27 New Years

I don't suppose 27 count for a lot when it comes to the number of New Years I've seen.

As 2013 draws to a close, I'm taken back to a few of the more memorable New Years I've celebrated.

There was the one in 2000. Dad worked in the heart of the city (Orchard Rd) at the time. As building manager, he was on-call in case things fell apart with the Y2K bug that everyone seemed to be paranoid about. So Dad drove my brother and I, together with our closest friends at the time, to and from town so we could countdown with the revellers while he was at work.

Then there were the several watch-night services at the Church of God congregation in Singapore that I grew up in. Us youth always looked forward to that time, not so much because it was the watch-night service, but because we got to hang out together at church till the wee hours of the morning.

Then there were the ones where my family started travelling together more over the Christmas/New Year season. Some of the traditions that we used to celebrate with our church family were no longer observed. The times were a-changin'.

I remember the New Years we celebrated in China (2009), Cambodia (2010) and Auckland (2012) best.

China has always been special because of my deep appreciation for our cultural roots, and that being the first place I felt like I was called to serve. To be there with family, tracing our roots to my grandfather's village made it extra special.

Cambodia was special because in all the flurry of activities in our week there, when the clock struck midnight in Cambodia, my siblings and I were like little kids again, running out to the balcony to watch the fireworks.

Auckland was special because this was my new home, and I got to share it with my family for the first time.

And as I sit here quietly taking in the last few minutes of 2013 here in Auckland, I realise it's true that the older you get, what you value changes. The hustle and bustle and flurry of activities don't matter as much as simply sitting with family and the good people in your life, and giving thanks for making it through another year.

To each one of you that have cheered me on and pushed me forward through an unkind year, thank you.
To each one of you that have carried me without expecting anything in return, thank you.
To each one of you that have put up with my crap, instability and lack of consistency this year, thank you.

And finally, and most importantly, to the God of grace, love and faithfulness, I give praise for not giving up on me this year.

Dear 2013, I won't deny that I have been looking forward to this day where I can finally pack you away in the history books. You have been most unkind, and I'm more than ready to say our goodbyes. But as I do, I want to say thank you as well, that in your unkindness, you taught me to love myself better. Goodbye now.

Here's to 2014. Here's to hope, peace, faith, joy and love.
Here's to you.
Cheers, mate.

Arohanui

Christmas Eve on the Road to Bethlehem

It was a day like any other day.

For months now, she had been preparing for this

Ever since the pronouncement came

She had made room in her home and her heart

She had sat in wonder of what life would be like

I have traveled many moonless nights

Cold and weary with a babe inside

It was a day like any other day.

For months now, she had been preparing for this

Ever since the pronouncement came

She had wondered, Why her

She had thought, Was it honour, or was it shame

And I wonder what I've done

Holy Father, You have come

And chosen me now to carry Your Son

It was a day like any other day.

For months now, she had been preparing for this

Ever since the pronouncement came

She had struggled with the uncertainty

She had wondered if it had been sheer craziness

I am waiting in a silent prayer

I am frightened by the load I bear

It was a day like any other day.

For months now, she had been preparing for this

Ever since the pronouncement came

She had found judgment in the eyes of those that didn't understand

She had also found patience in the ones that loved her

In a world as cold as stone

Must I walk this path alone?

Be with me now, be with me now

Breath of Heaven, hold me together

Be forever near me, Breath of Heaven

Breath of Heaven, lighten my darkness

Pour over me Your holiness for You are holy

Breath of Heaven

It was a day like any other day.

For months now, she had been waiting for this

Ever since she chose to be a part of The Plan

And now she chose to obey the law of the land

And now she chose to take the road to Bethlehem

Do you wonder as you watch my face

If a wiser one should have had my place?

It was a day like any other day.

For months now, she had been waiting for this

Ever since she chose to be a part of The Plan

And now she chose to continue on the dusty roads

And now she chose to wander further into the unknown

But I offer all I am

For the mercy of Your plan

Help me be strong, help me

Breath of Heaven, hold me together

Be forever near me, Breath of Heaven

Breath of Heaven, lighten my darkness

Pour over me Your holiness for You are holy

Breath of Heaven

It was a day like any other day.

Or was it?

My "What If" Life

I was Skyping with Emily this morning and she brought up this thing about the "What If" life. You know, "what if" life could be different? "What if" we hadn't been called to ministry?

I've often wondered about that question too, particularly on days where... Oh, you know, the task of raising $30,000 for immigration seems daunting.


I imagine I likely wouldn't have gone to Anderson University. I would have stayed in Singapore and finished a degree in history because of the influence of the two history teachers I had that taught me to love history.

I imagine this thing called "grad school" or seminary, or getting a Master's degree wouldn't have crossed my mind. I would have gone straight to becoming a history teacher with a passion for war history and the social injustices the people suffered during those war times.

I imagine instead of going to Berlin for an urban ministry internship, I would have gone for a study abroad in, say, Vienna. I've always loved classical music, particularly the way the arts reflect what is going on in the world.

I imagine after all that, I'll settle comfortably into a teaching job and retire as a history teacher some 40-50 years down the road with a healthy amount of savings and a safe amount of retirement in my CPF (Singapore's equivalent to social security).

I imagine instead of travelling between Singapore and the States during my vacation times to visit "family" and fundraise, I'd be taking short weekend trips to various cheap holiday destinations around south east Asia to eat, shop and go to spas.

I imagine I wouldn't be going to a therapist or medicating for depression.

I would be able to leave work at work and not feel the weight of my vocation 24/7.
I would have a steady pay-check and not worry about justifying that I've done enough to warrant asking others to sacrifice a bit of their paycheck so I could also eat and pay bills. And I wouldn't have to worry that I don't have any savings or retirement.
I would have my own little place to live in and accumulate memories rather than live out of boxes and suitcases half the time, waiting for the next time I move halfway across the world again.

But I also imagine that this deep sense of peace and hope I have now would be replaced by an emptiness whose "what if"s included, "What if I really was created for something more?"

Because as so many others have shared with me, if we could do anything else with our lives instead of ministry and be happy, we would have. Yet I'm called to a vocation of building communities that offer hope to places of brokenness, and a safe space for those wandering. And in my own struggle for peace, hope, and an identity that is stripped from cultural and national ties, I find joy in being able to walk those journeys with others, particularly in knowing that this is what I'm created to be.

And I wouldn't trade any of this for the "What If" life.

Stories From The Bridge Part #1 - Christmas at a Ministry House

I first met Nesta about a week ago when Janice, Kathrin and I went to open a new bank account for the National Ministries of the Church of God.

With his, "cool, cool..." and his "sweet as," he sounded as Kiwi as the next bloke on the street. Then today, I found out he's still pretty nervous about his English, albeit less than he was 5 years ago when he first arrived in New Zealand for university. He credits the vast improvement in his language skills to a woman (who just so happened to also be from Singapore!) who was a part of a ministry house community that offered English Bible studies amongst other avenues where he had the opportunity to practise English.

When I told him that if my visa got approved, I would be running a similar ministry house, he said that was definitely needed. "Most students are here by themselves. Thankfully, my dad travelled with me from China and I had an uncle here to help support me. But it can still be lonely. And the people I stayed with in that house, we became really good friends and could help support each other."

When asked if he had plans for Christmas, he said he would have wanted to travel back to China. During his last trip home, he began to realise he needed to be able to make more trips home as he was the only child (thanks to China's one-child policy). But since he only had 2 days off from work, it has become tradition to return to the house he lived in for the last 5 years for their Christmas "family" celebration.


Nesta is only one of many international students in Auckland who was significantly supported by a ministry house. Through the ministry of The Bridge, we hope that we will be able to reach more students. Will you consider supporting our ministry?

Within the US, funds can be sent to:
Global Missions
PO Box 2420
Anderson, IN 46018
(Project number: 42.40411)

In Singapore, contact me or my mum for the account number to transfer funds.

Anywhere else, send us an e-mail at thebridge.akl@gmail.com for bank account information.

Ta muchly. We appreciate you.

