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

Pumping Poetry

Here's something to read till I'm finished with LTAB season.

I was in a very different position when I wrote this piece...I tried my hardest to rhyme EVERYTHING. Sometimes it was successful and other times it wasn't. But I think it correctly captures the agony and struggle that comes when writing, as well as the feeling of "it was worth it" when a piece is finally finished.

So...here we are again
My feet, back on the track
Face pristine like a picture on a kodak
Socks tucked in and bottle in the backpack

I admire myself for one last time
Knowing I will have to leave my past life behind
And be content with a set of new looks
My eyes stare back in lines like a Rook

The conveyer belt twists and turns
I am unaware that I have much to learn
Am I ready to make the leap?
Upon that mill of tread
Made of copy paper and college rules

My feet slam the ground, making no sound
I shut off everything in the background
As I surround myself with Bach’s Concerto in F minor
Hoping that the soliloquy of piano and strings will provide a symphony large enough for me to forget…
The task that lies before me

I think about how I’ll color this blank page
My large disposition gives me ambition to fight
Years of acquiring so many ideas I am finally ready to create rather than to simply watch
I want to burn every last calorie before an overdose busts my arteries
And have thoughts, ideas, and dreams flow in poetic harmony

But how come I can’t just quit?
Why must I burn off several pounds of ideas, all of which I have recently acquired?
Taken from roaming throughout the earth, treading back and forth on its desires
Who cares if I, greedily stuff ideas in my mouth as I am inspired by the words of others?
It is the easy way isn’t it?
To thieve rather than to conceive... a new creation
But listening is good and I don’t want to be misunderstood but we have to do more than copy some phrases, make a clone, and call it our own
We must turn thought into action and remove every distraction as we become the Emerson’s and take our own path
Even if it may be terrifying

Yes, it’s time for me to start
And write this poem
And let the sweat roll off my face
While the words splatter on to the page

I’m pumped up and ready for action
Calmy deflecting any thought of giving up and slowing down
But there is...one more problem
In place of a fallacy, comes one more lie
Like a monster that can’t be controlled,  I’m sold on this idea that writing is easy
That I can run the tri-writeathlon by reading a few books
That I can catch the perfect idea in the pond with only a hook, and not worm
I prepared very poorly for this
This is no cruise control and flat Illinois driving
This is a rocky and thunderous storm and Devil’s Lake hiking
Where each thought competes and fights for top seat
The sum of them are expendable and they all live, die, and repeat
You can’t get too attached to one
You have to let it go, and be done

With pen in hand in hand I’m a flurry of black, blue, and red
Switching the tune of my song I try another draft
Switching my feet and running more, even if my legs are beat
As body meets metal and ink meets page
Circuits course with rage and on this stage

But I must battle through the fatigue
And the obstacles that come racing toward me
Flyin up like Rodan and swooping down like Mothra I breathe fire like Godzilla and let out my roar of terror
This beast called Writing is fighting like a fire-breathing Chimera
Like a Hydra its heads multiply and grow and show no signs of stopping
The words refuse to compose themselves into something agreeable
The drafts won’t change into anything readable
And to turn a career out of this seems unforeseeable
I feel like Jacob wrestling with God
Trying to make my voice heard as I’m thrown into the sod
But I can’t give up give up and cringe at failure’s touch
Though I am trusted with little, I will strive to do much

So as I lap, I see the greats and those who have come before me
Bradbury, Orwell, Vonnegut, and Dickens
They mean to inspire but in truth they are the villains
As I am reminded about how far I am behind them
My soul burns to be acknowledged in a similar way and to have my writing be up there
To flex my muscles and be on the New York Times Bestseller

But to achieve those lofty dreams does not mean to use recurring themes
It means to stay grounded in reality and put in the work, rather than find the easy way out
But look! It’s one week past and I’m finally finished with my rough draft
For a duty that is easier said than done,
My knees ache with pain before the first act is won
As I pour more water into the ocean of liquid on my face, and I begin to lift some weights to continue with phase two
I’m pumpin through lead, ink, and copy paper
As my creative edge dissipates into vapor
And I pray to the one who spun the moon and stars
And I cry: why can’t this be good enough? Why must writing be so hard?

