Manuel Luz

Trying To Avoid That Rob Bell Thing.

Manuel Luz — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 22:53:05 -0700

I've been thinking a lot lately about the evangelical theological constructs that surround me. I’ve had some really great conversations lately with a number of deep-thinking people, so I end up floating around these things. Without going into many details, I have begun to recognize more and more the differences between what I believe and experience, and the conceptual models that attempt to explain what it is I believe and experience.

For example, what do I really believe about me, in contrast to what do I see as the conceptual models that attempt to explain me?

The “Four Spiritual Laws” tries to explain me this way: God loves me, but because of my sin, I had separated myself from that love. I am fundamentally a sinner, separating me from Him with an unfathomable gulf which cannot be bridged by my own efforts.

Now I do believe this to be true. Except that fundamentally, I don’t think that’s how God sees me.

God sees me as imago dei, a person lovingly created in His Image. I am an expression of God’s existence and likeness, and His love for and benevolence toward mankind. My creativity, passion, intellect, sentience, and free will point to the reality of God’s existence in the universe, which in itself also points to Him. That is who I am fundamentally. The sin part is the part I added on later.

This is a subtle but immensely important difference. Jesus did not come to fix, but to restore. He is putting it back to where it was intended to be.

Here’s another example. The book of Mark says, “Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved.” (Mark 16:16) But the word “believe” sometimes means something different in the evangelical construct.

“Believe” should mean living a life in increasing measure under the reign and rule of a loving God. But sometimes, in the modernity-driven, evangelical construct, “believe” means assenting to a set of belief statements. American evangelicalism, in particular, has inadvertently defined Christianity as the conviction to a set of doctrinal beliefs rather than as a lifestyle of surrender to Jesus. And as such, faith (and even who gets to go to heaven or hell) can then be measured according to the rightness of one’s system, instead of than how and for whom you live your life.

Yes, I’m trying very hard not to refer to the firestorm concerning “Rob Bell,” one way or the other. And no, I don’t have any desire to give you whatever incomplete and uninformed opinions I might have on the subject either. But I do think that it is a shame if our doctrine gets in the way of following Jesus.

One thing I will share. I think that we fool ourselves when we think we can fully explain all that God has done and will do for us. So as I see these differences between what I believe and experience, and the conceptual models that attempt to explain what it is I believe and experience, I find myself more and more comfortable with the idea of mystery.

Yes, we can know—beyond simple “belief”—many things revealed. And we should be intelligent and thoughtful about such things. But for the many, many more things we know not, I am simply more willing to embrace the mystery of it all.

I think that’s the smartest thing anyone can do.

Rethinking Christina Aguilera and the Star Spangled Banner

Manuel Luz — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 21:09:02 -0800

Wow. It seems like everyone these days has an opinion on Christina Aguilera and her now infamous rendition of the National Anthem. Radio talk jocks and internet bloggers, patriots and politicos, grandpas and pre-teens, professional athletes and armchair quarterbacks—there is no lack of spin coming from all directions.

Now, if you're looking for a blog slamming Aguilera for her performance, this ain't it. It is true that I am neither a fan of pop divas (except maybe for Aretha Franklin), nor of the lifestyles they seemingly represent. I do know that Aguilera is an extremely talented vocalist (her performance on Herbie Hancock's album, Possibilities, still knocks my socks off). But if you know me or read my blog, you know that I will occasionally rant against culture but purposefully not rant against people.

Instead, I'd like to offer a Christian response to all of the stuff coming out lately. It is, as they say: IMHO.

One of the main criticisms of Aguilera's performance is her flubbing the words to the Star Spangled Banner. What she did, forgetting a line and garbling another, seems inexcusable. But have you ever tried it? I mean, in front of people? Before a big game? How about before one hundred million people? It is a lot harder than it looks. Personally, I have only performed the National Anthem once, and I made sure I had the words in front of me—just in case. In truth, all of us have felt the nerves of being in public, and erred during speeches or performances some time in our lives. If her only real sin was "getting so lost in the moment" and forgetting a few words, then we really ought to cut her some slack, shouldn't we? That is what grace is all about.

