From the Desk of Luke T. Bitzkie

Two nights ago, I dreamt that bombs fell on my home. I was with my family when orange light split the sky and rockets came down. In that moment, I made peace that I would die. Maybe I did so because I thought I couldn't cease to be. I woke from that dream to the incessant vibration of my phone. A friend was calling me, who I ignored last time he did. I let it ring. When I didn't answer, he texted me. Our old friend had died less than an hour before. Isn't it odd how dreams border reality? I often see little difference between life’s two dimensions of the body and the spirit. For a time, I understood them as the same. For my fore-bearers, there was only the body. One moment you’re here, the next you’re gone to the grave. I think that’s why we bury bodies instead of spreading ash. It may be a sign of resurrective hope, but I think a part of us doesn’t want to let them go. When I visited my uncle’s grave a couple times ago, I felt a sense of loss. I was home and thought it tim...

One's language holds so much culture. I think that's part of the reason that I love studying languages. I get to see the little intricacies that are contained in the syntactical patterns, or in the words that just don't translate to my native English. It's the way that tenses just don't exist in Biblical Hebrew, or, in Spanish, how pronouns just fall to the wayside. It's the way that everything has a marked place in Koine Greek, and how the dual scripts of Ladino each beautifully portray its prose. But also, it's the way that I miss the language that I never knew. It's how my great-grandma's language was robbed from her by the wars of years past. It's how the German of my foreparents has never graced my lips, and the only way it might is through my attempt at a modern-German recreation. I wonder: what words did they make me forget when my great-grandma had it hidden, stuffed down so deep that it became lost within her bones? What words will I nev...

This week, I finished my tenure as a supply minister in an Oklahoman church. This was a wonderful experience, and the church was filled with the love of Jesus. Oh, how wonderful it was. And, in leaving them, I wanted to leave them with a word that reassured and pushed them in their current direction—a movement towards creating a place where all can belong in their church. I felt that I did as such; they thought so also. I believe it brought a tear to more than one eye. It brought tears to my eyes as well, but I cried not for them... I cried for my siblings who don't believe that all belong in the community of God. I cried for my siblings who say God's community is limited to the straight, cisgender person. I cried for those who believe that queer and trans people must forego their identities to belong in this beloved community that we call the Church. And when I gave communion, my heart broke. While I saw in front of me a congregation of queer and straight people eating and dri...

"It was so confusing. I feel like I wasn't enough to keep him here, you know?" "What would you say to them?" "But, the sparrow still falls." "It will be in the past for the rest of time." "I don't understand... how do people do it? I don't know how." "The concrete is still drying." - I grew up always scared and fascinated by floods. I remember running out of my house and down to the creek to watch as the waters rose from a trickle to a menacing stream. I still have a piece of pavement from the road, in fact. This was when I could watch as water finally reentered my homeland after our long droughts. I couldn't have imagined that one like this would hit my home, though. Children are dead. Parents are dead. Animals are dead. There are still more. Old friends help with rescue efforts. Family helps with clean up. I lay stranded in mind and spirit by the weight of it all. What good is a God that lets a sparrow fall, ...

On this July 4th, I am disillusioned, like so many others in this country. I am disillusioned by the abductions that are happening all around us and right before our eyes. I am disillusioned by the unwillingness of those in power to fight back against such evil, and moreover, I am disillusioned by those who advocate for this evil. I've tried to think of something to write amidst this, perhaps related to this holiday or the faith that I hold so dear. But, nothing I can write today would compare to the Schoenberg's cantata, "A Survivor from Warsaw." So, in this post, I give you the lyrics of his powerful piece. I encourage you to read them along as you listen to it, and I pray that you and I may fully hear him. - I cannot remember everything. I must have been unconscious most of the time. I remember only the grandiose moment when they all started to sing, as if prearranged, the old prayer they had neglected for so many years - the forgotten creed! But I have no recollec...

I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be " home ." Is home the places that we've once lived, or is it the people who've lived there with us? Is it both? Perhaps home something else entirely, something we're always creating as life goes on.  I've no answer to this question, but I've listened to many songs that speak of home. These songs all speak of their artists' own homes. Their musings aren't exact, and they aren't necessarily all full truths. But, they are all singing of some conception of their homes, even if they exist only in their own minds. Here are some of these artists' musings of their own homes, found, as is usual, in the words of country songs: "Deep within' my heart lies a melody, a song of old San Antone; where in dreams I live with a memory, beneath the stars all alone. It was there I found beside the Alamo, enchantment strange as the blue up above; a moonlit path that only she would know, still hears ...

