The Thief I Am (Part 2)

But the other criminal rebuked him. “Don’t you fear God,” he said, “since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." Jesus answered him, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”

Luke 23: 40-43 (NIV)

Here on Calvary, the son of man awaits death,

Crying out to God, he gives his last breath,

The hour grows darker, and while night draws near,

Two men on Golgatha, share their doubts and fears

Be quiet! To you on the left…

Do you not recognize the voice God? Have you gone deaf?

Has fear left you like the blood of your body? 

Do you not fear God? We both deserve to die…yet this man has done nothing wrong.

We were born with our ledgers dirtied, yet he was born perfect,

But due to human anger and sin, he was given an unjust verdict,

Now in a few hours, he will bear humanity's burden,

While you and I complain about the physical pain,

Of the nails that are driven into our hands and our body's bloody stains,

We will be spared the worst agony on this day...

Truly, give me a crucifixion seventy-seven times over,

Take rods and break my face, legs, and shoulders

Flog my skin till the blood vessels burst,

Pierce my skull and shatter my bones; do your worst! 

But such acts are only the genesis of true agony,

You see, this man in center is fully human, yet fully God,

If he wanted to, he could destroy this Earth with just a thought,

Legions of angels would descend from the sky at his beck and call,

We cannot comprehend his glory, it is in hell where we belong...

Yet this man will take the punishment that was our birthright since the garden,

He will become sin and be separated from his father,

For his own ministry, he will become a martyr 

Truly this must be the greatest injustice, to be without sin yet come to this sinful Earth

Yet this is the greatest act of love, to have power, and withhold it 

If you healed your sores, ours would remain open,

If you silenced the mockers, our voices could not reach your Father's ears

If you avoid the grave, you seal our doomed eternity...

So truly you are the one to whom the crowd cried Hosanna!

With your resurrection, you will set the captives free!

Forgive me for not realizing that you are the one true king!

Now, I fear neither death nor sin, for you will take away its sting!

So forgive me Lord, if I could, I would beat my breast and cry…

For in order to save me from my sinful nature, you had to die

A pure unblemished lamb without blemish or blot,

Had to become a wretched sinner and pay the cost

So Jesus, I demand nothing, for simply seeing you will suffice
I just ask that you will remember me...in your kingdom, as you enter in paradise 

The Thief I Am (Part 1)

There was a written notice above him (Jesus), which read: this is the king of the jews. One of the criminals who hung there hurled insults at him: “Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

Luke 23: 38-39 (NIV)

Here on Calvary, the son of man awaits death,

Crying out to God, he gives his last breath,

The hour grows darker, and while night draws near,

Two men on Golgatha, share their doubts and fears

You know, I always wanted to be the center of attention,

To have my name be shouted from the masses in every direction,

I would be elevated above all, and toted as the paragon of perfection

Haha and yet…here I am…

With my dream made true,

Who am I to complain when, with a view up here,

I can stare into a sanguine sea of eyes,

My eardrums beat with their voices demanding my demise,

Though my name is upon every tongue, it is paired with “crucify!”

So I hang...and legs snap like twigs under my weight

I hear the sickening crunch, like enamel against rock,

Yet as my body, a slave to gravity, sinks down,

The cold iron squirms, and wraps itself around a sinew

And strands of muscle hold up my form delicately on this spike,

Which pierces my wrists as I struggle in vein…

Rivers of blood streak across, my mangled body, and gather in puddles where the spear has struck my side

Crimson soaks my vocal chords, and my mouth is a bubbling brook,

Yet no wellspring of life is found here, and my voice can’t get past this red ocean

The wind too bites at me…taking gleeful chunks of this oppressed heat from my face

I am not even granted the mercy of death…

So here I stand, celebrated as a paragon of capital punishment,

Where flogging with scourging are only the genesis of pain,

Where innocent oak has been corrupted to guilty cross,

Where all that is virtuous perishes, and redemption too takes its last breath 

So it ends like this?

With me strung here, name crossed and blotted out of history, alongside another robber and…the King of the Jews?!

Wait…are you the one to whom the crowd cried Hosanna?

The one who is destined to set the captives free?

The one whom the Jews have been hailing as the one true king?

The one who will take away the power of death’s sting?

Are you not the messiah?

Surely you’re the one who is here to strike down the Romans,

So save yourself! And us…

King of the Jews...why don't you cut yourself loose?

The crowds mock your divine power, you have something to prove

Unless all those miracles I heard about weren’t true…

That you’re just a man stirring needless trouble against the Pharisees,

Breaking the law and challenging religious authority

Causing civil unrest throughout the region…

But if you claim to have all this power…why withhold? For what reason?

You are an innocent man, guilty of no treason

Why die an undeserving death?

