I live a 15 minute drive from Life Care Center in Kirkland, WA, a nursing home where 81 of its 120 residents tested positive for COVID-19 and 35 people died.
I grew up learning that forgiveness was what you should offer someone when they said they were sorry. That it was how Jesus would respond and taught his followers to respond. There was no question that forgiveness was the right thing to do. It was a given.
I loved the film “Monsoon Wedding”. When it came out on video, I rented it for my parents to watch. When the movie was over, they both said they enjoyed it, but my father was troubled by one plot line.
Memories. Voices. Accusations. Family traumas tailed my life, casting shadows of pain and shame. I felt it when my mom raged. I felt it in her gaze of melancholy.
It’s Thanksgiving evening. I’m in the kitchen with my A-ma (grandma), standing over a pot of simmering Taiwanese braised pork belly while also preparing a batch of creamy mashed potatoes, my two identities melding togethe
I grew up with youth pastors preaching about how we should not say “jeez!” or “gosh!” because we were really saying “Jesus Christ!” and “God!” and thereby implicitly taking the Lord’s name in vain. As much as I wanted to honor God, that just seemed frivolous.
To the man who murdered my brother, I don’t expect you to read this right away. In fact, I would suggest that you wait and allow this letter to sit idle for several years until you are ready to hear what I have to say.
I grew up searching for family. When I found it in the corners that I did, they were like filters in a kaleidoscope phasing in and out of this endless placeholder.
This poem on the life of Peter was inspired by the moving final scene of John’s gospel. It is structured as a chiasmus—which, after the Greek letter χ (chi), uses inverted parallelism to highlight key concepts and create interplay between paired stanzas.
The universal Christian family cannot imagine its life and existence without forgiveness. As a force that restores and reconciles different persons and parties, forgiveness is intricately connected with personal as well as communal walks of life.
During the years of American involvement in World War II, from 1941 – 1945, 120,000 persons of Japanese ancestry (called Nikkei) were incarcerated in various remote areas of the U.S. without any due process or regard for constitutional rights.
华文: The Chinese language is like a wound on my soul. It has been the source of countless anxieties, innumerable fears, and a pervasive sense of cultural inauthenticity. It was an inescapable part of my Singaporean education because I was born ethnically Chinese, and Chinese was not a language either of my parents naturally spoke.
Growing up in evangelical churches in Hong Kong and in Los Angeles, I witnessed crisis after crisis of church authority and accountability. When I first became politically radicalized, I remained skeptical of Protestant church structures from a new angle.
Recently, people have asked me, “Why isn’t talking about white privilege enough, why white supremacy?” There is an obvious discomfort with the term by white people. The one exception to that is when things like Charlottesville happen.
I was excommunicated in the same restaurant I had begun catechesis. Over green curry, my Eastern Orthodox priest, his wife (my godmother), and I talked about recent developments in college. “So this protest at chapel … at the college,” he began, gently, the way white folks do.
“Can you please just tell me what you want to do?” I begged my mother via text after a fraught conversation full of broken grammar and malapropisms. “I just like to spend some time and enjoy dinner to celebrate your birthday with you,” she responded.
It’s past midnight in Korea Standard Time on a Tuesday, and I’m up writing with no rush to get up early tomorrow, as I only teach two days of the week. This nocturnal rhythm is quite normal for many English instructors in Seoul.
Do you still insist that churches should not feel compelled to take direct action to shelter the undocumented from the violence of the state? As a minister of the Gospel, how do you justify your defense of the American project over the lives of vulnerable people who, in Howard Thurman’s phrasing, have their backs against the wall?
We drove west through Ohio on I-70 towards Columbus, my dad in the passenger seat and my mom in the backseat trying to sleep, asking if I could turn off the music. The landscape was preternaturally flat, any hint of elevation change smoothed away by prehistoric glaciers. Monochrome fields merged with the horizon. Forests of apocalypse-black trees stood beneath a sky the color of wet newspaper.
In this issue, we have stories of similarity and difference, and the ways that they complicate and complement each other. When we write about our differences, we explore our own particularity, but when we share them, we discover the universal.
On a sweltering hot day in April 2018, Friar Unly Son (Son) was making last-minute preparations to welcome Unly Sat (Tao) and his family to Cambodia. Son was constantly on and off the phone with Tao, trying to determine the approximate time of their crossing from Thailand to Koh Kong, Cambodia.
My parents’ marriage ended along the same timeline as the fall of the Berlin Wall: cracking apart in 1989, formally dismantling around 1990, and all but gone by 1991. While East and West Berliners were celebrating their reunification, my mother and my father mourned their divorce.
Over the last four years, my relationship with my now-husband, Greg, has helped me unearth and identify the differences and lies within my own Asian ethnic identity. I am biracial, Black American, and second-generation Filipina.
There are many stories about Jesus’ miracles: a bleeding woman healed, blind men given sight, the dead raised to life. Coming to faith in a charismatic church, I witnessed similar miracles: I saw someone wheelchair-bound stand up, a blind man receive sight, a couple where the wife had raised the husband from the dead.
Seventeen years ago, 10th grade me walked into my senior pastor’s office. There, I nervously shared with him that I thought God was calling me to be a pastor. I began to cry as Pastor Steve prayed over me.