Others criticize her for stylizing the song beyond recognition. She reached for the lows, stretched for the highs, added a few gospel growls, and even threw in a falsetto jump on "freeeeee!" I think I counted eight notes just on the word, "night." Yes, her rendition is overstylized. But here's the thing: She's Christina Aguilera! That's her schtick! If they didn't want that, they shouldn't have booked her. My point here is that—although I too felt that she should have reined it back—she was simply being her flamboyant herself.

So I don't fault her the actual performance. But if anyone should take exception at all, it should be because of this..

The National Anthem means something much greater than the person who sings it. By it's very nature, it has gravitas. Penned during a battle, sung during every Independence Day, Olympic victory, and war, there is almost a sacredness to it. This is why we stand at attention and put our hands over our hearts when it is played. It represents two centuries of freedom, and honors the people who paid a price for it.

It is like leading worship. A worship leader must never draw undue attention to him or herself, for that person is merely the conduit upon which some greater and mysterious Truth is revealed and reverentially recognized. God then becomes the rightful object of our worship. And as the worship leader is simply a representative of our commonality of faith, his or her job is to simply point people to the Throne.

I think this is really the shame of it all. Any person who sings the Star Spangled Banner is simply a representative of our commonality of country. Their rendition of the National Anthem, while reflecting their uniqueness, must never try to supercede that which the song represents.

As a society, we seem to have forgotten this. Through our cultural culpability, we have allowed an entire generation of people to see the National Anthem as simply a showcase for singers. That is, until Christine Aguilera glaringly pointed this out on Super Bowl Sunday. And on this point, we are all to some degree guilty.

As a means of closing out my point, I'd like to leave you with the absolute best rendition of Star Spangled Banner I've ever heard. Watch it all the way to the end. Enjoy.

"That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."

Manuel Luz — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 12:51:27 -0800

One of the best things about Christmas—and this is just my personal opinion—is being able to play the music of Vince Guaraldi. For those who don’t know, Guaraldi is the iconic jazz pianist and composer whose work flavors “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” In fact, the music is so integral to the story that one cannot hear his music without thinking of Snoopy dancing his weird little happy dance.

Over the month of December, I’ve been sneaking in different Guaraldi interpretations into every gig—at a solo piano restaurant gig, the corporate Christmas party I gigged last week with my trio, the recent TV appearance I did with Bob Kilpatrick, and even Christmas Eve services at my church. I love the quirky chord changes and sparse voicings and joyous feel to the music. And I also love how children’s faces light up when I begin the “Linus and Lucy” theme. His music has been covered by several notable artists, including George Winston, David Benoit, and my friend and jazz recording artist, Jim Martinez.

When I was a kid, I didn’t want to be Beethoven. I wanted to be Schroeder.

If you think about it, the use of a jazz trio to soundtrack a children’s Christmas special is peculiar, to say the least. The story of the making of “A Charlie Brown Christmas” is apparently immersed in such anomalous decisions—foregoing a laugh track, using real children to voice the characters, the over-arching theme which rails against the commercialism of Christmas, and especially the climax of the film, which is Linus’ famous soliloquy of the King James version of the Gospel of Luke. But at the same time, one cannot deny that this award-winning special has become a part of the very fabric of our culture every December.

I think this is a good word for those of us who seek to have integrity with our faith and our art. In an era of Frosty and Rudolph and Santa, creator and cartoonist Charles Schulz was unwavering in his insistence that the story of Christmas be told. And he used the small, delightful world of Peanuts to point us back to the mystery and awe that is the Christmas story.

I encourage you to take about five minutes and view this last scene again. And as you do so, be in awe of the Truth that lay in the words of a blanket-dragging, philosophizing, cartoon character. Merry Christmas everyone: A Charlie Brown Christmas.

Art and the 10,000 Hour Rule

Manuel Luz — Thu, 09 Dec 2010 20:11:03 -0800

Best-selling author Malcolm Gladwell wrote a book a few years ago called, Outliers: The Story of Success, which is, in his words, about “men and women who, for one reason or another, are so accomplished and so extraordinary and so outside of ordinary experience that they are as puzzling to the rest of us as a cold day in August.” In the book, he looks at a wide variety of people and occupations, from airline pilots to entrepreneurs to hockey players to software engineers, and identifies and examines the attributes of success. Beyond talent and intelligence and ability, many of the characteristics of success include things largely outside of our control, things like “culture and community and family and generation.”