But I persist
Shaking my fist
Despite the risks
Until I push and pull and edit and write
I don’t stop until it all looks right
Smashin through more drafts, breaking down the Idon'tcares, pinching myself with a rubber band, and perfecting the crafts
I lift as the sweat of my ideas pours down like rain and will not stop until I stand unashamed at what I have here

But pain shoots from both legs and radiates like poison and the only option is to continue to write
But maybe...I hear my mind say
Maybe if I stopped this problem would drop
Maybe if I closed up shop...

Maybe...this writing thing isn’t for me anymore
But then to my surprise I find that one line and am comforted by the one above
Who tells me that though this life is hard, the afterlife is better
And it’s better to be a tryhard than a quitter

He told me that it gets better and rather than using my talent for personal gain, and keeping the first fruits for myself like Cain,
I should use it for his kingdom and glorify his work
And on that day he told me the words I told my poem on the day of its birth
Nothing will separate you from me
Never forget your worth

Subtitled Love (Action Movies)

Bang!

Boom!

Go on without me!

Save yourself!

The thin layer of fleece can’t stop the chills that scale up my back

Like a minefield, goose flesh explodes across my skin

Hairs stand at attention and droop slightly, in silent salute

Darth Vader didn’t make it out till the end alive…

Heartbroken, I chew popped maize by the mouthful

Greasy kernels disintegrate by my saliva

I stuff confidence and bravery in my mouth,

Yet as it sloshes down my throat,

I vomit it back, upchucking lament and cowardice

I can’t swallow back my screams

You see, my body is at war with itself

But that’s the price I pay,

When, for 124 minutes, my eyes are glued to an IMAX screen

PG-13 labels allow for restrained carnage, though characters still meet their grisly ends

Bullet-ridden bodies are pumped to the brim with lead, and crimson life trickles down

Body parts are blown off and my ears are too, by defeaning machine gun fire

Metallic cylinders spew like a hose, splotching red drops across torso and chest

Corpses of good plots are abundant on the soaked battlefield, making a cornucopia of parts Dr. Hollywood can use,

Yet despite the rehash of plot lines and special effects, I am swept up by this spectacle

But I never enter these war zones alone,

My grandmother was always at my side

Cheering with me when the protagonist survived,

Uttering a prayer of sadness when the antagonist died,

Clapping profusely when the credits rolled by

But it was in 2013 when I found out the truth,

I saw my grandmother watching a screen filled not with war,

But of drama and romance, subtitled in a language I knew, though the characters on screen spoke a different dialect

Then it struck me: my harmoni did not like action movies

Her past affirmations, covered thickly by her Korean accent, was done out of love

Not knowing English, she sacrificed her favorites, to spend time with me,

Because you don’t need to analyze a bloodbath,

So I have seen how violently she loves me,

Slicing and torturing potatoes to feed me,

Firing up praises to God, shaking the foundations of heaven with explosions of adulation and prayer on my behalf,

She shoots looks of love that pierce through my hardened skin, making me bleed happiness

Yet even after being hit with this fierce, un-spoken love,

I don’t go past a “thank you”

On the quest to bridge the language gap,

I am Tom Cruise, deeming this mission impossible

John McClane letting my monolingual habits die hard

Sylvester Stallone: I’m boxed in my ignorance on this rocky path

But now in 2016, I’ll reclaim the tongue I have cut

죄송합니다

난 배울거야

95th and King + Mellifluous Maledictions (Extended Edition)

I really should have posted this a while back so I apologize. The slam poem piece that I wrote called Mellifluous Maledictions was published in a Chicago State University Literary Magazine entitled 95th and King, the cover of which is shown below.