Ride on, ride on in majesty, in lowly pomp ride on to die. Last week, Jesus the Christ rode into Jerusalem—triumphant and humble, riding on a donkey. This was the Prophesied Redeemer, riding into Jerusalem to reclaim it from the hands of the oppressive Romans. But, Jesus did not rid the Romans by militant force or supernatural eviction. Instead, Jesus died. Today, Jesus is dead. He is dead, bled out on a cross with his life gone from behind his eyes. He has stiffened up, excremented, and begun to smell of rot. The mythologized loincloth does nothing to hide the  extent of his injuries, and the spear plunged into his side only confirms. Our Jesus has been murdered at the hands of the state, completely and utterly dead. Today, you may hear a preacher proclaim that "Christ is not dead forever!" But, beloved, do not be fooled. This proclamation is but a falsity. Our Jesus died on the cross. What foolishness it is to have hope when our Jesus has died. Today is a day of sorrow, not...

" I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug. " I had been undergoing a health struggle for a prolonged period. I had navigated multiple doctors and doctors' offices, and after long and excruciating three months, I had finally found my way to a specialist. I was relieved but still weary as I sat waiting to be seen. I had traveled to another city in the hope that she could help me, potentially even cure me. But, what if she couldn't help? What if I was to be stuck like this? Precisely on-time, the doctor entered the room. She introduced herself, examined me, and we talked for a while. We discussed diagnoses, treatments, and the like. She listened to me, as a patient, and I listened to her, as a medical provider. And, as the appointment was concluding, I found myself feeling a slight tremor of hope within my soul. Perhaps, I could be cured. ...

This month, I had the opportunity to meet and interview Evangelist Patsy Barnes – a native of McGregor, Texas, and a Christian minister who is no stranger to giving a powerful word. But, in this conversation, Mrs. Barnes did not preach from a pulpit or a stage. Instead, she spoke from her living room couch, recounting her childhood memories of McGregor's school integration in 1965. We talked for nearly two hours. I hung on every word, yet by the time we neared the two-hour mark, it felt as if only thirty minutes had passed. Mrs. Barnes shared stories of her upbringing in McGregor, her experiences with segregation, life in her church, her pastor, and the profound influence of Christianity and the biblical texts on her life. She offered no shortage of wisdom, and I – her interviewer – was deeply grateful for every word she shared. I conducted this interview with two primary goals. First, I sought to uncover McGregor's history concerning segregation from the perspective of East Mc...

One of my favorite things that Paw and I would do together was ride in his white Chevy pickup. The long rides down to Uncle JJ’s farm, the short rides home from middle school football practice, and every time that we rode down East Bear Springs Road together. He seemed to love to give up his time to drive me around, long before I could drive myself. That was my Paw, and that’s where I spent the best time with him – riding in his pickup truck. My favorite memory with Paw was doing just that. We were driving down East Bear Springs, and we were crossing the creek where the road dipped down. I don’t remember where we were going, or why. I just remember that we were together, me and Paw. “Coca-Cola Cowboy” by Mel Tillis was the song on the radio. I don’t exactly remember if he or I started singing first, probably me, but by the time that the road dipped down, we were both singing that song, together , me and Paw. I’ll always cherish that moment we had, singing along to a song. A so...

A CEO was murdered. The police launched a manhunt and caught the assassin. A mom was denied medicine for her child. The child died. So it goes. A girl opened fire in a school. She killed two, wounded six. Ms. Barbara's kindergarteners go to school in the morning. So it goes. A bomb was dropped on tents. A family went in five directions. We go to the movies tonight. Perhaps we'll get popcorn. So it goes. A police cruiser speeds down the highway. The mother is dying. "Look at the pretty lights," the boy says. He sees a Christmas tree. So it goes. A man cries in the driver's seat. He was abused. "I need you," she says. He kisses her. This cycles. So it goes. "$X,000," says the politician. Those dinners could feed families. "At least he's liberal," says the starving mother. So it goes. The car was burning metal. "It's to remind me of home," he says. Bethlehem was bombed. So it goes. He played there. 19 dead. His brothers...

To my fellow young ministers, In leading the German people towards a perpetration of genocide, Adolf Hitler execrably stated that "the personification of the Devil, as the symbol of all evil, assumes the living appearance of the Jew." Written a decade-and-a-half before the Shoah, these words (and many like them) sparked an ideological mobilization among the German people that led to the systematic murder of over six million Jewish people. This was the birth of a genocide - not the killing of the first beloved child, but the authoring of these hateful words by an ideological leader. Today, more than ever since, words like these are promulgated by such leaders. In our context, these words are spewed by a despot not unlike the leader of the Third Reich, whose words of hate have reached all parts of the popular American consciousness. Just as the speeches of Adolf Hitler rang across the German nation, so too have his speeches of hate slashed at the consciouses of all Americans. B...

