The Bible + my preferred meaning = 34,000 church divisions.

One of those though provoking blog posts that I just happened to read. It’s entitled, “Does Personal Bible Reading Destroy the Church? (Paul Penley).” The blog post states that apart from denominational splits, one could equate biblical interpretation as an equal source for church splits. That certainly escalated during the Reformation era, which was spearheaded by Martin Luther.

Authorities were misusing their power to bend a certain way of reading the scriptures. They were manipulating the masses with their interpretation. This was the thing that got Luther all fired up. And then the rest is history. The ongoing conclusion that Penley states out is that, the Reformation which often stresses the importance of the bible being read and interpreted by everyone actually is responsible for divisions.

It’s an interesting article. And by that I mean, “I never really thought about that, but I’m not a 100% with you but I want to see how the argument goes.” And so, although it does raise some good points, I’m not fully convinced…just yet. I’ll wait for his other posts to be more in agreement or not.


This poem is my attempt in interpreting the of story Bryon Widner. This one really took awhile to write. The story echoes a narrative of what I’d call “second chance.” As much as I’m interpreting what I read, there are parts where this poem is auto-biographical as well. It is my hope that you resonate with the tone and emotions depicted in the poem. 


…are hard to come by.


The PAST is at times like bloodstains on white colored fabric.


one that would never go away
it stays
Remaining on the surface.

A disfigurement of a former glory
even after washing
still remains.




Like seasons where a caterpillar weaves up into a cocoon,
an anticipation occurs,
ugly takes a makeover,
in the form of a whole transformation.




Call it evolution
Call it rejuvenation
Call it a reincarnation
call it metamorphism
call it redemption
call it
to be HUMAN.

Widening the chasms of the past,

…who i was,
a fire breathing dragon.

to who I am,
inhaling back the flames…

…is not always easy…

…Even if it is as far as the East is to the West.

Erasure? is it even possible?
of one’s disclosure,
of an already written story,
the past forever.
To one being written,
the future
an unraveling.



Is it just, skin-DEEP?

Though murky echoes,

of past lingers by,


The horizon speaks,

of another story,



amid the stains below my feet,


amid the fumes of my confession,

in the anguish of breathing penance,

in the narrative of second-chances,

my restoration,

made complete by,


i care but i don’t care


“But Jobs’ discussion about God with Isaacson later in his life leaves us wondering: Did Steve Jobs accept Christ before he died?” (Read the rest of the article here.)

The article was going out well until the part I quoted above. It’s just like saying, “I care about you, really. But only until I know for sure you “accepted Christ.” I don’t think we really do care at all, and that’s how (not) to speak of God.



Confining what was meant to go Viral

The title you read above is a short article I wrote that my good friend Kurt Willems posted on his blog. Below is a little snippet of the it:

“Last month I went to the movies and watched “Contagion.” in short it was a movie depicting a wide spreading virus, which was unknown, and untreatable. Well that’s until they found a vaccine to somewhat contain the virus from spreading virally. I am not intending to give my review of the movie, on whether it was great and you should watch it, but there is something that got me thinking about the words “confinement,” “viral,” and in some sense how it relates to Christianity.” Read the rest of the article by clicking the link here

dreams were meant to share

“in the event of my death”
he said
“please bury with me my dream.”
“why…” was the response
given to his request
“…would you do such a thing?”
the question beckons him,
“it would be good if you would shared it,
cause then your dreams,
it would live on,
now wouldn’t that be bliss,
to have,
your rememberance
it will forever be taken in?”
He repilied, with a cynical smile,
I don’t think that’s my thing,
I’d rather be buried with it in tact, cause only i would know,
for dear God, the value of my dreams!”

then years passed by,
and reaper came,
to take those whose time
was up,
the man who wished,
to be buried
with his dream,
I imagined,
his lifeless body clutching,
if he could,
his dreams from,
leaving him.

But alas,
if you want to know,
the ending of this poem,
read up now by clicking this link,
and you will know,
the moral of this story,
dreams were meant to be shared.

If you hold too tightly to your dreams and not wish for others to cherish it by giving it away…chances are, someone else, a stranger will pry it from your resting place. True Story :)

to live with a gun to their heads

Inside the Amazon rainforest, Amazonas State, ...

Image by JorgeBRAZIL via Flickr

i ask,
what is it that keeps them going?
when they walk their lives,
having guns to their heads,
each day when they wake up in the morning,
and do their menial routines,
meet friends on the streets,
send their kids off to school,
just like all mortals do,
show love to their wives or husbands,
tend to those who are needy,
to live a life that dream dreams,
make enough to feed their families,
I wonder how they sleep at night,
to have the knowledge that,
at any given moment,
when they least expect it,
the trigger could go off,
at any given moment,
gone just like that,
in just a split second?
and yet no one would care,
because for these folks,
spoke about things of importance,
but not for those in the government,
who care more for paper,
stuff to fill empty pockets,
but whose pockets were empty?
except for those poor and needy.

i ask,
is it worth it?
to lose your life fighting a system,
that seems to keep winning?
make sacrifices to keep forests intact,
only to have people,
running tabs,
paying bounty hunters,
to slaughter your voice becoming,
something of a thorn,
in the side,
of those who live as though they don’t seem to care,
but for them to act in a particular way,
in hating the very utterance of your tone,
guilt must be a constant nagging,
and to silence their conscience from constant reverberating
pay to end it from its continual ringing.

i ask,
is it worth it?
and your voice keeps telling me,
“I’ll keep fighting. It won’t do it to give up.”
but then until when?
“Until awareness is awakened,
and people see,
their worth,
and what they were meant to till for just needs,
become the very conviction,
to kill of this greed,
before it in turn,
pulls the trigger,
to the future,
the lifeblood of all our seeds.”

Note: This poem is inspired by the story of  two environmental activist who were gunned down for their efforts in speaking against deforestation done to Amazon rain forest. I am marveled by their perseverance even in the face of knowing that death awaits them on every corner. Other activists also live in the same condition as if breathing their lives in the constant threat of having a gun to their heads.

monster living

Cloverfield monster

Image via Wikipedia

in all of us,
though we may be full of grace and loving,
hiding and lurking,
is still a monster living.

Note: Though we might think that we’re not as bad as the other person, and we pride ourselves in our potentials and capabilities, we have to acknowledge that we do have a tendency of monstorocity. The short poem above was inspired reading this piece by Peter Rollins.