The Bridge: The Love's Hangover Connection

I first met Emily my freshman year at Anderson University. She was in high school at the time, but her sister, Irene, was starting college the same year as me. We had gotten connected because her mum was also the office assistant for the international students association, and Emily often spent the time when she wasn’t at school hanging out in the office.

Somewhere between her freshman year at AU (my sophomore year) and my stint in Berlin, we stopped talking. I honestly didn’t even realize it had happened since I had been too self-absorbed in trying to finish college in 3 years to pay attention to the people around me.

Anyhow, the years passed and around the time I was preparing for Berlin, she got in touch and wanted to know if there was anything she and Irene could do to help get me there. One of the first things she said was, “You need to explain this Germany thing to me because you’re not the shove-Bible-down-people’s-throats missionary type, so why are you going, and what will you be doing?”

As I began to explain the ministry of XZBerlin, she said without hesitation that she and Irene were on-board to help fundraise. They had been running a handmade jewelry business for a while by then. As Emily would explain, Love’s Hangover had started as a hobby, but before long there were beads exploding all over their home. Since the beads got kicked out of their family home, they enlisted the help of their brother, Dennis, as their financial advisor, and rented a shop space in Noblesville, Indiana.

As their hobby expanded into a full-time business, Emily began to realize there was potential for Love’s Hangover to help sponsor other charitable organisations and ministry opportunities around the world—which was why she got in touch when she found out I was headed for Berlin. That was the real beginning of our friendship. “Business” conversations aside, she also asked questions about Keren’s death from a spiritual perspective that few others understood. She had also started working closely with one of my former roommates, Daria to start up other projects around the world. As we spent more time together, we often reminisced about our days as international students (Daria is from Poland; Emily and Irene’s family had emigrated from Kenya), and all the times spent with Scott and Anjie Martin who had become like our international mum and dad.

In the time that passed since Berlin, Emily and Love’s Hangover have been an incredible support for all the crazy stuff I’ve taken on around the world. Their business has exploded and taken them all over the US where they have even dressed Hollywood celebrities. Yet Emily still takes the time for small gigs like hosting tea and jewelry parties to help fundraise for The Bridge, for which I’m eternally grateful. I get to give back a little bit once in a while by sending over NZ-style beads and accessories, and generating publicity for them through fundraising projects and other ministry contacts like church craft fairs.

The friendship with Emily and Love’s Hangover has been a big inspiration for the ministry of The Bridge. If not for Scott and Anjie opening their home as a hang-out spot for us as international students, I don’t know that Emily and I would have much to talk about today or still be in contact, much less working together to impact the Kingdom around the world.

Part of what we hope to achieve through The Bridge is that students will be able to develop relationships that they can take with them past graduation, the same way that Emily and Love’s Hangover has been for me. Will you, your church or missions committee consider partnering with us? In time to come, we will be rolling out additional avenues for partnership, but our top priority at this point is fundraising. While we hope to eventually reach a point of self-sustainability, we are needing a start-up fund that will help get the word out about The Bridge and also sponsor my visa application. We are still working through the process through which funds can be received for The Bridge, but we would love to hear from you if you are able to help make this happen, whether through a one-time gift, a pledged donation, or hosting a jewelry and tea party through Love’s Hangover.**

Asante sana
Arohanui

** Limited to areas within reasonable driving distance from Noblesville, Indiana unless you're able to help cover transport costs.

Ministry Update: An Introduction to "The Bridge"

Dear friends,

Two years ago, you journeyed with me to Auckland, New Zealand where I had the opportunity to serve alongside Westside Christian Fellowship (WCF), the Church of God congregation here. It has been two great years of celebrations and struggles; in all, an incredible learning experience I would not have traded for the world. I am thankful for God’s faithfulness and your friendship that has sustained me. As the year draws to a close, my term with WCF will also be concluding. I am excited to share with you about a new ministry that will be starting next year.

The Bridge, Auckland
The Bridge is a collaborative project between the National Ministries of the Church of God, New Zealand and other local organizations in the heart of downtown Auckland. The ministry focuses on developing relationships with international students at Auckland University of Technology (AUT) that will provide foundation for spiritual growth that can be sustained after graduation.

While this ministry has come together in a form and timing I had least expected, that the pieces have fallen into place has only confirmed that God’s hand has been at work weaving it all together. My personal experience as an international student at Anderson University (AU) makes the ministry of The Bridge close to home for me. What helped me flourish as an undergraduate at AU was the presence of the International Students Association, directed by Scott Martin. Scott and Anjie’s home was always open to us as a hang-out spot for game nights, (soccer) World Cups and Superbowls. It was a safe space to be homesick, and to tell stories and make food from our home cultures. Our desire is for The Bridge to provide a similar space for students at AUT.

Partners
Currently, there are on-going conversations with other local organizations to create partnerships that will support each other as we recognize that this ministry cannot exist by itself. International Students Ministries of New Zealand (ISMNZ) is a chaplaincy programme that serves international university students in New Zealand. They offer English as a Second Language (ESL) activities for students who want to brush up on language skills, as well as Bible Study groups that focus on discipleship and evangelism. We are exploring ways to work together to offer a greater variety of resources for students.

Through my current role at WCF, I also have had the opportunity to develop relationships with the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand (WMCNZ). Rev. Dr. Richard Waugh (national superintendent) and Rev. Amber Livermore (national youth consultant) have played key roles in the brainstorming process for The Bridge. While they have a vibrant national youth ministry at the moment, there is concern that we will lose the youth as they graduate from high school and enter university. We are hopeful that The Bridge can become a safe space for them to explore questions of faith and spirituality.

We are also hoping to partner with local churches to provide “adopt-a-student” schemes and other similar programmes. We currently have the support of WCF and The NZ Journey Community, a ministry led by Rev. Janice Spearritt (ordained minister of the Church of God), and will continue conversations with other congregations in the area to create a network of churches that we can point students to.

And we want you on board as well. Here are some ways you can partner with us:
Begin praying

• Pray for the students that we will be interacting with. Even if they are still in high school at the moment, begin praying that our interactions with them will bring spiritual fruit.
• Pray that we will find an affordable space that can serve both as a ministry house and housing for me.
• Pray for the ministry partners who will come on board, that we may all be able to build relationships with students that will support them along their journey.
• Pray that we will be able to jump through all the hoops to get The Bridge officially recognized as a religious charity organization locally.

Financial gifts
New Zealand immigration and charities commission require that we have evidence of USD$30,000 per year for The Bridge to be registered as an organisation that can sponsor my visa. This amount will cover my living expenses as well as underwrite ministry costs. Will you, your church and/or missions committee consider partnering with The Bridge in this way? Information on where you can send funds will be available soon. · 

The less-conventional ways
Part of the vision of The Bridge is to become a network of resources. In the coming weeks, we will be creating a web presence on Facebook, Twitter (follow @BridgeAKL) and the official The Bridge website. Consider partnering with us through offering resources such as sharing devotional thoughts, event/party ideas, recipes or anything you think a university student might need.

And we hope you will stay in touch. We would love to share stories of what is happening here, and be kept informed of how we might be able to support you as well.

Thank you once again for your friendship and all the different ways you have partnered with the Church of God in New Zealand. We are better when we are together.

Arohanui

The Bridge: Why Me??

Towards the end of my senior year at Anderson University, Ann Smith invited me over for tea one afternoon. If you've not met Ann Smith, she's like the female mix of Gandalf, Dumbledore and Obi-Wan Kenobi, except at least twice as personable, and even more awesome. To say I was awestruck to have tea with her would be an understatement.

But Ann simply wanted to hear my heart. She wanted to know what I would be doing after graduation and how she could pray. At the time, I was concluding a ministry internship where church politics had worn me out, and all I wanted to do was to find a 1-2 year assignment working cross-culturally somewhere before returning to Anderson for seminary. I don't remember how the conversation started, but I found myself telling her about a frustrating conversation I had with God my freshman year.