I was fascinated by one startling point he makes. The uncommonly successful person has spent at least 10,000 hours honing one’s skills. He argues that the 10,000 Hour Rule applies universally—tennis prodigies, chess champions, scientists, classical musicians, and successful business entrepreneurs all share the trait.

Of course, it wasn’t long until I started doing the math of my own life. I started playing the piano when I was almost 5, and worked my way through a half dozen piano teachers until I was 13: ~1400 modest hours. Played clarinet in school bands and was introduced to student conducting, in addition to some amateur songwriting and playing piano and keyboards, so to age 16: ~3,500 hours. Played coffee houses and other gigs, began performing with bands, and learned the craft of studio recording, so to age 21: ~4,900 hours. Given I had a day job as an aerospace engineer, I still played steadily in bands (fusion, rock, church, originals), taught myself to play jazz piano bar, began recording independent projects in a demo studio, took classes and conferences and read books, and I did a whole mess of songwriting, so by age 29: ~9,600 hours. And if I were honest with myself, I still wasn’t all that good of a musician.

So I probably hit the 10,000 Hour Rule around age 30, the same time I entered into full-time vocational ministry. And in retrospect, that was the period of my life when I actually started to get pretty good at what I did. I was recording some of the best music of my life, was leading worship bands at church as well as my own band, was arranging and songwriting and gigging some big gigs. And also—probably not coincidentally—I think that was about the time in my life when I began to understand that I didn’t have to prove anything anymore.

Gladwell cites the Beatles who as a group honed their skill and sound by playing over 1,200 gigs in Hamburg nightclubs between 1960 and 1964. By the time they had been “discovered,” they had amassed over 10,000 hours focusing their talents, honing their skills, characterizing their unique sound, and forging their group identity—and the musical world was never the same.

I think about the many artists I know—musicians, painters, filmmakers, dancers, actors, writers—and the price they must pay in order to be good at what they are passionate about. I think about the aspiring 22 year old songwriter who just released his first CD, the young 24 year old aspiring filmmaker who is wondering whether he should quit his day job, the 30-something worship leader who just wrote his first book, the 18 year old vocalist who is trying to figure out whether to major in music, the 50 year old mom who fell in love with the cello and is seriously taking lessons. And while I believe Gladwell is right in asserting that much of success is beyond our control, one of the things that is in our control is dedication to our craft.

In a celebrity-driven world where auto-tune and Justin Beibers exist, work ethic seems a quaint notion at times. But we do have an obligation to steward that which God gives us. And that includes the talents given to us as artists. In other words: Do The Math.

“From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded, and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.” Luke 12:48 NIV

Rethinking "Celebrity"

Manuel Luz — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 10:38:41 -0800

I mentioned in a previous blog about the pursuit of fame and fortune that drove me in my younger days. In what I now refer to as “my rock and roll dream,” the long-term plan was to work as an engineer by day and a musician by night, writing and recording my material while getting exposure and experience in the local club scene. It would only be a matter of time until I would record the killer demo, move down to LA, recruit some monster musicians, and launch my career. From there, it would simply be a short limo trip to fame and fortune.

Of course, that didn’t happen, for a lot of reasons—talent, marketability, maturity, circumstance, and the Small Still Voice that invited me into a better way of life.

I look back at the me who once was, and I see a guy who was driven by internal needs he was not in touch with—affirmation, acceptance, expression, love. So much of what I did then was to gain the favor of people. I wanted people to like me, accept me, approve of me, love me. And I mistakenly thought that fame would bring these things into my life.

I think this is normal, though ultimately unhealthy. I meet young people all the time whose healthy desire to express the arts are aimed squarely at the unhealthy goal of fame and fortune. Often I find myself biting my tongue, wishing that they could understand now what only time and experience can teach them.

For myself, I gradually came to realize that there were really only a handful of people in the entire world for whom their opinion really mattered to me—my parents, my wife, my closest friends. The accolades of everyone else—especially those I didn’t know—could never replace the unconditional love of those who were already in my life, and who already had given me that love. So I was really striving for nothing.

I say this because some of you know that my son has begun a modeling career. He is signed with Wilhelmina Models, and is currently in Singapore modeling for a variety of customers. While his career is still in the fledgling stage, he’s already slated for the cover of Men's Health Magazine (Singapore edition), some runway work for Gucci, and he did a photo shoot with Lea Michele (Rachel on Glee), among other sillier things (auditions for Old Navy, Target, etc.).

