The tradition of Lei Day started back in the late 1920s because of a guy named Don Blanding. He was a poet who wrote for the Honolulu Star-Bulletin daily newspaper and realized that while everyone else in the world was doing May Day with maypoles and ribbons, Hawaii had something much better to celebrate.

As I grew older and my roots in the Christian faith deepened into Church leadership, I realized that the fleet and the Gospel have been in a long conversation all along.

For a long time, my instinct has been to push hope as a shield against the world. But there comes a point where the gap between a hopeful sermon and a painful reality is just too wide.

I'm looking at the blank pages of a 2026 planner I’m planning to buy and realizing something profound. I have less idea of what the next year holds for me than ever before.

The inquirer we met with today has already shown clear evidence of call through faithful service, pastoral presence, and deep care for community.

I disagree with plenty of Catholic theology—especially on LGBTQ and women’s issues. So why should I care? The answer is simple: Chicago.

This 1991 film about friendship, food, and small-town Alabama perfectly shows the kind of Christian love that shapes my faith, despite its complex background spanning different spiritual traditions through the generations in my family in the far-off Ilocos and Hawaii.

When those sitting at the table come from similar backgrounds and hold similar assumptions, we risk falling back into old patterns.

As the Declaration of Faith reminds us, “We do not know when or how the final redemption of creation will be achieved. But we know that God will win.”

One of the most pivotal turns in my religious life didn’t come from a priest. It came from a section in our AP European History textbook, taught by an atheist, Darlene Pang.

My ancestors were told that their gods, their rituals, their ways of relating to the land were evil—and they were punished for honoring them.