If I could, I would liberate myself from this wood like you should

This must be the greatest injustice, to have all the power in the world, yet withhold it

You healed lepers yet can’t heal your own sores

You silenced the mockers, yet can’t cut the tongue of this crowd,

You raised Lazarus from the dead, yet can’t stop your own end

Son of man…please do something…

If you still refuse, let death come quickly, I am tired of waiting,

My hands grow tired, the hour is near, and my strength is fading…

Art v Culture: Dawn of Creativity

Does art create a culture, or does culture create art? This was one of the many random questions that popped into my head and rebounded across the walls of my brain as the plane landed with a triumphant thud onto the cracked and rocky air strip in New York. The genesis of this thought would represent the beginning of my trip band's field trip to Carnegie Hall. From March 5th-9th, I would have the opportunity to not only play on stage of the prestigious building, but also explore the city of New York as well. This was my first time ever being in New York City and I eagerly stared outside the window all throughout the flight, voraciously soaking up the faint outlines of icons such as the Statue of Liberty, Times Square, and the Metropolitan Opera. As I took my carry-on and tenor saxophone off the compartment of the plane and waited for the shuttle to take me to my hotel (catching up on episodes of Daredevil as the minutes went by) I tried to immerse myself into the culture of New York City, even within the confines of the airport. The occasional announcements over the intercom would interrupt the constant background noise of cab drivers, elated exclamations between family members, and the barking of dogs. When my cab finally arrived and I stepped outside of the airport, I saw a city that bustled with excitement, bogged down with intermittent bags of trash, and brimmed with edifices that made my eyes lock in a lucid trance with the sky. As the driver raced down the highway (gleefully ignoring the "draconian" speed limit) I saw a culture characterized by overt (and covert) belligerence, centripetal thinking, and artistic appreciation. The street performer made his golden saxophone somehow blend seamlessly with the dreary ambiance of the night, while Times Square's gargantuan screens acted as a surrogate and mechanical sun in a city shrouded in darkness. I was fascinated by the depictions of art and culture that were seen here (and I had only been on the ground of New York for at most 3 hours) and hoped to explore further the answer to my question. 

Faint outline of the Statue of Liberty

In the middle of Times Square

In addition to playing at Carnegie, my band (and orchestra) explored the other sights of New York as well, including the 9/11 Memorial, Metropolitan Opera House, Times Square, Central Park, and even the Jazz Village Vanguard Club. Whether it was the musical School of Rock (my first Broadway show) or the singing waiters and waitresses at Ella’s Stardust Diner, to see the copious amount of ways in which both the layman and the Broadway performer connected and used music in their daily lives fascinated me. In Chicago, there was certainly not an absence of artistic appreciation, but in New York City, I felt as though it was elevated to another level. Street performers, diner singers, Hallal vendors, and Jazz musicians all found their niche of creativity in New York. 

Seeing School of Rock

Top of the Rock View

Along with my fellow jazz band members, I was able to go to the Village Vanguard Jazz Club. It was a in cramped and dark room, yet despite the initially uncomfortable conditions, I felt as though I was a member of an exclusive, prestigious, and privileged group that was able to see these musicians "premiere" their pieces. The club was  was a stark contrast from what I had initially envisioned; I thought that the setting would be much more spacious and bright. Having performed jazz predominantly in a concert setting (whether at UIC, Evanston, New Trier, or even outside in the rain), getting used to a nocturnal atmosphere was a welcome change. At the Village Vanguard, there was much more of a focus on the artists themselves and the intimacy of the “ensemble” feel. Each artist looked as though they were given just the right amount of space; the addition of any other member would have made the stage overcrowded. As I heard the zealous solos of the Tenor Saxophone or the bombastic pounding of percussion, the crowd would gradually increase in energy and intensity. Here I realized the importance of a culture when it comes to art; the uncomfortable setting was purposely done to create an ambiance of intimacy. Even though I am usually I shy person, I found myself gleefully cheering on the players as they performed classic jazz tunes. As the band played the opening notes of Walkin' About (a piece that I am currently playing in Jazz Band), I felt a surge of excitement rush through me as I heard master performers flawlessly execute an incumbent tune. As each Saxophone player (Soprano, Alto, Tenor, and Baritone) took their rounds soloing and adding a new layer of creativity upon the main head of the tune, their artistry poured right back out into the community. Simply put, the art would not have reached its truest form of enjoyment if the culture around it did not exist; because of the culture, I was able to fully enjoy the art (or at least, enjoy it in a more elevated way). 

Image credit: Jazz Times

Yet in the same way, my performance at Carnegie Hall showed how the different expressions of art shaped the culture. Bands from all around the country came to play their pieces, and each piece that was played added to the culture of appreciation and expression. For example, the band from Hawaii represented a more strict and rigid formality; every movement was synchronized and every piece struck the perfect balance between mellifluous harmonies and expeditious tempos. For my band in particular, we focused more on the importance of dynamics; how the increase or decrease of volume gives a physical shape to a sound. Each of these idiosyncrasies created a unique culture within the aesthetics of Carnegie Hall. Certain strengths were emphasized for each band, and though all of us were distinct, the expression of our art created a new culture that the audience was able to participate in. The fact that my band was able to play a commissioned piece (appropriately titled Sitting in the House of a Giant) also provided a unique experience. We were able to premiere a brand new piece of art, and as a result, we helped set the culture and reception the composer wanted. The result was a powerful and riveting tribute to Gunther Schuller, filled with eccentric tempo changes, engaging dynamic contrast, and a cornucopia of personal "Easter Eggs" for audiences to appreciate. 