It was a few weeks into our first semester. Even though the only common language between the three of us were English, I found myself acting as a translator of sorts between a friend from Hong Kong and another from South Korea. It was a classic case of translating bad English to bad English--something I must have mastered growing up in the land of Singlish (another form of bad English mixed with at least two Chinese dialects, Malay and some bits of Tamil). One night, as I was laughing at the ridiculousness of my translator role, I felt this prompting to consider living in China as a missionary after graduation. I remembered thinking God must be crazy. Why would I have had to move halfway across the world only to move back the other way? Wouldn't it have been much shorter if I had simply gone from Singapore to China?

Nothing made sense at the time, but as the years passed, I began to realise if I wouldn't even consider saying yes to moving to China, I wouldn't have been willing to consider moving anywhere. China was slightly more familiar than any other part of the world would have been. It was also the stepping stone for my parents to consider the possibility that I wasn't going to move back to Singapore for a while. It was a lot easier for my dad, a traditional Chinaman, to give his daughter his blessings if she were to move to the "motherland" where our ancestors came from, than to some potato-eating (as opposed to rice-eating) part of the world.

As I shared this part of my story to Ann, she simply smiled and said, "You know, my first call to missions was also to China. To this day, I have lived in Japan and South Korea, but still have not made it to mainland China. I don't know what God is doing with that, but I know there is a reason I'm still passionate about China."

Six years have passed since I graduated from AU. Save from a trip to Canton Province (廣東 or Guang Dong province) in 2009 where our family went to trace our ancestral roots on my dad's side, there still are no signs of me ever moving to China. Instead, I find myself at a cafe in New Zealand, writing this post about why I'm going to help start a ministry to international students in Auckland--most of whom are students who have recently moved here from China for university.

I guess God has a really warped sense of humour.

The Bridge: Foundations

About a year ago, I was asked to help out at a kids' camp. It was a busy time of year at WCF, but because I knew I still had a lot to learn about children's ministry and this would be a good learning opportunity, I decided I would go.

During the camp, Paul, who was one of the directors of the camp, asked if I would share my testimony one night. And so I did. I wrote about it after coming back from camp because it gave me a lot to think about.

On the final day of camp, Paul asked if I could give a ride home to one of the camp leaders and the other camp director, Gwen. As it turned out Gwen's flatmate at the time was an American lady who served as a chaplain at a university here. That she was from Portland, Oregon and was a chaplain to international students (both of which I was really passionate about), gave us a lot in common. If I hadn't been that worn out from camp, I would have stayed for dinner with them. I didn't realise at the time was that that wasn't going to be my last interaction with Carrie.

A few weeks later, I was out running errands with Marilyn and had shared with her about my interest in working with migrants, refugees and international communities--which was why New Zealand even interested me in the very first place. She excitedly told me that her mum had been volunteering with an organisation that helped migrants with their transitions, and that I should have coffee with her. As much as I wanted to, life got busy and that got put on hold.

A few months later, we had a guest speaker one Sunday who worked with migrant and international communities. Merv Coates had also been the professor for pastoral care at Laidlaw Bible College. He and I had several conversations about his work, and he invited me and members from our church to come along to one of the events their ministry was sponsoring. It was at that event that I ran into Carrie again. Because there was so much going on at the time, we never got to talk much.

This was the third time that this idea about working with migrants and international communities had come up, and I was beginning to wonder if God was up to something with these "accidental" run-ins. But again, life happened, and I never got around to following up on any of those conversations.

Then one random day, Carrie posted on Facebook about an event called Newswatch. It was one of the programmes sponsored by the chaplains at the university where students would watch news clips from the week to help keep them connected with news both locally and around the world, and especially in their home countries. Because the news clips were in English, it was also an opportunity for them, many of whom English was a second language, to brush up on their language skills. I hopped on and asked Carried if it would be ok for me to come along to just hang out. Before I knew it, Newswatch and student group Fridays had become a regular on my calendar, and the students began to count on the desserts that would show up with me.

While all this was happening, Carrie and I still hardly knew anything about each other because we both understood our priorities on Fridays were to hang out with the students. One day in the middle of nowhere just before my trip back to the States, she asked where my funds were coming from. Because Carrie herself has to raise support, she understood some of the hoops to jump through with fundraising. But as I began to explain the complexities of my situation and all the ways we've tried to work with the system, she was appalled that it had become such hard work. She then asked if I would consider having my funds come through the organisation she was working with. And then she said, "I don't know what your contract is like with your church, but if you would like to come work with us, we would love to have you."

At that time, I had already known I wasn't going to serve another term with WCF. As much as I loved my experience and had learnt a lot from my time here, I had also learnt that just because I was able to do something or learn how to do something (like run the children's ministry), it didn't always mean that I was the right person for the job. And I began to recall all the conversations I had prior to arriving in New Zealand about all the other things I was passionate about--working with migrant and international communities, and working outside the church structures to bring people into meaningful relationships with those within the church structures. And I began to trust the prompting that it was time to pursue that. All of these conversations with Carrie, Marilyn and Merv could not have been coincidental. (The Bible does say something about, "three times..." eh?)

And so Carrie and I began to talk a little bit more. All of this time, it bothered me that I didn't know how it would all fit with my (somewhat foolish) loyalty to the Church of God Reformation Movement, or how this new ministry would fit into its structures, or what I would do if it didn't. Several other things got thrown onto the scene that halted my conversations with Carrie for a while. But as things began to fall into place, as they always do, I began to realise that whether it fit into a denominational structure or not, I could no longer run away from pursuing this new ministry.

Shortly after my return from the States, several things happened that led to some significant conversations with the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand. Even though most ministries in New Zealand tend to run ecumenically, I was "raised" to respect denominational traditions, and WMCNZ would have been theologically closest to the Church of God. And it was encouraging to know that there were WMCNZ folks who, upon hearing about my ideas for a new ministry next year, got really excited and wanted to jump in to support however they can. They themselves had relationships and connections that made it easy for them to understand why this new ministry would be significant, which gave me hope to realise that I wasn't crazy for wanting to do this. As good students of missiology will tell you, outsiders may see a perceived need, but until the insiders want to address those needs themselves, they will not buy into any programme that outsiders are pitching.

So where does this lead, and what's next?

Well, I'm not exactly sure yet either. As conversations continued with Richard, superintendent of WMCNZ, I begin to realise there is potential for this to have a much bigger scope and influence than I can even foresee at this point. I would love to see this eventually develop into a community space (not necessarily physically) where students can connect with both local communities and churches, and it becoming an intergenerational relationship-building venue.

But for now, there is work to be done to get the first steps in place. Here's how you can pray with us:

• Pray for the churches that have an interest in being involved with this ministry. Pray that the existing relationships with the students will continue to be strengthened and the desire to pour into their lives will grow.
• Pray for the students that will be reached through these relationships, that they would encounter life-change in their few years in New Zealand. And pray that the relationships built here will continue to support and provide accountability for them as they return to their home-countries. 
• Because of all the complexities surrounding my support raising with several organisations in different parts of the world supporting me, it makes sorting out a visa complicated. Please pray that things will begin to fall into place for the process.
• I will also need to move out of my current living arrangements to make room for a ministry of this nature. Pray for a new living arrangement to open up that will be affordable.

And I hope you stay on board with all that is happening in New Zealand as you have all this while. Check back in, and see how the story is developing. Write, and let me know what you think. And if you're the praying type, pray.

As always,
i carry your heart
(i carry it in my heart)

Arohanui,
me

Coming up: "Why me??"

"For God so Loved the World ... and Nicodemus"

I preached my first sermon at WCF yesterday. For those who are curious, click here for the audio recording.

Shout out to the scattered community that were cheering on on Twitter. Special thanks to Joe Watkins for the images he created.

Nicodemus, Face in the Crowd

Nicodemus, Member of the exclusive Nerd-Club

Nicodemus, Coffee with Jesus

Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea

Table Talks: John Wesley part #1

Last Tuesday, we began a new series in our small group focusing on the life and teachings of John Wesley.