The other day, in a moment of introspection, he emailed me this observation: “I’m beginning to realize more and more that modeling, and even ‘celebrity-ism,’ are for those who have no real friends or loved ones.” And while that statement is a little too absolute, I think I understand what he’s trying to say, and beginning to understand. Our motivations for fame and fortune are driven by the deepest of our human needs—to simply be loved without condition.

Of course, as followers of Jesus Christ, we understand that this human need is only truly fulfilled through our relationship with our Triune God. We ultimately desire the affirmation and approval of our Abba Father, the friendship and Lordship of Jesus, and the intimacy of the Holy Spirit. We deeply need to be in community with others and with God. That’s just how God made us.

I’m truly proud of my son. Not just because he is finding success in the things he is striving for, but more so because of the person he is becoming in the process. And I think that’s the point.

[Note: Photo of me with Axl Rose compliments of faceinhole.com.]

Letting Go Of The Fear

Manuel Luz — Fri, 29 Oct 2010 16:48:42 -0700

Think of the word “artist” and several images come to mind. A goateed man with a beret and a paint brush. A red-mouthed diva in a glittering gown. An aging rock star with a rider that includes green M&M’s and Evian bottled water. The word implies a lot of things. Talent, excellence, and a level of achievement reserved for people with record contracts or whose work hangs in museums. But also weirdness, eccentricity, capriciousness, and ego.

The word “artist” seems to be an intimidating word for many, and I find a lot of people reluctant to apply it to themselves. In short, the word carries a lot of baggage.

I’ve been speaking to a number of people lately who are trying on the word, “artist.” In various venues, I’ve been talking to people who are exploring what it is to be made in the image of God, the Master Artist who painted the stars, sculpted the planets, formed our beings. And if it is true that we were made to be creative—to build and explore and express and make art—how does that affect the way we see ourselves? Can we use the word “artist” to describe the human condition? Can you use the word to describe you?

One of the recurring themes that keeps popping up in discussions has to do with fear. It comes in many forms, degrees, and flavors, but I think we all have it. Artists crave the approval of others. From the shyest artist to the most egotistical, we all seem to desire the approval of an audience through our work. Our art is such a personal expression of ourselves that we wrongly attach the approval of our art to the approval of ourselves. If they like my song, my painting, my film, then they must like me. And if they hate it, then they hate me. And we all fear the rejection.

There are a lot of layers here. Some seek to compensate for a lack of approval from their families of origin or some other place. Some carry scars that create a low self-esteem, which they hide behind their art. Some carry huge egos about themselves, choosing to believe that they are more than they are, but really it is a defense mechanism for the low self-worth they desperately avoid seeing in themselves. Some hide behind the idea that they don’t want to compromise their art, or that they are simply misunderstood, or that it isn’t mainstream, or that the art just isn’t good enough. And they stand on these excuses to justify never allowing their art to be expressed publicly. Some never really allow their art to be seen because they are afraid—afraid of criticism, afraid of rejection, afraid of being known.

And here is what happens. Artists allow their fear to control their expression. But it doesn’t have to be this way.

The journey of the artist who follows Christ should be one in which we courageously strip ourselves from all of these layers, these lies. We must strip away the paralyzing need for approval, the wrong self-perceptions, the elaborate defense mechanisms we create for ourselves, the pride which is fueled by false identity, and most of all, the fear. Because to be an “artist” before God is to simply express the fact that we are His children made in the Imago Dei, the image of the Artist God.

“For those who are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God. The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, ‘Abba Father.’” Romans 9:14-15 TNIV

Yes, it is easier said than done. But the journey toward wholeness in Christ is ultimately the easy yoke we are called to wear. We really are God’s children, dearly beloved, sons and daughters of our Abba Father. To understand that—and to deeply know that only his unconditional and unwavering approval is what matters—is what it is to live and express our art with true freedom, without fear.

Ministry Burnout

Manuel Luz — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 00:47:50 -0700

He came into the meeting a little late, hair tousled, his typical gravelly voice apologizing with a sincere smile. A group of local worship pastors and leaders had gathered at the regular spot, a trendy cafe off the beaten path, for our monthly fellowship. We welcomed him to our circle.

