energy drain received in the aftermath of an intense five-day urban program (and the final project for my ministry with InterVarsity), the depth of my awareness for the wounds of young people returns. When the reactive depression recedes like a strong tide, and the wind stings my face beside a salty shore, and the connective tissue in my thoughts, emotions, and passions resume their normal furious pull -- there is another, deeper crisis in miniature, the point where my courage falters, a split-second where the absurdity overwhelms and paralyzes. In a talk I gave at the end of Day Three of the program, I described the work of French novelist and philosopher Albert Camus, who evolved from the same colonial European milieu that produced Derrida and dialogued with the great existentialists (whom he never enjoyed being lumped in with). He is famous for giving flesh to the concept of the Absurd, which in br...

on Formation tour, 2016. I have a mildly embarrassing custom of talking in-depth with a friend about various cultural, socio-political, and theological topics over the worst food that our society has to offer: greasy fast food. This past week was more defendable than most, considering our chosen location for conversation, WingStop, prides itself on cooking everything fresh. But the amount of salt, fat, and grease that I consumed that night (and that found its way quickly through my defenseless digestive tract) was more than enough to make me think twice about my life choices. During this conversation, as I munched on a deep-fried chicken wing coated in lemon-juice glaze and pepper, my friend paused, looked intently into my eyes, and offered me a question with great severity: "Karl, I know you have thoughts on this. I just wanna know...why the hell should I care about Beyoncé and her twin babies?...because I just don't care!" I slid the last strip of meat from t...

Zdzisław Beksiński, 1981. Of all the things that I've longed to write about, this post's subject matter might be the most complicated and convoluted. Without knowing where the tangled threads of this identity will lead, I still find it critically important to unpack the implications of my heritage as a white man: both how I personally engage, understand, and value my white ethnic identities, as well as how the current political and social climate forces me to grapple and wrestle with this whiteness. It is a journey not without pain, but like all questions of identity, a deeply meaningful one. Each stream in my multivalent identity as a person of mixed ethnic backgrounds has developed in dramatically different ways, and at critically different points in my life. My Latinidad has stayed with me the longest, manifested as I was curious enough to critique the implicit racism I saw imbedded within the culture of my (mostly white) suburban school in Virginia and contrasted w...

A week has passed since America saw its most divisive, vitriolic, rhetoric-infused election in modern memory. My generation saw the promises and hope brought by a charismatic young President of color overwhelmingly silenced by the angry masses of (overwhelmingly) white voters from a continuous stretch of our country gathered and participating from Arizona to Pennsylvania. The news of hate crimes, the images of protestors lighting up the streets, and the inevitable reaction by armor-clad militarized police forces filled my screens as I watched our nation react. Friends and family shared their terror, their fear, their anger, their grief. I saw everything from escapism (Bible verses and an injunction to trust in God) to scapegoating. I had to quit my presence on social media. As for me, I sat, stunned, shocked, and angry. But, as I assessed my emotions in the aftermath, facing the prospect of a Presidency presided over by a racist, xenophobic, misogynistic bully named Donald J. Tru...

Vigil for Orlando shooting, June 13, 2016. It has been difficult to add words to what has already been said about the last few weeks. Surely, the silence of the Christian community regarding the tragedy in Orlando a few weeks ago has been painful for many of my LGBTQ friends. Each time gun violence claims another brother or sister of mine I, too, break down and retreat into the catatonia of survivor's guilt. Orlando's gay community is still shell shocked by this event, but the ripples will extend outward for many more, much longer into our shared consciousness. The thing is, my response didn't surprise me. I shut down and retreated because I had seen this before and, as the actions of our legislature show me, I have no reason to believe that this won't happen again. Sure, satirical periodicals may post their repeats of the same story over and again, but it does little now to assuage the pain that seeps from the open wounds of our nation's psyche. Is this cy...

This Sunday ushered in a new liturgical year, where the Church gathers to await the celebration of the coming King with the season of Advent. We call this season "advent" from the Latin adventus , meaning "coming." It is a time to await the Nativity of the Lord, a celebration usually called Christmas here in the West, but also the watch in hope and longing for his second coming. In my tradition this is a season of taking stock, of penance, giving, and reflection. We have the chance to address our need for the Savior, and, as the days shorten and darkness creeps into the corners of our existence, we tend to the flicker of hope that dawns within us. In this time we may see familiar symbols to serve as guideposts along the journey: advent wreaths, candles, special music, and the muted colors of purple and blue to adorn our altars and vestments. For me it is the encroaching darkness and cold that offers the most stark reminder of the season's offerings. Philee...