As our last sermon series was concluding, I had asked the ladies what they wanted to discuss next. Since there were so many questions raised about Wesleyan teaching as we were going through our last series, it made the most sense to do a study on John Wesley.

So that the discussions don't get completely dry and boring, we have been reading "John Wesley: The World His Parish" from the Christian Heroes series by Janet and Geoff Benge. It's written as a novel for young readers (intermediate/junior high age) so it's a very pleasant read for our small group. But what I've appreciated about the five chapters I've read so far is that it doesn't avoid getting into the deep theological terms just to keep it appropriate for young readers. Instead, the writers use those terms and go on to explain what they mean in language that is reader-friendly for its audience.

We had just gotten the books last week, so we read the first two chapters aloud during small group. Since we have been trying to tailor our children's ministry to be more family-focused (families doing Church together rather than parents do grown-up church stuff while the Kids' Church teachers babysit their kids), I was stoked that this book would be accessible for all age groups since it's an easy read-aloud book. Of course, it provides only the introductory material to John Wesley's life, but it works for our small group.

In addition to the book we're reading together, I also managed to borrow a few other books from the WMCNZ (Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand) library as my study resources.

An Introduction to Wesleyan Theology by William M. Greathouse and H. Ray Dunning
Holiness for Ordinary People by Keith Drury
What a Time to be Wesleyan! by David L. McKenna

I know, this isn't a very conventional way to do small group. But I don't really know how to do "conventional," so I guess I should just be glad the ladies are happy to go with the flow.

I'm excited about this study. And even more so because after our read-aloud session last week, we all wanted to keep going. But since the point of the study isn't to zip through John Wesley's life as much as to reflect on what we can learn today, we stopped after two chapters. I'm pretty eager to get back to our discussions tomorrow.

Hey, if you're interested in reading the book with us, I know they have it on Kindle and probably at your local Christian bookstore as well. And if you want to join in the discussion with us, feel free to jump in the conversation online. I'll post a brief reflection of our discussions each week, and you can join in the conversation.

The Bridge: Making Sense Part #1

If you have been following this blog for a while, you know there have been a variety of topics that have been written about. Some of it seemed irrelevant or disconnected at the time. Welcome to my brain.

However, I'm going to begin making some connections between those posts over the next few months to help make sense of this new thing that I keep talking about starting next year. So bear with me.

In the recent post about my second Kiwi birthday, I talked about a ten-year-old dream. There was a bridge in this dream that I've been trying to make sense of for the last ten years. But none of the explanations I've managed to come up with seemed to provide resolution like what happened with the other parts of the dream. Until recently. It began making sense.

Bridges are structures that people use to get from one place to another. Some of us stay on those bridges longer than others; some of us move on quickly. In a culture as diverse and transitionary as Auckland, folks are used to people coming and going. A few days ago, Nina and I caught up with Paul, who oversees the SUPAkidz clubs we run. I had sent an e-mail to Paul explaining that my time with the children's ministry at WCF was nearly up. As we caught up over a cup of tea, Paul began asking what my plans were for the future. As I began explaining the vague ideas I had, he nodded and began getting excited on my behalf. And then he said this:

"So we're not losing you completely, right?"

The words were few, but it reinforced what I had long assumed to be true about Auckland. People come and go, and those who have stayed on are used to those transitionary folks. It affects the way people live life and the way relationships are viewed. Who amongst us are staying, and for how long? Do I let them into my life if they're going to leave after a short time?

And even more so, it affects the way we do church. How do we build a "life together" church if people are coming and going? How do we walk with each other, even if only for the short time that we're sojourning together?

As I've been thinking about how these all tie in together, the bridge imagery keeps coming back. The transitionary place. How do we make the most of our time together?

In my next few posts, I'll begin to explain more of what this bridge is going to look like. Again, I hope you stay on board with me as you have all this while. Check back in, and see how the story is developing. Write, and let me know what you think. And if you're the praying type, pray.

As always,
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

Arohanui,
me

Dear Keren: Piece of Home

Dear Keren,

At student group yesterday, Amy came up to me and asked for ideas of what she could get for a Chinese friend who was turning 18. She went on to explain that this friend had arrived in New Zealand two days after she did, and so she was her first friend, which made the friendship special.

It made me think of our first days at AU. You were my first friend too, but it wasn't until years later after you died when I was processing with Jenny what "home" means to me, that I realised you were also my piece of home away from home. Sure, there were lots of great memories made especially in the summer months when the campus was quieter, but I think what made our friendship special was that you made it ok for me to feel displaced. You were my home in that displacement, and you helped me made sense of so much of what eventually became a part of my identity as a Third Culture Kid.

Dear Keren, today I thank you for being that friend, and for helping me find a piece of home. If you were still around, I'd want you to be a part of this new thing I'm starting next year because you helped me become good at navigating these transitional waters. Nonetheless, I carry our friendship with me as I begin helping these international students find their place of home as they arrive in New Zealand and begin a new chapter here.

Dear Keren, thank you.

Arohanui,
me

Kiwi Birthday Reflections

On the drive home tonight, I heard a song on the radio that, for the first time in a long time, didn't make me cry. There were memories attached to that song that dates back about ten years, and healing had finally come full circle to that part of my story. But it also made me reflect on where I've come over the last ten years, where I am, and where I could have been.

Ten years ago around this time, I had to make some decisions about school that altered my whole life course and took some unexpected turns that led me to the cornfields.
Ten years ago around this time, I started blogging. Granted they were angsty teenage rants, but it was the very beginnings of a journey as an honest, and not-very-politically-correct writer.
Ten years ago around this time, I was falling in love with a boy barely seventeen, but he was the first to help me believe I had anything worth saying that people would want to hear.

Ten years ago around this time, I had a dream. I didn't know this dream was a revelation of what the next ten years of my life would be, but around this time last year, I finally wrote it down here.

There were parts of this dream that I still didn't understand as I was writing it last year, but it's all beginning to make sense now.

Two years ago today, I jumped on another flight, not knowing what I was getting into. Two years later, I'm celebrating what I've come to call my second "Kiwi birthday".
Two years ago today, the people of Westside Christian Fellowship welcomed with open arms another stranger into their midst. Two years later, we reflect on a journey that has seen tremendous joy and grief.

Two years ago today, I honestly didn't think I would make it this far. I had arrived in Auckland having accepted the role of coordinating the children's ministry, but having limited experience working with children myself. The church needed someone to tide things over in their children's ministry for a while, and I had said, "Here I am; send me." And so I came.

I've never been crazy about kids--still am not--but I didn't like them any less than I liked grown-ups. Little people are people too, and in the last two years, they've blown my mind and taught me more than I could possibly ever teach them. They've challenged me and given me permission to be more creative than I've ever been. They snuck into my heart and whispered stories that made me laugh and want to be their advocates at school, in church, and in society in general. They shaped my understanding of a balanced ecclesiology and made me want to fight the grown-ups that don't take them seriously.

Two years later, I cannot be more thankful today for the church that gave me permission to learn and experiment, and be a little bit crazier than crazy. And as the calendar year is drawing to a close, my time with my little people will soon end as well. It's hard to not fall in love with these kids, as rascally as they can be.

But the dream from ten years ago is beckoning. And just as I was responsible for being faithful to my role at Westside, I now have to be responsible for being faithful to the calling of the dream. This probably all sounds a bit frou-frou at the moment, but I promise I will write about the rest of the dream and what this will look like in time to come. Sorry Kiwi mates, but I'm still hoping to hang out in Auckland.

And I hope you will stay on board with me as you have all this while. Check back in, and see how the story is developing. Write, and let me know what you think. And if you're the praying type, pray.

As always,
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

Little treats for the 2nd Kiwi birthday.
Because stopping and remembering is a necessary part of the journey.
(Clockwise from top left: Tim-tams and L&P.
Lamb dinner because lamb's never been this affordable until now.
Tim-tam slammed in milo.
And of course, paua from my first Kiwi birthday thanks to Amber and Jess.)

Arohanui,
Me

Tribal Stories: Water

She laid wide awake, staring at the stars. There was no way of telling what time it was, but she was certain it wouldn't be long before the sun would rise.