We were tossing around small talk and funny anecdotes when he spoke up. "You know," he began, "It's gotten to the point where I've planned eighteen Christmas Eve services." He paused momentarily. "And one day, I came into the office and realized that I couldn't do nineteen."

I remember just sitting there in the awkwardness of that moment, not knowing what to say, sipping my coffee, feeling his pain. You see, we'd all been there, far too many times. Anyone who is in ministry knows this feeling.

He had all the classic signs of ministry burnout. Emotional jet lag. A spiritual dryness. A loss of vision, replaced by a quiet cynicism and a half-hearted sense of duty. A pain deeply held, but not entirely understood. I knew what this feels like. I've been there.

According to one study, there are many reasons for stress and burnout in ministry:

"Recent research is unanimous in citing the following problem areas: the disparity between (somewhat idealistic) expectations and hard reality; lack of clearly defined boundaries—tasks are never done; workaholism; the Peter Principle—feeling of incompetence in leading an army of volunteers; conflict in being a leader and servant at the same time; intangibility—how do I know I'm getting somewhere?; confusion of role identity with self image—pastors derive too much self-esteem from what they do; time management problems; paucity of 'perks'; multiplicity of roles; inability to produce 'win-win' conflict resolutions; difficulty in managing interruptions; the 'little adult' syndrome (Dittes)—clergy are too serious, they have difficulty being spontaneous; preoccupation with 'playing it safe' to avoid enraging powerful parishioners; 'administration overload'—too much energy expended in areas of low reward; loneliness—the pastor is less likely to have a close friend than any other person in the community."

That's a lot of stuff to take in. For those of you who are experiencing ministry fatigue, I offer five small encouragements.

Remember to breathe. We need to take care of our whole selves, feeding our spirits through spiritual disciplines and other acts of surrender, our souls with fellowship with others and God, and our bodies with appropriate exercise and healthy food. Also, as intense as Jesus' earthly ministry was, He always prioritized rest. Daily and weekly periods of rest as well as extended retreats were a part of His ministry time. Rest allows us to physically restore our bodies and to spiritually reset the compass of our hearts.

Remember to laugh. Funny how we forget this one. My church actually has "contagious fun" as one of our stated values, and for good reason: "We believe it is an act of faith in God to risk delight in a world which is often cold and cruel." Having fun reminds us that taking our faith in God seriously also means not taking ourselves too seriously. So make sure you enjoy the journey—with family, friends, co-workers, and always in light of God's sovereign and joyful presence.

Remember your calling. There was a reason why you went into ministry to begin with. Something more than it simply being a good idea. It certainly wasn't for the money! For me, it was a Small Still Voice quietly but undeniably moving me to surrender a professional career for a vision of ministry I could not ignore. And every day, I remind myself that the smallest thing I do that has eternal consequences is better than the largest thing I could do that is temporal.

Remember who you are. One of the things I am learning to do is how to be completely passionate for a particular thing, while being unattached to the results of that thing. The reason is because we (men especially) mistakenly attach our identities to what we do. So if we do well, we must be okay. And if we don't do well, we must be trash. This is a dangerous way to think, because when one lives in "performance mode," you're bound to burn out at some point. But think about how life would be different if you could truly and fully derive your self-identity solely as a child of God, His dearly beloved. We can be passionate about doing God's work, but feel the freedom to allow God the success or failure.

Remember how to keep score. Many of us have this mistaken notion that we can somehow impress God. So we try to build a bigger congregation, a larger church building, a greater ministry, those things which point to success in ministry. But at the end of days, God won't say to us, "Well done, good and successful servant." He will say, "Well done, good and faithful servant." God will not reward us according to the numbers we so often use as metrics for ministry success. He will reward us according to our faithfulness to the calling He gave us.

My wife and I recently celebrated twenty years of full-time vocational ministry. Twenty years ago, we decided to leave a lucrative and promising career in aerospace to work for a small neighborhood church in Folsom, California. The highs have been sky high, and the lows have been bottom-of-the-ocean low. But we're still here. And right now, another twenty years is looking pretty good.

"I don't care, what you wear down there..."

Manuel Luz — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 08:05:11 -0700

It's no secret that in my younger days, I wanted to be a rock star. It was simple, really. I would compose cutting-edge but timeless music, with relevant but flippant lyrics, creative but mindless dance grooves, and inventive but totally catchy hooks. And rock and roll babes would flock to me, asking for my autograph, tugging at my leather pants, undressing me with their eyes, but loving me for my mind.

