When I was about 7 years old, I remember feeling very distraught as I questioned why houses in the hills were much nicer than the houses on the boulevard. Our home overlooked Echo Park and downtown Los Angeles, and we could hear the roar of a Dodgers game and see fireworks from the stadium on certain occasions.

I’m currently being trained as a Christian social ethicist in a doctoral program. One of the most important lessons I’ve learned so far is that although Christians often assume we “already know” how to discern right from wrong making ethical choices is more complicated than we think.

Our health care system is broken. Few, if any, would disagree, though some might argue the extent of its brokenness.

I recently moved to New York for my first job. For the first time in my life, I am somewhat financially comfortable. Yesterday, a direct deposit into my savings account made me feel independent and safe from having extra money sitting around.

Over 20 years ago, as a freshly minted lawyer at what was then known as the Asian Pacific American Legal Center, I was fortunate to work on a landmark case under the mentorship of Julie Su, representing 80 Thai workers who had been enslaved behind barbed wire in an El Monte sweatshop and forced to sew garments for some of the nation’s leading manufacturers and retailers.

“You know you’ve made it into the Mann family when you start washing Ziploc bags to save some plastic.” I laughed at my brother-in-law as we both stared at the dripping Ziploc bags hanging from the kitchen sink handle.

Facebook recently showed a picture of me as a special education teacher in my very first classroom almost a decade back. When I looked at this image, all I could focus on was all the stuff.

I have vivid memories of Victory Outreach Church while growing up in northeast Spokane, Washington. Although I was not a congregant, the building that Victory Outreach was housed in was unforgettable, primarily because of the murals it featured on the exterior of the building.

Russell Jeung says Chinese people can speak two love languages fluently: food and sacrifice.

"The Reign of God: A Gospel Story" (2017) by Issey Fujishima is a graphic novel that attempts to reclaim the humanity and complexity of Jesus as a person in history. How human was Jesus? How much did he struggle with his calling?

“No one I know is better at getting things done than Rahm Emanuel,” proudly proffered President Obama. Emanuel, former fundraiser-in-chief for Bill Clinton — the pugnacious fixer whose tenacity helped pass the irredeemably carceral 1994 Crime Bill — once pushed his own party to “achieve record deportations of criminal aliens”.

I had no other choice but to grow up in a Korean immigrant church — my dad was the pastor. Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays were church days. Wednesday for the midweek service; Friday for youth group when I was old enough; Saturday for Rainbow School (c’mon Korean church folks, you know what I’m talking about); and Sunday for, you know, church.

The biggest scars we carry in life are not caused by random strangers. They’re given to us by the people we once loved and trusted, the people we allowed to love us. Sometimes these wounds heal. Other times we pick at the scabs and reopen the wound time after time.

“You don’t put a frog in already boiling water because it’ll jump out immediately. Too hot. You put the frog in room temperature water first. Then as the water begins to boil, he’ll wonder why it’s getting so hot. And then, next thing you know, it’s too hot and he’s cooked. That’s how it works with sin. You compromise on the small things and then next thing you know, you’re in hot water not knowing how to get out.”

Working at a church can often strengthen your faith journey. But a lot of times, working at a church is like taking a peek into seeing how sausages are made. As the saying goes, you don’t want to know how the sausage is made because you won’t want to eat it anymore. Working at churches can expose us to the behind-the-scenes of ministry, and at times, the things we discover can never be unseen.

When ancient time shuts tight its rusted doors And fastens keyless lock upon its stair, Beforehand emptying its storied floors Of all who have traversed and mingled there, What din or silence will those halls release As, ushered out into the last frontier, The throng of nations and of centuries On lush eternity’s expanse appears!

I’ve been a monster fanatic for 13 years. Anyone who walks into our living room is bombarded with a large bust of Frankenstein’s monster’s head on the mantel, Frankenstein/Bride of Frankenstein movie posters on the wall, gothic/horror fiction and monster paraphernalia on the bookshelf, and random monster toys on the coffee table.

Our nation has drastically changed since the election of Donald Trump as president of the United States — a change that exemplifies the deep tears within the fabric of our society.

When the raging fires had all burnt down, Jerusalem was not a city anymore, but a graveyard. Where once the great Temple of Yahweh had stood, not one stone was left upon another. The Roman army had shattered the great Jewish revolt and all hopes for Jewish sovereignty were washed away in blood.

Every morning at 5 a.m., my grandmother woke up to pray. Her prayers were modest and reserved entirely for her family. She prayed for her living children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and all their extended family. She whispered over each name as the dawn broke gently into its morning light, giving each one care and attention.

Out of all the characters in the Star Wars universe, Darth Vader was the most complex figure for me to behold. I was a child with frequent asthma attacks, and I unexpectedly resonated with him because his weakness was also his strength. He was completely reliant on his breathing apparatus to survive, yet the raspy sound of his breathing became a portent of doom, inspiring unequivocal fear among his subordinates and enemies alike. When Vader’s mask was removed, the image of his ghostly, scarred face was seared into my memory as a child.

I used to be more hopeful, when I bought into the model minority myth. I believed that things would just work out if I put my head down and tried harder.

Peter and I wait for the train to pass so we can resume recording. We’re in his home studio, tinkering around with a music track. We listen earnestly during playback, discussing mood, affect, and continuity. Months later, Peter and I try to put the pieces together. As we sift through ourselves, what remains clear is the thing itself — a seven-track poetry EP, structured as a sonnet crown, a hybrid word-music exploration of creative worship.

My mother and I never made things easy for one another. But she has come a long way in four years: from her silence and absence at my wedding, to gradual phone calls and a couple holidays. Last year, my wife and I spent Christmas at her home. Our first morning there, my wife and I were headed out for a walk. My mother said she’d drive us to a nearby park. “Don’t walk here,” she said, “Not in my neighborhood.”

I came across this line in the book “The Cultivated Life”, and it moved me. The author described a forest after a wildfire, with trees leveled down to charred stumps and dead branches, and then, suddenly, a green shoot peeks out from the ashes. Yes, some seeds only open up in destruction. But until that flash of color, death is present — acute and chronic pain, grief, desolation.