In the days since the last sand storm, she hardly slept. The days were long as she worked alongside the desert people, and as night fell, she would lay her weary body down but her mind wouldn't stop.

She thought back to the critter's last visit only days ago. As usual, they hardly said two words to each other and she quite enjoyed the few moments of comfortable silence.

"You need to start making preparations for the southern lands, you know," he finally said.

She sighed. She knew he was right, but with the recent change of landscape in the desert, all that occupied her time was making sure that the desert people could resume their way of life as quickly as possible. But the side of the story she had yet to admit was that she was afraid of the uncertainty about the days ahead.

Her mothers and grandmothers taught her that the way to work the ground was different in every land, and that she needed to learn new ways again as she arrived in the southern lands. And even though her gypsy friend had told her the ground in the southern lands was rich and fertile, it provided no answers for how or where to begin. Besides, she wasn't to live in the southern lands by herself, but how would she begin to gather people?

"The ways may be different, but people are the same," the sages once said. "Where there is water, people will come."

She laid awake that night, mulling over the words of the sages. They made no sense to her. Her mind went back to the conversation with the critter.

"You're a collector of stories," he had said. "That's where you need to begin."

She knew that full well, and if she were honest, it was that which frustrated her most. In the journey to the southern lands, she had filled so many other roles that she was getting weary and easily irritated. Yet she knew that there were no stories that could be collected until the crops were growing and the people began to have food.

Suddenly it all made sense. She was a collector of stories, and having other roles to fill didn't change that. She would continue collecting stories as she worked the land, and she would speak about the water to begin gathering the people.

She fingered the rocks she held in her hands as she recited the familiar words again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

As the sun's first rays began to illumine the sky, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and for the desert people. She knew their words of blessing had gone before her to the southern lands and they would carry her the rest of the way. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces held them together.

Tribal Stories: Weary

The sun shone bright in the morning sky as she tucked away the last of her tent-pegs. The sands were only just beginning to settle after the last storm. She wanted to spend one more day breathing in the taste of having come around the mountain and weathering another storm, but she knew it was time to keep walking.

With one hand over her brow to shield out some of the glaring rays of the sun, she squinted ahead as she tried to find her way forward. In the distance, she saw several of the desert families gathering as they began to find a way to work in the landscape that had shifted again since the last sand storm.

Since the beginning of her journey on the desert road, she had known she was just passing through. But she also knew she had a responsibility to help the desert people find a way to grow crops--never mind that she was a stranger in their land. As the days passed, she began to realise that the desert people carried with them a weariness heavier than her own. Others had come alongside to try to help them find self-sustainable ways to grow crops, but the ways they found seemed counter-intuitive to the way of life in the desert.

"If you want to know how to build life in the desert, you have to spend time with those who have lived in the desert their whole lives," her gypsy friend once said. "There may be others who, like us, are passing through the desert lands, who are trying to help. But we are all foreigners in this land, and we cannot assume to know their way of life. The desert people are the only ones who can teach us how to help them."

She wondered if that was why the desert people that had adopted her were weary. She wondered if they were so tired of trying to find their own way of growing crops that they simply took on board any new ideas that were thrown their way--even if they were counter-intuitive to the desert life.

She knew she herself was weary. She had put the wounds from the exile behind her, but the journey on the desert road had wore her out. Since the last sand storm, the landscape had shifted so much that she was left with most of the work. Even though they had received word that help was coming from the city, no one knew how long it would be before help would arrive. While she was regaining hope for the desert people, there was still work to be done in the meantime. Help that was coming from the city still had to learn the ways of the desert lands, and the desert people needed help getting ready to receive the help. She also knew her journey on the desert road would soon end, and she desperately needed time to make the preparations for her arrival in the southern lands.

"Take deep breaths," she whispered aloud, as the words of her tribespeople came to mind. "And remember, we are called to simply be faithful."

As the first tear of weariness fell, she found the rocks that had carried her through her lifetime as a wanderer and closed her fingers around them tightly.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."
"Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God"

There was still work to do. But first, she had to sit down and simply weep over the weariness in the desert lands. Help was coming, but she pleaded with the forces that held them all together that there would be enough strength and hope in the desert lands to carry them in the meantime.

Quick Thoughts on the City Harvest Trial

A friend asked recently what I thought about the City Harvest Trial. As usual, I avoid making public comments about issues like this because everybody has an opinion and wants it to be heard but doesn't want to hear anyone else.

But I've been thinking about it a bit more recently, and even though I confess I haven't followed the news as closely of late, I do have a few thoughts to share.

(Back story: six leaders, including founder and lead pastor Kong Hee, of City Harvest Church, a mega-church in Singapore are accused of conspiring to channel S$24 million into two companies using "sham bond investments" to fund the music career of Sun Ho, Kong Hee's wife. Another S$26 million was allegedly used to cover up the first amount. Source: Channel NewsAsia)

Assumptions, assumptions
(You know what they say about assuming.)

When the news first broke about the arrest of the six leaders, I was back in Singapore, just about to head out to dinner with my parents and some friends from church. So of course, that was the dinner conversation. My mother, who's an accountant and has helped with bookkeeping at the church we used to attend, said almost immediately that it's easy for folks to make assumptions because we all need someone to blame.

Personally, I have my biases against mega-churches. One of my dearest friends is the junior high pastor at Willow Creek, and she and I often joke about how different styles work for different people. I have a lot of respect for Gretchen and the work she does with the junior-highers, but I just don't know how to wrap my mind around how a mega-church works. Admittedly, that affected my bias toward the situation, and I was ready to make assumptions about a situation of which I didn't know the full story.

Church as Family
One of the things I love about the Church is that it can be family. At the same time, that can cause problems. My mum pointed out was that often in church settings, we sometimes shift things around in the finances without doing the necessary reporting. "It's all in the family," so it doesn't really matter... Or does it? Perhaps it doesn't matter as much when we're dealing with petty cash. But as the church grows and budgets increase, "petty cash" becomes more significant, and we could run into trouble with "it's all in the family".

Accountability
Because we work in a "religious" setting, it can be easy to spiritualise leaders and those overseeing ministry, as if they can do no wrong so we don't worry about reporting or asking for transparency. Not that we shouldn't trust our leaders, but as a safety net for all involved, proper accountability procedures should be set up and followed--something I personally struggle with because I don't have an official organisation that provides that level of accountability.


So there you go, my few thoughts on the City Harvest trial. I don't know who's right or who's wrong, and I don't think I'd be a fair judge. But I know there are lessons for us to learn from this, and those are the three I've learnt so far.

Where We Come From: Holiness and Unity Part #4

One of my first lessons on ecclesiology came not from a textbook or lecture, but from a conversation with a dear friend. Caldwell Manners was a first year student at the School of Theology back in 2004 when I was starting my freshman year at Anderson University. He was the first friendly face I met on campus. I had come knocking on Uncle Mac and Auntie Jean's home the day I arrived in Anderson. They weren't home, but this Indian kid came to the door. I didn't know what to make of it except that he was friendly, and I was awkward. By the time we had a second conversation, I knew we were going to be friends.

I don't remember how it started, but one evening, we found ourselves having a lengthy discussion about denominationalism. At the time, I had no interest in theological education because as far as I was concerned, theologians were either dead white men or nerds who buried themselves in books and didn't know how to interact with the real world. But Caldwell simply asked if I thought that God's ideal was for everyone to camp under the same church roof and sing Kumbaya (granted, those weren't his exact words). I felt like the right answer was to say, "Yes, of course that's God's ideal," but something in Caldwell's tone of voice hinted that he had expected something different.

And I don't remember how he explained it, but I remembered that conversation for a long time. It wasn't until years later that I understood that it was ok for us to claim Wesleyan, or Church of God, or Nazarene, or even Calvinist or Baptist--as long as we could leave each other on the common ground that we all love Jesus and each other. I began to understand that we are story-formed people, and that the variety of denominations created space for all stories to be embraced.