Whitney M. Young Magnet High School Band and Orchestra at Carnegie Hall

Through this amazing experience, I ultimately learned how musicality can be expressed in different ways. The everyday activities of New York provided a new urbanized soundtrack (albeit much more fast-paced) that I could tune in to everyday if I paid attention closely. Music was not just found in the aesthetically superior hall of Carnegie. Everything from the grilling of comfort food, bellicose honking of car horns, and the energetic night life helped force me to become accustomed to the minute details played in my own music. The members of the band in a sense all represented the diverse group of people that walk on New York’s streets; all are united by the commonality of living in the Big Apple, yet each have their own unique experiences as well. For me, though I played the saxophone, the flutes, oboes, and French Horns all contributed to the grand piece I was playing as well. Going forward, I hope to realize that there does not have to be a battle whether culture creates art or if art creates culture; both can occur at different points in time or at exactly the same moment. I hope to become more accustomed to the world’s sounds, and to strive for the highest level of musicianship. 

A post-script: As my father so cleverly pointed out, I have undermined my credibility by copying the title of a movie that comes out this Friday: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice. I hope that such a egregious error did not drive you away from viewing this post. 

LTAB 2016 Reflections + Can't Read Like Me (Extended Edition)

This year I participated in LTAB (Louder than a Bomb; Chicago's annual youth poetry slam festival), and I had an absolutely FANTASTIC time. Being able to read, share, and listen to poets from all over Chicago and learn their stories was a sobering and eye-opening experience. Personally, I was able to make it all the way to semifinals (something that never happened before!). Overall, I'm so thankful to have the opportunity to participate, and want to thank everyone who helped make this event possible! The piece that I performed is below. The bolded parts are extra/added lines that didn't make the final cut when I was performing.

a mic, a stage, a pen, a page

“The bible is just a book!”
Flipping through its pages, you can tell by one look,
It’s a crutch for preacher and an easy cop-out for the crook,

Armed with ignorance and spite, these skeptics pierce my side,
Sticking spears of false doctrine into my faith, poking fun at the divine,
Out of their doubt, they turn God’s word into a book of fallacies and lies,
They spit at the testaments of their salvation, their insults coat the gospels
They drop back to back diss tracks that leave me feeling meek,
Even if I’m charged up, they drain my energy from me, making me weak
Relishing in their attacks, they whittle my mustard seed faith…I hope I can catch-up

But look at how they read…
Sockets are a hollow, empty abyss
Their eyes scan pages, consuming them like locusts,
They can't conquer this Goliath task of belief because,
Their minds are Noah’s ark sinking in a wave of lies,
Their tongues hiss hate and spell their own demise…It’s really no surprise…
That, when they flip to the end they don't get revelations
They miss the Mark like they only read Matthew, Luke, and John
Clearly their body is present when they read, yet their spirit is withdrawn,
I can't convince them that this is the best book I've ever read because they're so far gone...

So I propose a new Do It Like Me challenge,
No quans will be hit and no cars will be hit
Instead let these living pages flip on their own, going to a verse that the soul needs
Learn to to rely on God’s word every day, to learn to read like me

With my eyes closed, teeth clenched like tighter than sin’s grip
Mouth parted like the Red sea, unleashing a cacophony of praise into the sky,
No, I don’t think you read like I do…
Hands caressing gaunt slices of truth,
Fingers commanding pens more than 10 times where to make their mark and underline,
No, I don’t think you read like I do…
Psalms pull my soul down to the depths of Sheol,
No matter how far I reach to save it, I know I can’t,
Tears stream down my cheeks, like Moses on the River Jordan,
Making a pool of guilt that my fete run across,
Yet my J’s sink, the gravity of my own sin drags me down in one direction,
My mouth tastes brackish sin and I sob as I stare at my own reflection,
because I know that no matter how hard I try, I can never reach perfection
No, I don’t think you read like I do,
Scooping handfuls of scripture on my soul, hoping to fill it knowing I will be satisfied,
That though my soul deserves to be crucified, Jesus took my place,
Now in times of trouble, all I have to do is look upon his face,
I see his word, a buffet piled high, filled with 66 different selections,
It doesn’t matter which one you pick they’ll all point to the same direction
They’ll parch your thirst as each verse packs a spiritual punch,

So as I eat in communion, I invite you to read like I do
I want you to feel Amens break and roll open the tomb of your heart,
The hallelujahs make you soar on the wings of eagles,
Because Ciabatta and Sourdough are no match for heavenly manna,
But I know that I live not on bread alone, but by the words of one who gets bread from stone

So if you are able, give the first fruits of what you have
Even if life is a big fish and you feel like Jonah,
Bear with me and hold on just a little while longer
When the glory comes, be drenched in love, and wade in the water

So please, I invite you, come to this table
Our numbers aren't limited to 12, take a seat, if you are able