95th and King Literary Magazine Fall 2015 Vol. 1 Issue 1

It was truly an honor, and I would like to thank Ms. Kelly Norman Ellis and Ms. Concetta Williams, who were the editors of the magazine. I highly urge anyone who is interested to submit a piece of writing to their next edition at 95andking@gmail.com. Be sure to include a cover page with your first and last name, school name and address, grade, home address, telephone number, and email (all as an MS Word document). Since I already posted the poem on Montag's Musings, shown below is an extended edition, with a few more lines of dialogue that I performed at my youth group's open mic. The new parts are bolded. 



In the beginning there was...the word…
Transferred from the waters that stirred to form the seas on the third day,
For when God spoke, darkness broke, the piercing light won the fight over the formless night
Yes, on the day of creation, God saved the world from desolation and rose up the nation, uniting us under one language,
But with the bite of an apple, we built towers of Babel, and began a never ending-battle, with words
No longer “in God we trust” it’s now “all about us” as we wage world wars with our mouths, letting profanities fly out,
And now unlike before, we have become stewards of Gondor,
We refuse to give up the crown of our hearts back to the true king,
We let our ears get swarmed by a storm of music, movies, and TV
And let the Messiah get cut down by this cyclone,
Looks like Kanye West and Jay-Z did a poor job of watching the throne,
The latter leaving us a Blueprint to follow and what path we ought to walk,
Of how to look at women and structure our talk
As we are told to sip the can of pop culture,
And let the sin sizzle in our throats,
Then vomit back caustic phrases
And let those unforgivable curses become our daily source of liberation,

Why swearing and profanity is so shockingly frequent, that it is hard to have a conversation that is decent
And no matter the reasons for people's treasons each word leaves my skin beaten, the curses pierce my side like a lance
And though I take a moral stance hoping that people will snap out of this horrific trance,
I can't leave it up Chance because these problems are just too Common
Intertwining with every 2 phrases like Batman and Robin
Robbin clean words from their mouths, and scarring innocent souls, turning them into Two-Faced criminals
And as Lamar is dropping bars, the curse words shine bright like stars,
Looking notoriously big in an atmosphere of celestial beauty,
How can I strive to be a good kid in this m.A.A.D city?
It seems as the metal-detectors of our mouths don’t realize the deadly weapons that we carry,
As they let f-bombs pass through security
And while the female dogs bark and howl at our dirty mouths,
The soles of our shoes pick up dirt of the ground and our souls become dirtied by the smack of the locker room sounds

But, I’ll be a Rebel and Anomaly, and break free from the Gravity of profanity,
That despite the calamity and abnormality of reality, I will press on to a cleaner mentality,

I refuse to play games with profanity, none of my music has explicit tags
I’ll blast the clean versions loudly, I won’t care if you all get mad…

But people tell me, to grow up
That swearing is simply a natural part of life,
That a few words here and there are alright,
That I am a lone knight, and a flickering light, counting from 0-100 as I fight these fire Drakes

Yet I’ll keep on fighting because I know God will return one day
And when he does, everything will change
All will be different and nothing will be the same
So even if, back to back, I am faced with problems, 
Using my energy I’ll rise up to the challenge even if I started from the bottom
I’ll beat back the world’s flaming arrows, 
With the word of God that pierces flesh, blood, and marrow
But being isolated, I know that my heart can harden like Pharaoh
Daily I must fight to walk the road less traveled and take the path that is narrow, 
So though I am alone, I will accept my differences
I’ll cling to Jesus’ cloak and be healed by his reverence

But I am not doing this for my own glory,
I speak cleanly to glorify the author of my story,
And point back to the first time in Eden,
When no one was eatin’ and God wasn't leaving,
Back to the first day, before the world had stirred
Back to the beginning, when there was just... the word

West Coast Envy (Chicago's Winters)

I said that I would post this when snow first touched the ground here in Chicago. There was that one weird day earlier in November/December where there was snow but soon after it returned to tropical weather. To usher and prepare for Chicago's infamous winter, I wrote this poem (it's set around the holiday season so it is a bit dated). 