There are traditional churches with pipe-organs and sanctuary choirs, and there are the hipster churches with their cafes and praise bands.
There are country parishes with the pianos that accompany every hymn, and there are gospel choirs.
There are house churches and underground churches, and there are churches that meet on the streets.

These styles of "church" came into existence because story-formed people came together under different contexts, each bringing their own God-woven story and deciding to share them in a particular manner that was comfortable to them. And they all simply display the creativity of the God we worship.

The beauty of the Church of God theology I embrace is that there CAN be unity in all of the differences. We don't all have to interpret baptism the same way or use the same word to describe communion or the eucharist. But we all believe Jesus died for us, and wants us to choose life with God. And we all live under the "Love God, and love your neighbour as yourself" rule, which means we should all be able to work side by side for the Kingdom.

Over the past couple of weeks, I had the privilege to spend a significant amount of time with the Wesleyan Methodist Church in New Zealand. The thing I love about spending time with the Wesleyan Methodist Church is that I get to interact with the Pacific Island and Asian communities, and to hear songs and prayers in different languages. And we get to sit around the tables with our Nazarene and Salvationist brothers and sisters, talking and learning from each other.

One of the questions raised in our conversation was this: What impact does context have on our understanding of holiness? Should it have an impact?

The conversation around the table was lively, and I was intrigued by the question so I brought it back to our small group yesterday and asked the ladies the same question.

Let me just say, they blew my mind.

Sylvia began by saying, she wasn't exactly sure how or why yet, but she knew the answer had to be that context DOES impact our understanding of holiness. She went on to describe that those living on the fringes probably understand their need for holiness far better than those of us who have been living a good life. We often assume that because we have been good, we have also been holy. But holiness has nothing to do with being good as much as it has to do with realising our need for Jesus.

Nina talked about how holiness would mean something different to a Buddhist than to us, and how we don't touch the heads of Maori children because the head is tapu (holy/sacred). It made me realise that the question was actually really open-ended, but MY context as a Christian has already impacted my understanding of holiness in that I hadn't even considered how holiness might be understood by those who didn't follow Jesus.

(Seminerdian friends, I'm aware there's still a load of stuff to unpack from that question, but that isn't the point of this post.)

The point is this: We don't all have to love pipe-organs more than praise bands or ukeleles, and we don't all have to have a trim latte before church. We don't even have to understand holiness in exactly the same way, except in that holiness requires us to love God and love our neighbours as ourselves. And that is what brings unity.

And that. That is where we come from.

Tribal Stories: Sands

The winds were starting up again. The darkness of the night limited her ability to judge what the sands were going to do this time.

She had gotten quite used to life on the desert road so that whenever the winds started up, she would begin preparing for the sands that would come. Sometimes, they were just small gusts of dirt. Other times, the sands would blow so hard that even when she shielded her face, her eyes would still feel their sting.

As she readied herself for the sands, her mind drifted back to the encounter with the giant. The day came and went uneventfully, for which she was relieved, but also uneasy. At first she thought it was because she had gotten used to the perils of life during the war that an uneventful day was a nice change. But she couldn't shrug off the feeling of uneasiness. Were there to be unforeseen consequences because of an uneventful day?

But she knew her job on the desert road wasn't to worry about the giant. No, she was there to help prepare the land to produce crops for the desert people as she passed through on her way to the southern lands.

Tilling the land in the city had been easy because her mothers and grandmothers had taught her the way to work the dirt there. But her mothers and grandmothers had warned her the desert lands were a different task altogether. The climate was different, and the crops to be planted were also different. And she learnt the frustrating lesson that she could till and she could sow seeds, but then the winds would start up and the sands would come, and they would unearth all the work she had done. There had been nights where she would cry herself to sleep, frustrated with the winds and the sands. Was it even worth it? After all, she was just passing through. Why be concerned for the desert lands?

"We are simply to be faithful to our work. The forces that hold us together will bring fruit to the work we do in time," her tribespeople once said. She didn't understand, but their words haunted her frequently and would help ease frustration. Before long, the sands would come again, and she would lean into those words again.

She also knew her time in the desert was coming to an end. While she was relieved and looked forward with anticipation to the possibilities that the southern lands held, she had come to realise in the recent days how attached she had gotten to the work of the desert and the desert people. She had come to the desert alone, uncertain of her work. But in the time that she had spent working alongside the desert people, shielding each other from the sands and figuring out how to plant crops in their land, the desert people, too, had become a part of her tribe. The pain of leaving the city was only just starting to heal. She wasn't ready for another dose of pain when the time on the desert road ends.

She fingered the rocks she held in her hands for they had carried her through her lifetime as a wanderer.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

She didn't have much, but she had the rocks. And she had her people whose stories she took with her as she continued on her journey.

Looking to the heavens that night, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and for the desert people. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces held them together.

Tribal Stories: Held Together (Guest Post)

She sat in the field, watching the sunset. It had been a hard journey. She had been home for nearly two fortnights, but she still didn’t feel completely restored from her days in the prairie lands. Looking back, the time seemed to have been short, compared to the time she had spent in other villages, but the difficulty of living on the prairie had made the days seem long and endless. She was sustained with the word that would come from the tribespeople and by the forces that held them together. It had been often in these two fortnights that she had sat in these fields, watching the maize and the wheat, giving thanks for these forces and for the tribespeople who made those forces feel almost tangible at times. Tonight, she thought of the wanderer of her people. The wanderer, who had become her sister.

Word had come from the southern desert lands where the wanderer labored and spoke the peace of their people. She knew of the troubles that had been swelling there in the desert heat. Her wanderer-sister was weary. It was difficult at times to simply trust the forces that held them all, to also hold so much together in that southern desert land. She reached for the rock that their sage had given them, the sage who had long gone on to live fully in the Kingdom: “He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” We are the people of peace, and Love is our story, she reminded herself. Those forces do not break, no matter how strong the troubles, no matter how great the war. He was holding her wanderer-sister together too.

She thought again of the long gone sage. It was this same sage who had commissioned the older tribespeople to their work, telling them, “You are to be about building villages on the edge of the kingdom. This is your task.” We are trying, she said aloud. Her hands still ached from the tent ropes she had wielded in the prairie lands, trying to build a small village there. She turned them over and over, noting how the rope burns were now fading. She had labored hard, but the tents she had set up were always whisked away by the violent winds and heavy rains that always seemed to come from out of nowhere. The work had been difficult to say the least, and she had become so used to the feel of rope in her hands. The ropes were useful in the work, to be sure, but her hands were not meant to pull rope; they were meant to hold stones. The wanderer had reminded her of that. She had learned that she had to let go of the rough, dry rope in order to feel the smoothness of the stones, for they wouldn’t both fit in her palms. When she would let herself remember this truth, the coolness of the stones would soothe the places where the work had done damage. She reached for the other two stones, and squeezed all three together in her rope-worn hands,

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbor as yourself."
“He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.”

She would not be in the homeland for long. This, she knew for certain. There were villages to build on the edge of the kingdom in other lands. What was not certain was what was waiting ahead on the journey. Yet, this was true for all of the tribespeople. They were making a new way in the lands to which they had been scattered. This was their work, their task; this is what they must be about. The forces that pushed them forward also held them together and to one another, and for this confidence, in the face of so much uncertainty, she gave thanks.

The sun was setting, and the sky was still pink from the warmth it had left behind. She lifted her face to the stars that dotted the sun scorched sky and breathed blessings and thanks for her mothers, and grandmothers, and for the sages, and her dear tribespeople. She prayed for protection and strength of heart for her wanderersister. Especially, this night, she gave thanks for the One who is before all things in the journey and is holding all things together in even the most uncertain of times.

Faith Crises

The earliest one I remember happened when I was about eight or nine. It was at our church camp, and Pastor Neivelle had shared the story of his life as an ex-con. I remember him saying that even if our lives are not as colourful as his, God still wants to use us. As an eight or nine year old, I struggled with that. I was the good kid that stayed out of trouble. How could God possibly use me if I didn't have a fascinating story to tell? Pastor Neivelle then said we could invite Jesus into our hearts and he would help us figure that out. So I did.