Actually, I was never that naive. But I was close.

You see, the greatest part of my naivete was not that I thought it was easy, nor that I thought I was good enough. It was that I didn't realize how vain and fruitless the quest for fame is.

This striving toward celebrity is embedded in many of us artists, isn't it? When we are brutally honest with ourselves—and some of us may not have the emotional quotient to understand ourselves with that degree of authenticity—we find that our drive can come from unhealthy places. The pride which bubbles beneath the surface of our public image; the inflated self-image that we are cooler, more talented, more deserving than we really are. Or the poor self-image that drives us to posture and pretend, forever comparing ourselves with others and coming up short; the insecurities that drive us to succeed so that we might break the chains of our self-perceptions. Then there is the unstated and untrue belief that fame will somehow bring us happiness and love and acceptance. Ultimately, the things that drive us to want celebrity may often be found in a complex web of lies such as these.

I’ve met young people who have completely devoted their adult lives to the pursuit of that elusive record contract. And I ask them, Why are you an artist? If you never got a contract, would you still be an artist? Would you still sing or play or write songs? And I always hope the answer is “yes,” because I know that the lifestyle associated with touring and being on contract is a difficult one. It is easy to forget why you are doing it to begin with. And it is harder if you never even know.

Now success is not a bad thing. And striving toward a goal, or toward excellence, or toward success aren't bad things either. But the striving toward celebrity—which is something I now know I was motivated by in unhealthy and hidden ways—is quite another thing altogether.

"All is vanity and striving after wind." Ecclesiastes 1:14 NASB

In my younger days, one of the people I respected and emulated was Tim Heintz. Tim is a composer/arranger, producer, keyboardist, and recording artist—and does all of these things amazingly well. He's toured extensively with Chaka Khan, Michael McDonald, Boz Scaggs, and John Tesh, to name a few. When I knew him, he was a successful working LA musician, beginning to make his mark on the emerging smooth jazz genre. I met him through his older brother, Stan, who was a Pat Metheny-esque guitarist I played with in a fusion band called Freefall in the early 1980s.

Recently I reconnected with him on Facebook. And I had to laugh when he posted this hilarious video of a commercial recording session for Fruit of the Loom underwear. Go ahead. Click on it now. I'll wait.

I love this video, because it points out a variety of things to me. One, it really displays the power of good music to move the human soul...even when we're talking about underwear! Two, the video reminds me that success and accomplishment in music don't necessarily mean a life of paparazzi glamour and celebrity. And finally, the video reminds me that it's important as artists to take our craft and our faith seriously, while not taking ourselves too seriously.

After all, God doesn't care what you wear down there. But He does care about who we are, and who we are becoming.

[Note: I encourage you to check out Tim's Website as well as his non-profit organization, Be The Salt, which is a community who want to spread the love of God through helping others in this world. It really is quite interesting and inspiring.]

The Importance of Writing Stuff Down

Manuel Luz — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 14:49:33 -0700

It is less a contrast than it is a similarity. Two men, both highly educated Jews, both bold and passionate preachers of the message of the Gospel, both leaders in the first century Church. Paul and Apollos were both used by God to build His Kingdom in the precarious, turbulent infancy of the Christian faith. But only one of these men still has a ministry today. Indeed, Paul’s contribution to the New Testament is central to our understanding of the Gospel.

Why is Paul’s influence greater than that of Apollos? Spiritual calling aside, there seems a simple reason: He Wrote Stuff Down.

I’m a big Writer of Stuff. I have To-Do lists, archives of song lyrics, sermons and speeches, unpublished books and written meanderings. According to the stats counter, my personal blog site just hit 100 blog entries last week. I even have an archive of carefully documented calendars that stretches back to my freshman year in college, which I can’t bear to throw out. What if I suddenly need to know what I did during the summer of 1984?

Paul’s writings, obviously, have a more influential gravitas. But the point is, his passion and understanding of the heart and mind of Christ were documented in a way that move us two thousand years later. And we cannot say the same of Apollos, an Alexandrian Jew and bishop of the Corinthian church, who’s fingerprint on the first century church is no less deep.