Mother Nature, being too ashy from the lack of lotion,

Sheds her skin, epidermal layers flaking off onto the Earth, causing a commotion, down below

As white blankets fall from the sky, covering hibernating vehicles

Screams of anger emit from worker’s lips, cursing the new layer they must clear off

As they cough up steam, taken from midnight closing coffee shops

Canines force their masters to take them on walks, their thick hides providing heat

While crisp air continually cuts caustically into the soft flesh of human meat,

Freezing insides and innards, transforming the outpour of our hearts into a hardened lake,

While thoughts of fatigue and depression ice-skate across the surface

The pavement groans as holes the size of pots crack and waste away at their pristine shine

Peppermint mochas and holiday CDs attempt to cleanse the bitter grime,

The muck and soot piling on the pure sheets of flake

As if bipolar temperatures aren’t enough, Mother Nature believes third time is the charm

Chicagoans get no break from this storm,

The only break we get is when we pump it twice, while skidding across the floor

Just when you think you’ve seen the last snow fall,

A new blizzard is unleashed, and you’re forced to crawl out of bed earlier,

Taking heavy picks and tools, hacking away at the new scales that have surrounded your car

Feeling salty as the boxes of sodium are emptied on streets and driveways, needing to be filled once more

But if only the brackish substances would melt our hearts as well,

For our souls no longer become wells, but leaky faucets

Dripping out a few dashes of compassion, while we start lashing out at the setbacks, this winter causes

That all of sudden, giving your last dollar to the man with the cardboard sign, is not benign

Thinking of your own survival,

As steam fogs up our glasses, we become forget about the masses,

Eyes blind to others, while we try and care for those we know

And while enjoying the company of family is admirably done,

If we rush home to be warmed by food and carols,

But miss the ringing of the Salvation Army bell,

Then winter has truly claimed our hearts,

Rather than letting compassion and love flow delicately, like the never-ending snow

Happy New Year!

I know that this is a day late and I apologize for that. But I wanted to wish everyone a HAPPY NEW YEAR! (y ¡Feliz Año Nuevo!) I cannot believe that 2015 passed by so quickly.

Image credit: http://www.advertisingmn.com/

I recently went on a trip to St. Louis for the Urbana conference, which blessed me in more ways than one. As I give thanks and praise for 2015 and look forward to 2016, I want this upcoming year to be Characterized by Surrender and Defined by Joy. My key verse for this year is Matthew 16:24, which states Then Jesus said to his disciples, "Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me" (NIV). I must deny myself daily and gladly submit myself under God's authority. Rather than try to hold on to this ephemeral world with its fading desires, I want to surrender my life to God and find and trust the true joy that he has in store for me. Though the christian life is filled with risks and struggles, our God is one who will lead us through the storm and shower us with his presence. I pray that this year and for the rest of your life, you all can submit yourself fully to God's authority and realize just how great his plan is.

Some commitments that I want to make this year (not necessarily resolutions) are:

1) Daily, commit my life to God and submit under his authority. I want to begin with this prayer:

Dear God,

Today, I want to submit under your authority. Let your will be done through me today. 

Let me experience the joy of serving you.

Amen. 

2) Daily read God's word. My father has come up with the phrase ROQAM A (to be pronounced Rockem Ay) when it comes to reading. All of these steps are to provide a fuller and richer experience when I do my daily devotions.

R= Read
O=Observation
Q=Question
A=Answer
M=Meaning

A=Analyze


3) Memorize AT LEAST one verse once a week in english, and the same verse in Español.

4) Learn Korean (and maybe German). I will release a poem on my reason for this soon.

At the beginning of 2015, I made a similar list of commitments. It was much longer and I lived only by trying to "do those things." While in the beginning of the year it went well, I eventually began to burn out as the months went on. Before I do anything, I want to first submit to God and have him rule over my life. These other actions should simply be an outpour of what God is already doing in me.