Only a few years later, another crisis season hit. My brother and I had been the stars of our Sunday School as the kids who had been a part of the worship team since we were eleven and thirteen. We were also the Sunday School teachers' dream because we knew Moses from Abraham and found great joy in acing Bible quizzes. But by the time I turned thirteen, all I could think of was that someone was eventually going to call me out as a fake. I did all the right church things and tried my best to believe in God, but I didn't know what any of that meant. I even knew the right answers to the questions in the grown-up Bible study, but my questions were starting to be bigger than just about righteous living. You didn't have to follow Jesus to be a good person. I had been a good person my whole life, but I somehow knew that still wasn't the same as following Jesus or worshipping God. Those were frustrating years, and since I couldn't find answers in Church, music became my life. It only worsened the guilt of pretending to be a good Christian, but I didn't care since being a band geek gave me a high.

The year I turned sixteen, Pastor Caleb sat me down while we were at another church camp. He listened to my questions and he prayed with me. He talked me through the role of music in my life and what it could look like. About a year later as I was getting ready to leave for Anderson, he gave me the words from Luke 5, "Go a little deeper". It became the theme verse for the next big wave of what I now call "all the crazies". I don't remember much of what else happened then, but I remembered thinking maybe that season of crisis was over.


I was at the Connect Rally last night sponsored by the Wesleyan Church in New Zealand and the athletic department from Indiana Wesleyan University. Several of the youth and athletes from both Auckland and Indiana shared parts of their life story. There was a common thread in all the stories: crisis moments. Sports athletes whose worlds revolved around the sport they played crashing out because of injury and finding God in those moments. Family crisis, bullying and the death of close friends.

The thing about crisis moments is that they are often pivotal points in our spiritual journey. We hit those low points and in the moments of darkness and wrestling comes a point where we make a choice whether we hold on to the things we have always believed in, or we let go and embrace something else.

As I sat listening to those stories last night, I couldn't help thinking about my own faith crises. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a bit of a wuss in my seasons of crises. I wrestled, but I was always too afraid to let go completely of all the things I've always believed in.

When Keren died, I found myself surprised that I never questioned God. I remembered feeling like my world was completely shaken, but it was more because I was realising these things do actually happen in real life than because I was questioning whether God existed. I wondered then if I was wallowing enough in the depravity.

When I started seminary, I was looking forward to that season of existential crisis that all my other seminary friends talked about. But even my season of existential crisis was short. There had been two deaths in the family within a month of my starting seminary, and only a year after Keren had passed. I found myself struggling with being far away from family in that time, and began wondering if my call was even real. It was around 3am one night and I was trying to finish writing a paper on sanctification when I began realising I couldn't talk about sanctification if I wasn't even sure at that point if God was real.

In that moment, I panicked. And this is where I sometimes feel like I had wussed out instead of completely diving off the deep end. I emailed Greg and told him about my crisis moment, and explained that I probably wouldn't be able to finish my sanctification paper while I wasn't sure if this God thing was real. Then I turned my computer off and went to bed. Even in those moments, I prayed and prayed that when I woke up in the morning, God better show up and prove that God was real. When there were no fireworks or handwriting on the wall the next morning, I panicked even more.

I told Paul the next day about the crisis moment, and he gave me the very annoying, "aww, how cute" smile. I wanted him to push me off the deep end, but instead all he said was, "Even if you don't believe, God is big enough to believe in you." I silently cursed him out inside.

When I eventually came around, it wasn't because I had done all the scientific research and digging to prove that God is real. No, it was because Paul and Jen and Amity amongst others kept doing the very annoying, "aww, how cute" thing of reminding me that my faith was bigger than that.

As I thought about all these moments last night, I found myself wishing again that I had been braver and dove off the deep end into the unknown and embracing the possibility of life without God or acknowledgement of a greater being. The truth was, in all those moments of faith crises, as small as they were, my biggest fear wasn't of the unknown. I've lived with enough unknowns to not be afraid. I was more afraid of what I would become if I didn't have hope and certainty in a being that is bigger than the limitations of my human mind. I was afraid that in that dark space, I would no longer have reason to live. And because I'm too much of a wuss to even inflict self-harm, I would just be trapped in this in-between space of neither living nor dying.

And for that reason, I will always have great admiration for those who have dove off the deep end and is continuing the search for Truth because I think they have greater courage than me. And I get to live vicariously through them in their search for Truth and asking bigger questions that I lack the courage to ask.

This weekend marks six years since Keren's passing. I daren't claim to have achieved much in the last six years, except to have learnt to turn the crisis moments into stories that perpetuate the hope that keeps me going. It's the only way I know to find resolution to all of these crises.

Tribal Stories: Tilling

She patted down the last bit of dirt, covering the last of the sprouts. Dusting her hands off, she pushed herself back on her feet, took a step back and took a deep breath.

Days had passed since her most recent visit to the city. The road had led her down an unexpected winding path toward the giant, giving her a bit more time to think. In the last few days, she set up camp at the base of the mountain and waited.

Her mind drifted back to the days before the war. Life had been pleasant. Simple. Her mothers and grandmothers worked the earth, and when she had been adopted, she eventually picked up the trade as well. She remembered the long hours of tilling the land. As a child, it wasn't the most pleasant way to spend the days because it seemed like tedious work with nothing much to show. But her mothers and grandmothers would always say that tilling was an important job; for a well-tilled land made good seedbed for crops.

As she grew older, she began to understand her responsibility better. There wasn't much to show, but she began to enjoy digging deep into the ground, turning up the earth, and loosening up hardened dirt. It used to frustrate her that she would only be allowed to help with that little bit before she got moved to a different plot of land. She wanted to do more; sow a few seeds perhaps, even help gather in the harvest.

"We don't always get to choose what we're good at, child," her mothers and grandmothers would say.

So she decided to learn everything there was to learn about tilling--it was her responsibility to their people.

In the more recent days since the exile, she began remembering that there was tilling to do even in the desert lands if she were to help the desert people begin life. As she spent her days working the land, her mind was still on the giant, and she feared what he might bring for the people in the desert lands. She wondered if her work on the ground would be worth it if there was to be no life after the encounter with the giant. And she wondered too, if she--they--would get away unscathed, and if she had what it took to stand up against him.

Then she remembered what her mothers and grandmothers used to say.

"There is no 'Them'. There is only 'Us'. We are all Us."

She brushed away the first tear with the back of her hand. Perhaps that was the hardest part of the war--that it was all "Us" fighting against "Us". But the years of war left her wondering if they still believed they were all "Us". She herself, she knew, was guilty of forgetting every once in a while. One of her tribespeople once had to remind her to dig deep into the stories of their people--that Love was their story.

The giant, too, was "Us," and only wanted what was best for the desert lands--even if she may not completely see eye to eye with him. She hoped they both remembered that when they eventually meet.

She picked up the rest of her tools, including the two rocks.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

Looking to the heavens that evening, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and even for the giant. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces had allowed her that little extra time to not just till the land but sow a few seeds this time around.

Tribal Stories: Earth and Time (Guest Post)

He sat thoughtfully at the edge of his field while the last rays of daylight disappeared over the horizon.  Many weeks had gone into the preparation of this year’s crops, and soon it would be time for the harvest to come in.  He always felt a sense of ambivalence about this time of year:  the harvest could be magnificent, or it could be eliminated through any of a number of tragic circumstances.  Storm, drought, thievery, and even the nature of wild beasts threatened to harm the labor of his hands.  He could sense that the harvest was near.  For all his readiness, though, only Time would dictate when the ripening would be complete.  All he could do is sit and wait…and keep watch.

News from a far-off land occupied his thoughts:  details of the escalating war in the southern desert lands.  He first learned of this news while conducting business in the city.  The wanderer, soon to depart for the war-torn south, had met with him in the city some weeks earlier.  She was concerned about the war, and yet she felt compelled to give herself for the peacemaking efforts.  She spoke of her tribespeople and of their shared mystical heritage.  He could not fully understand her native dialect, but their common respect of Earth and Time helped them to communicate with each other. 

