I told my partner one morning that despite going to bed early and sleeping in, I was still exhausted. We chalked it up to my recent responsibilities emceeing a conference, but upon closer examination of my calendar, we came to a different conclusion.

New York City is one of those places where you never know what you’re going to find. During my time as a graduate student, browsing through old antique shops became a hobby of mine. I often felt like a child on a treasure hunt searching for hidden gems on bookshelves.

In July 2015, after graduating from Lewis & Clark College with a degree in religious studies, I decided to become a resident at a Zen Buddhist temple in Kyoto, Japan. I wanted to experience first-hand what Zen Buddhism was about.

I became Eastern Catholic because I was a bad intellectual. And I wanted to become a better one. I did not know that my intellect was in such bad shape until I finished my doctorate. Professionally, I have a Ph.D. in geography. My dissertation is on Cantonese-speaking Protestants and how they engage with politics and social issues.

Two pastors whom I trusted decided to leave my church five years ago, and I found myself caught in the crossfire between two groups that formed in the fallout of their decision — my beloved church and a house of prayer — that separately asserted they were truly following God.

I’m a freshman church planter. But New Abbey, our small congregation, is not your typical church plant. Every Sunday, we follow a liturgy: We read texts from a lectionary, corporately confess our sins, hear words of assurance, recite the Apostles’ Creed, partake in communion (which has a formalized order), and pass the peace.

“Oh my God. I feel so white.” My white friend said this to me during a break at a disastrous anti-racism training at my seminary. I looked at her, incredulous and wondering what exactly I was to do with the information she just presented to me.

Two years ago, after 14 years as a college professor, I took some time to reflect on the highs and lows of my career thus far, and how to build on some hard learned lessons.

Recently, I had the chance to officiate my friends’ wedding in Havana, Cuba. Those gathered came from numerous traditions: Catholic, Protestant, Buddhist, Jewish, atheist, Santería, Yoruba.

As a child, I often rubbed the paper texture of the dry cracker during communion and wondered if such a thing really represented Jesus’s body. Maybe it was the wafer’s ability to create a satisfying “kurrrch” sound as I cracked it — maybe this was what brokenness sounded like, a reminder of Jesus’s broken body and sacrifice before a rushed prayer of thanksgiving and repentance.

There I was at the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, in the underground room traditionally considered the very place where Jesus was born.

I used to rarely voice my opinions. As a 1.5 generation Korean American, my identity formation called for me to be ambidextrous: one hand learning through written and spoken English in American society, and the other hand learning through unspoken and unwritten means in Korean environments, absorbed through (in)attentive observation and time spent in a Korean home and in Korean immigrant churches.

I eagerly returned to my alma mater, Fuller Theological Seminary, in May of 2017. I arrived early, thankful that the light rail prevented me from having to seek out parking.

I am not very good with structure. Perhaps it is a subtle resistance against the Confucian emphasis on order, but my preference for spontaneity started young and it did not bode well for my spiritual health as assessed by churches that prioritized spiritual disciplines.

I anxiously fidget as I sit cross-legged on the floor of my church, Ekko. Soft background music is playing to create an ambiance of peace and mindfulness in the room. I begin to indulge in my nasty habit of picking at my brittle nails as my thoughts run rampant with all of the ways this could go wrong.

Prayer has always been a focus of my personal relationship with God and my discipleship. So much so, that as a ministry, I have spent the better part of my life helping people pray. In addition, as a created being, my own creativity has most directly been expressed in the visual arts. Being an iconographer brings the streams of prayer and painting together for me.

Tu Shan’s silent desperation began to take its toll. As housing costs in the San Francisco Bay Area skyrocketed, he feared that he and his wife would no longer be able to afford to live there.

The obelisk of General Robert E. Lee represents more than just a memorial; it represents the lingering presence of white supremacy in America. It represents the power structures that the Confederate Army was fighting for. Racial superiority based on genealogy. Racism normalized.

I’ve been through many airports throughout my life — the result of life as a missionary’s kid with a perpetual restlessness to find home. In each place I’ve been to or lived in — Kazakhstan, India, Moldova, Cambodia, Mexico — I’ve tasted a bit of home.

She was a Nobody, a woman of little or no face. We don’t know her name, just a Woman of the City, a Sinner — of probably sexual sin because women who lie or are envious aren’t called sinners in the same way.

“Lion”, starring Dev Patel, is a film that chronicles the journey of Saroo, an Indian adoptee who seeks out his biological family 25 years after he is adopted.

Serious business is being discussed around the conference table at San Francisco’s Chinatown Community Development Center. Chinatown finds itself at the frontlines of a heated gentrification battle. Crime is rising. So are evictions.

I had done my fair share of activism in college and post-graduation, but never quite long enough to see actual change on an institutional level. On paper, JoAnne Kagiwada had an impressive roster that placed her in the history books, and I was readying myself to meet a force of nature in this small-framed, Japanese American grandmother.

“What are you doing with your life? Why are you always throwing away your life for other people?” It was my first time home in over a year; apparently, my mother was not very happy with my decision to become more involved in activism around the Seattle area.

When the clip of Professor Robert E. Kelley’s interview with BBC News went viral, several of my Filipino friends and I feared that the Asian woman in the background might be a Filipina, one of the countless women who had left their families to care for the children of wealthy families in other countries.