I share this in part because I know there are a lot of frustrated writers out there. People hitting me up to find out how to get this Thing they’ve written published. And while I might be a helpful encouragement and a catalyst to them, the main thing I tell them is to just to keep writing. Not everyone is called to be a “published author” (whatever that means these days). That’s not the point of writing. Your audience may be only a hundred or a dozen or your spouse. In my experience, the act of writing is a creative and cathartic act that you do because you must do it. And of course, there is the vertical component—God is the audience for everything we do.

About fifteen years ago, after a decade of gentle but constant prodding, my father began work on his memoirs. He is among the first generation of Filipino American immigrants, and arrived in the US as a teenager, prior to the Great Depression. Poor but educated, his story is one of unsettling desperation, human perseverance, life-threatening bigotry, surprising romance, personal triumph. I know this in large part because he took the time to write his story. My cousins and I got together and self-published his modest book, Five Dollars in Change, and we’ve shared it with family and friends who were all grateful for the amazing stories previously untold.

Recently, I stumbled upon the semi-autobiographical novel of Filipino writer, Carlos Bulosan, entitled America is in the Heart. Moving, heartbreaking, revealing, it is The Grapes of Wrath for the Filipino American. As I read his account of life in the 1930s, I realized that Bulosan’s life mirrored my father’s in so many ways, from the incessant prejudice he experienced, to the overwhelming hopelessness felt by his people, to the enduring belief in his ideals. I realized that his book and my father’s dovetailed in many ways. It should be required reading for any Filipino American living today.

Dad passed away almost ten years ago now. And I am eternally grateful to him for many things. But one of his enduring legacies that I can pass down to my children and to their children is the story of his life. Ultimately, his book will help us understand him, and in the process, help us understand ourselves.

And all because he Wrote Stuff Down.

The Songs That Define Us

Manuel Luz — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 17:59:07 -0700

Our twin girls, Rachel and Paige, just started Middle School, and in the course of this last summer, they seem to have transformed before our eyes. As one would expect, there is a sudden hyper-heightened awareness to the things of their age, like appearance, style, clothing, friendships, pop culture. And music.

It is one of our new family rituals now, that they would usurp control over the car radio during trips, commutes, and even errand running. Step one: Slip into the back seat, talking non-stop. Step 2: Flip from sports talk radio (my default setting) to the local pop station. Step 3: Turn up nine decibels. Rihanna, Shontelle, Pink, and Lady Gaga suddenly invade my Ford Explorer, and I find myself feeling really old, as I internally resist the urge to yell, "get off my lawn," in a graveled raspy voice, and pop in a Steely Dan CD.

This is the way it has been for generations, I believe. We define ourselves, in part, by the music we listen to.

I remember discovering AM radio when I was a very young boy, and listening to the borrowed records my big brother smuggled home on the living room stereo. I remember my first day as a freshman in college, discovering the campus, listening to the amazing diversity of music emanating from each dorm room: Emerson Lake and Palmer, Bob Marley, Chick Corea, Fleetwood Mac, Toto, Zeppelin. Having grown up with a fairly mainstream musical vocabulary, experiencing this new smorgasbord of eclectic styles was mind-blowing. I remember getting a boom box for my birthday one year, and loading it up with as many cassettes as I could get my hands on.

And I remember welcoming these songs, making room for them in my cramped dorm room, ushering them into my life, as if they were old and trusted friends.

I placed these songs deep in my subconscious, next to the nursery rhymes I learned as a toddler and the classical music I practiced as a kid. And like you—I am sure—whenever I hear them again, they evoke a memory, an emotion, a psychoacoustic response. Such is the power of music.

Maybe it is more true to say that, for young people trying to sort out the essence of themselves, music becomes a canvas upon which they paint the lines and forms and colors of their portraits. Because in truth, I didn't like all of these songs at first. I probably hated some of them. But they became a part of me, and my memories, nonetheless. The music we listen to becomes the soundtrack of the movie that is us.

Occasionally now, I'll be driving the twins around town with one of their friends—radio blaring some diva-led, auto-tuned, drum-machine driven pop tune—and bopping in the back seat, all three of them will spontaneously start singing along. And in those moments, I will momentarily picture them in the future. They're older of course, maybe in their thirties or forties, driving their children around town in an alternative-fuel powered flying car. And without warning, this same song will come on the radio.

And they'll smile a big smile.

What song from your past elicits a memory, emotion, or other response? What songs have defined you? Please blog me back. I want to know...