Bong the Dawn Treader, theological uncle, coffee person, and the man most likely to turn an ordinary photograph into a meditation on God is a Filipino Baptist pastor, theologian, writer, educator, leadership developer, amateur artist, incurable reader, and enthusiastic observer of the world.
He has spent much of his life asking questions: about theology and culture, the church and its mission, leadership and character, sin and grace, suffering and hope, and what it means to follow Jesus faithfully in a complicated world. He has the degrees to prove it—a ThD, an MDiv and further studies at Fuller Theological Seminary. But perhaps the more enduring education has come from simply paying attention.
And Bong pays attention to almost everything.
He pays attention to words, to people, to photographs, to old things, to morning light, to rain, to the way a church tells its story, and to the quiet details most of us pass without noticing. He reads Mary Oliver, Emily Dickinson, Pablo Neruda, Annie Dillard, Frederick Buechner, Eugene Peterson, Henri Nouwen, Brennan Manning, Walter Wangerin Jr., and many others who have wrestled with the great question of what it means to be alive before God. He likes sentences that breathe, ideas that leave room for mystery, and theology that does not have to announce itself loudly to be profound.
This may explain why he has never been able to regard coffee as merely coffee. For Bong, coffee is something closer to a spiritual discipline. Mt. Apo coffee, Bukidnon Excelsa, the V60, the right water temperature, the proper pour—these are not simply preferences but matters deserving of contemplation. Somewhere between brewing and drinking, coffee becomes another way of paying attention: to time, aroma, texture, silence, and the small grace of an ordinary morning.
That fascination with the ordinary may be the thread running through everything. In 2011, during a difficult season in his life, Bong spent time in Pasadena. There were libraries, classes, long walks, solitude, books, and poetry. He later described that season as something like a convalescence of the soul. While some people respond to a personal crisis by buying a motorcycle, Bong apparently discovered Mary Oliver. He began to see that healing sometimes comes quietly—not through dramatic answers, but through learning again how to notice.
Travel taught him something similar.
Johannesburg, Oslo, London, Sweden, Okinawa, Abu Dhabi, Brisbane, Pasadena, Wheaton, Cebu,Bukidnon, Diliman, Mountain Province—each place became more than a destination. He remembers churches: an isolated congregation in Mountain Province where discipleship and church planting flourished despite scarcity; a South African church whose story could not be separated from the wounds of racial struggle; a hilltop church in Okinawa overlooking Naha; Filipino workers worshiping in Abu Dhabi under religious restrictions. At the Baptist World Congress in Brisbane, where he spoke as the only Filipino speaker, he experienced worship across languages and nations as a glimpse of the kingdom to come.
He came home with stories, questions, and, inevitably, thoughts about ecclesiology. That is what Bong does. He turns experience into reflection.
His instinct could probably be summarized simply:Honor the past. Love the present. Secure the future. But simplicity does not come easily to a theologian.
He is deeply interested in what it means to be Filipino and Christian at the same time. Words such as kapwa, malasakit, hiya, pakikisama, and paggalang are not simply cultural curiosities to him. They are invitations to listen—to discover where culture illuminates the Gospel, where it challenges the Gospel, and where the Gospel challenges culture in return. Theology, he believes, does not happen in a vacuum. It happens among people, relationships, histories, families, communities, and the complicated realities of everyday life.
And then there is art.
Bong photographs. He paints. He collects things. He notices the objects people usually overlook: a jeepney horse, an Okinawan tiger, a dala horse, a pumpkin in a museum, an old photograph, a cup of coffee, the light falling across a room. An ordinary object can suddenly become a doorway into memory, beauty, mortality, incarnation, or grace.
This is both his gift and his problem.
Once you start paying attention, ordinary life becomes difficult to leave alone. Rain becomes poetry. Morning becomes prayer. A photograph becomes memory. A house becomes autobiography. A lost painting becomes a meditation on impermanence. Even a dog named Frederick becomes, somehow, part of the theological landscape.
And perhaps Frederick, being blissfully unaware of hermeneutics, has the right idea. Because underneath all the books, degrees, sermons, travels, leadership programs, photographs, coffee experiments, church meetings, and theological questions is something remarkably simple.
Bong wants people to encounter God in the middle of real life.
Not merely in spectacular religious moments, but in grief and loneliness, in failure and aging, in ordinary work and church pews, in kitchens and classrooms, airports and coffee shops, dead ends and new beginnings. He is interested in the God who meets us not after life becomes extraordinary, but right in the middle of its beautiful, bewildering ordinariness. Perhaps God has been hiding in plain sight all along. Perhaps grace rarely arrives with trumpets. Perhaps holiness begins with paying attention. Perhaps resurrection sometimes starts as the smallest movement toward hope. Perhaps the sacred has been leaking through the cracks of ordinary life, and we simply have not been looking closely enough.
This also explains why Bong cares about public faith without wanting faith to become a political weapon. He wants Christians to engage questions of justice, corruption, leadership, responsibility, and society without confusing the Kingdom of God with a political tribe. He wants conviction without cruelty, truth without triumphalism, engagement without captivity. He believes Christians can speak clearly without becoming loud, and that faithfulness is not measured by volume.
After all, the Gospel is too beautiful to remain theoretical,
So he keeps reading. He keeps writing. He keeps preaching. He keeps asking questions. He keeps making things and revising them. He keeps walking with people. He keeps looking at photographs and wondering whether the lighting could be better. He keeps brewing coffee. He keeps trying to understand God.
And he keeps looking for miracles in ordinary places. Maybe that is the most fitting way to describe him—not as a man who has figured everything out, but as someone who has learned to pay attention. To grace. To beauty. To people. To questions.
To the God who is present in the middle of things we might otherwise consider unremarkable. The ordinary has become his field of vision, and perhaps also his theology: that a cup of coffee can become gratitude, a conversation can become ministry, a photograph can become memory, a sermon can become hope, a church can become home, and an ordinary Tuesday morning can become, if we are awake enough to notice it, a small miracle.
And so Anthony P. dela Fuente remains a pastor, theologian, writer, coffee enthusiast, reader, artist, leader, and collector of ordinary miracles—still watching, still wondering, still walking, still asking whether this could be made a little warmer.
And still looking for grace in plain sight.
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