Earth and Time.  His business, his activities, his religion revolved around these two poles of faith.  From his earliest days, he had been taught to respect Earth and Time.  He had learned his father’s trade, that of growing crops for the community’s good, by studying his father for some years.  Now he worked his own field, applying the basic principles of his religion, the depth of which he was only now beginning to appreciate:

“Respect Earth, for Earth gives life.”

“Respect Time, for Time gives friendship.”

Respect for Earth was easy; growing crops took all his strength, but those crops gave life to him and his community.  He could not understand Earth, but he depended on Earth’s love for each year’s needs.  Respect for Time was more difficult.  Surely, Time dictated when the ripening would be complete, but from his childhood a question plagued him:  How could Time give friendship?

Once he began working Earth on his own, he learned the true value of Time:  not to ripen crops, but to strengthen relationships among fellow laborers.  Growing crops was a lonely profession, but his time in the city had reminded him that he did not labor alone.  The wanderer, different as her journey was from his, sat next to him in the city one night some weeks earlier.  She spoke of her tribespeople and of their shared mystical heritage, and then she spoke of how he was included in those groups.  She gave thanks for Time which had brought them together in the city.  She gave thanks for Earth which would connect them even after they parted ways.  And then she pulled two small stones out of her pack, gave them to him, and said:

“You say, ‘Respect Earth, for Earth gives life.’
You say, ‘Respect Time, for Time gives friendship.’
I say, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’
I say, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’
Perhaps we are not so different.”

He sat thoughtfully at the edge of his field.  Daylight was fleeing.  The harvest was not yet ready, but soon it would come, just as it always did for his father.  He rolled the two small stones over and over in his hands.  And then he looked to the heavens and uttered a prayer of thanksgiving, for Time indeed had given friendship. 

Tribal Stories: Gypsy

It had been another restless night. Between another haunting dream and the critter's visit the day before, she hardly slept a wink.

The critter had brought a fresh basket of supplies and a word of warning. There was a giant up ahead in the mountain who was known to be temperamental. Her tribespeople who had had previous encounters with the giant had come home with battle scars, but there had also been others who had friendly encounters and came home unscathed. She recalled the promise she had made to her tribespeople, that when the time came to meet the giant, she would hold to the stories of their people as her guide.

Even though she came from a people of peace, she couldn't shake the feeling as if she was getting ready for war. As she gathered up her tent that morning, she made up her mind to head for the city not too far away. In the more recent years of war, she would visit the other cities nearby whenever she needed to clear her head. The little adventures renewed hope for her to keep at the restoration efforts, because they reminded her of what good cities could achieve.

She knitted her brows together as a sad smile crept on her face. For all the years of war she endured, her instinctive reaction in times of uncertainty was still to return to the city--even if not the one she just left behind. The city was everything she had dedicated her life to, and even in the worse years of war, it remained the parent that taught her all she knew. That morning, she needed comfort and reassurance that the forces were still at work to make all things good--and the only place she knew to go was back to the city.

When she arrived that morning, she hadn't unexpected to run into the gypsy lady, even though she knew that was a place she frequented. Their first encounter had been equally unexpected. She was walking home with someone she had just met in the market after the day's work, and the gypsy lady was there at the door to greet them as they came through. In the short exchange, she couldn't help noticing she had the pattern of threads on her sandals. She couldn't make sense of the threads at the time, but she ran into the gypsy lady again and again--too many times that she eventually realised the forces were at work again. In the more recent years of war, the gypsy lady had been the first to remind her of her dream of village life when she invited her back to her village.

She hadn't encountered the gypsy lady since before the night of the exile. In all their exchanges prior, the conversations had been brief, but there had been enough trust built between them that she knew to depend on the friendship of the gypsy lady. She had promised herself not to talk about the exile, but as mystical encounters go, the gypsy lady asked enough questions that she found herself giving away half the exile story.

Again, her friend reminded her of the village life. Again, she felt the beckoning to the southern lands.

As the friends parted ways that day, she found confidence in her steps again. The giant was still ahead, but she had found peace enough for the next leg. Even if she would have to battle the giant, the forces continued to be at work for good.

Her fingers found their way to those rocks again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

As she began her journey back to the road, she looked to the heavens and again whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, and for the gypsy. Most importantly, she gave thanks for the forces that held them all together.

Tribal Stories: Threads

Her fingers grazed the surface of the water lightly. Good enough, she thought. Her feet badly needed soothing after the distance they had covered, but she wasn't sure how the afternoon sun would have affected the water in the stream.

She stuck one foot in then another, as she slowly exhaled and allowed the shallow stream to wash over her feet. Of the days since she left the city walls behind, the last few had been the hardest. The more distance she covered, the further away she felt from her mother and mothers, her grandmother and grandmothers, the sages and her tribespeople. What if the southern lands were only a myth conjured up by the sages? What if there would never be life there? What if all that they had taught her would never be enough for her to survive by herself outside of the city walls? What if they had all been wrong about her leaving, and she had simply been too prideful to turn around and walk back?

She thought again of her tribespeople. Would they understand that she was still a part of their cause? Would they forgive her for walking away while they were entrenched in war? And more importantly, could she forgive herself?

There was a stinging in her eyes as she fought to hold back the tears. She hadn't cried since the night at the tree with the sages and her tribespeople, and she was determined that she wouldn't. Warriors don't cry, she told herself. They all knew it was going to be a hard journey, but she hadn't expected it to get this hard so quickly. She missed the comfort of the city walls and the predictability. Even if the wars continued to rage, at least there was a routine and rhythm to life in the city. Most of all, she missed the conventional wisdom of her mothers and grandmothers and the sages. No one knew what laid ahead on that road, except for the forces that held them together. On the easiest days of the journey, she could be at peace with that.

She waded a little deeper into the stream, trying to forget for a few moments that the road was still calling. There was an odd texture under her right foot, and the stream was shallow enough that she caught sight of a small piece of red material.

It was a pattern of threads she recognised from the ancestral home. She fingered it lightly, wondering how it would have gotten there in the barren desert. There was something haunting about its appearance in the desert road, but she couldn't quite place it.

And then she remembered. It had been many, many years ago before the war, and even before her arrival in the city. It had appeared in her very first dream, before she understood dreams to be significant, and even before she knew about the existence of the city. She remembered the dream too well, and all the dreams in between, if only because of the ways they haunted her.

So much time had passed since that very first dream. The years in the city had cost her the innocent wonderment she used to have for those dreams. It wasn't that she didn't believe in them anymore--she couldn't help it because they haunted her especially in the years of war. It was that she had stopped being in awe of the way they carried her through the uncertainty.

And the threads. There was no way to explain how and why they bothered her, except that it was as if the forces had timed their appearances. The years in the city taught her to be rational, but nothing about the threads was rational. Not when she had found the threads on the road into the city at the very beginning, or when it was on the material worn by the village people when she first met them. There was nothing rational about it appearing on the unexpected basket of supplies the sages handed her when she first began her apprenticeship collecting stories either. As she allowed herself to dwell on it, memories of the other numerous occasions of their appearance came to mind.

"Trust your instincts," her mothers once told her. She hadn't realised it then, but she had only learnt to fully do that not just because it had been wisdom from her mothers, but because the threads would show up after as a mystical guide.

She still struggled to make sense of how walking away from the city walls was supposed to help with the war efforts. She only knew it wasn't that she no longer believed in the city walls, or that the village life would be better. The sages once spoke of the mystical ways of their ancestors. That mysticism came from the stories of her people gave her peace enough to keep walking the road of the unknown. She could only trust in the stories of her people that it will all make sense when the time came.

The road was still calling, but she pulled herself out of the stream and pitched her tent for the night. As she laid her head down that evening, she picked up the rocks marked with the stories of her people and recited the words again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind." "You shall love your neighbor as yourself."

And then she looked to the heavens and whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critters, and for the village people. More importantly, she gave thanks for the forces that held them all together.