 Recently, I was reminded of the story of Hatuey, a chief of the indigenous Taíno people in the 1500s. Struck by its power, I wanted to share his story with you. I will offer no commentary or evaluation, but rather, I will allow you to reflect upon this story yourself. I hope it impacts you as profoundly as it’s beginning to with me. -- "Taíno chief Hatuey... was from the island that later became Hispaniola. After actively opposing the Spanish colonizer’s cruelty against the Indigenous inhabitants, Hatuey organized 400 men who traveled by canoe to Cuba[. They aimed] to warn the inhabitants there and urge their resistance to the Spaniard colonizers’ genocidal cruelty. After fighting guerrilla-style against the Spaniards, Hatuey was captured on February 2, 1512 and burned at the stake." [1] The historian Bartolomé de las Casas wrote this account of Chief Hatuey's execution: "[A] Franciscan monk, a holy man, who was there, spoke as much as he could to [Chief Hatuey], in...

I told her that "you can't recreate a moment."  This phrase had been on my mind for a while - the idea that specific moments in time cannot be recreated, that such snapshots of one's life cannot be relived. When I said this to her, I acknowledged that life's moments are unique and that people are always growing and changing. We were discussing the preceding weeks that we spent growing in friendship, and though these moments were fun, simple, and seemingly right, the moments we experienced were unique to the time they happened. So, when I told her that "you can't recreate a moment," I knew the moments of the last few weeks to now be past. -- I remember driving back from swimming at the river, the doors off of the jeep and the wind blowing all around. I was alone, but fulfilled, having just finished swimming with my buddies for hours on end. The speedometer may have been broken, but it didn't matter how fast I was going. I was exactly where I wante...

No music touches me quite like Gospel music.  When I sit down at my piano in the dark hours of the night, I can't help but play the opening notes of Brother Wilbur's favorite gospel tune. Upon hearing the B-flat drop a tone, I am transported to a praise service with all the saints of South Oak Cliff. I hear the heavenly declarations of Sister Saundra's beautiful voice, the artful licks of Brother Anthony's alto sax, and perfectly timed hits as Dee plays the drums. I hear all of this while enveloped in the heavenly choir that is the community around us - the grandparents long-weathered in church tradition, the adults praising for the first time, and the stray children playing with their friends in the back. I smell the freshly cooked meal that sits still-upon the serving tables, and I watch as folks continue to pour in from the open porch outside. Though it may seem to the onlooker that I am alone at my piano, I am surrounded by a memory of ecclesial community and the pr...

The history of the Western world is one tainted by the ever-presumed existence of violence. From the ancient conquests of fourth-century Hellenism to the twentieth-century development of nuclear warheads, violence has been endemic in the existence of the Western world. This violence has existed perpetually in a variety of forms, from horizontal chaos and relational violence to the state-executed killing of condemned individuals. However, the latter is endemic to the West in a specific way – it lies at the center of its central religion. In this ethical study, I will explore the relationship between the religion of Christianity and the existence of state-mandated capital punishment. Specifically, I will engage in careful study of conceptions/depictions of salvation in both (1) capital punishment at the behest of the state and (2) historical soteriological understandings of the death of Jesus Christ. Through this, I aim to demonstrate the inextricable relationship that exists between th...

I remember the first time that I encountered "self-immolation." I was in high school, studying in an empty science lab for a test, when I came across a picture that was forever imprinted on my mind. The picture was of a man sitting cross-legged and meditating silently, but he was completely engulfed in flames. Initially, I didn't understand that at which I was looking. I couldn't process the picture in front of me. I was filled with shock. What led to this horror? Why was he burning? Did he do this himself? What would bring him to do such a thing? These questions rattled my mind; I was unable to understand this harrowing photograph, this paradoxical burning. What forces could ignite such action? On June 11, 1963, Thích Quảng Đức self-immolated in Saigon, South Vietnam. [1] An elderly Vietnamese Buddhist monk, Quảng Đức lit himself on fire to protest the persecution of Buddhists in South Vietnam by the Diệm regime.[2] Under the then-current regime of Ngô Đình Diệm, Bu...

Like Augustus McCrae, I'm partial to the evenings. I love to sit, relax, and watch as the sun trails its way to the horizon. Sometimes, I imagine my dad and grandpa in the chairs around me, talking about the weather as we wait for the beer-can chicken to finally be done. To these evenings, I am quite partial. These evenings are my safe space, my refuge from the world around me – the world around us. Yet, as I sit in the escape of these simple evenings, I know that I must soon return to the world, like my father and his father before him. I've come to realize these evenings don't last forever. The sun sets every night. Reflecting on these evenings, I have realized what an escape they truly are. Though they let me escape the rat race and exist without consequence, they are only a temporary release from the chaotic reality of the world. My evenings are only a speck of peace in the universe's conflict. My escape seems to be nothing more than a willful ignorance of the world...