I've written on this on a few other occasions, and have re-posted several similar blog posts about being single that I honestly thought I've made enough noise about where I stand. But more recently, after a few conversations with the BFF and a few other people, I thought it might be time again to revisit this topic.
Yes, I'm just over a year away from turning 30.
No, there is no male person of interest in my life at the moment.
No, it's not a priority--that has not changed.
And no, you're not allowed to make me feel like less of a person because of that.
Well, now that that's out of the system, let's talk.
April next year marks ten years since I've been in a romantic relationship. Sure, there was a lot of pain when we first broke up. He had after all been my best friend for a while before we started going out, and the first to teach me to love myself. But that's already been ten years ago.
So that's not why I'm single today, and ok with it.
I've moved around a lot in the last ten years. It's scary to think about settling down with one person, and committing to going or staying with that one person "till death do us part". But if anything, the last seven weeks on the road by myself has taught me the nomadic life would be easier if there was someone who could be a constant with on the road.
So no, that's also not why I'm single today, and ok with it.
Being the partner of a woman in ministry or leadership can be an intimidating task--and this isn't so much a statement about me or my sisters in ministry. It's about the challenges this partnership has to face in a world that can sometimes be unforgiving towards women in leadership. Some of the people I have the most respect for are my guy friends who stand alongside their wives to defy the conventionally misunderstood "wives submit to your husbands" or that "women should keep silent in the churches".
But again, that's not why I'm single today, and ok with it.
Here are a few other lies I've heard recently about being single:
"Well, God will surely provide!"
"Are you asexual?" (or in a friend's case, a lesbian)
"It must be because you're a raging feminist with a case for being an independent woman."
"Well, you're still young ... Wait, you're 28?" *awkward*
I could keep going on.
What I'm really trying to say is, don't make assumptions about my, or my friends' stories. Ask us what we really think about being single and going on 30. Some days are easier than others to be single, but don't make that a reflection of our relationship with God either.
You wanna know why I'm single, going on 30, and ok with it? Here's why.
I don't know whether I'm "called" to be single, or married, or to have kids, or to adopt, or to live in New Zealand forever, or to be in ministry with university students and young adults forever. None of that is a "call" that is forever in the same way that there is no certainty of death or life.
The only thing I know for certain is that I'm called to be faithful.
Whatever that looks like.
I will be faithful if I were in a season to have kids.
I will be faithful if I were in a season to lose the kids.
I will be faithful if I were in a season to move to Timbuktu.
I will be faithful if I were in a season to go back to children's ministry.
I will be faithful if I were in a season to be married.
I will be faithful if I were in a season to be widowed.
I will be faithful even if I'm hoping to God I will never go back to children's ministry, or for a companion on the road.
I will be faithful even if nothing goes as I hope.
Sure, I'm on the later end of my twenties now.
But age does not change my primary call: to be faithful in all things.
So yes, I'm single.
Yes, I'm going on 30.
And yes, I'm ok with it.
Most days, anyway.
"Only, everyone should live as the Lord has assigned, just as God called each one. I give this order in all the churches." - 1 Corinthians 7:17
16 December 2014
12 December 2014
APCGC Reflections...
"And they'll know we are Christians by our love..."
That's a line from a familiar song. We are one in the Spirit; we are one in the Lord...
Some friends from my time in Anderson and I have had our share of musings over the theological repercussions about that line in the song. When it was sung at the Asia Pacific Church of God Conference last week, I found myself smiling fondly--not because of the discussions of the theological repercussions, but because there was something about the spirit of unity as we were singing that song.
Unity. That's one of the pillars of the Church of God Reformation Movement. And unity was what we saw at the APCGC last week.
As I had shared during the morning devotion time on Friday, I had grown up in the Church of God in Singapore hearing about this APCGC. Uncle Mac and Auntie Jean Johnson were regular visitors at our church, and I would hear about this conference from time to time. So to have been not only present for the first time, but also asked to share during this year's conference was a big honour.
But I digress. Unity.
Growing up in the Church of God in Singapore, I had come to eagerly anticipate church camps and conferences. Yes, I was THAT church kid. As a kid, that was the one time I got to hang out with my church friends for a whole week. But as a teenager exploring my call to ministry, those few days of camp became a time of seeking, of spending time with those whom, upon looking back now, have been mentoring me from the time I was a shy kid hiding away from the crowds. Because of that, church camps and conferences were always special to me. It wasn't till much later that I found out that this Campmeeting thing was a big thing for this wider Church family I came to love dearly.
In my college and seminary years, the Anderson Campmeeting (and the various names it has come to be known by) slowly grew to become a highlight for me each summer. Part of it, admittedly, was because as part of my job while in seminary, I got to meet church leaders and missionaries from all around the world--and hearing the stories of cross-cultural ministry always fascinated me.
But more importantly, it was the spirit of campmeeting.
The spirit of togetherness.
The spirit of unity.
As I sat in each of the conference sessions at the APCGC last week, it became apparent to me that the spirit of unity was so present in our midst. Pastors, ministry leaders, lay leaders, missionaries alike, were all in the same room sharing about what God was doing in our region. Maybe it's because I've felt so distant from the rest of the Church of God family, since the Church of God presence in Aotearoa New Zealand and the South Pacific is young and tiny. Maybe it was the songs that we sang that reminded me of my childhood growing up in the Church of God in Singapore. Whatever it was, it reminded me of the importance of gathering with the brothers and sisters for the very reason of being together.
Unity.
Ah yes, unity.
Two particular highlights for me from our time together:
The first was the privilege of translating for the second half of the conference. It was an unexpected responsibility because I had only mentioned to Pastor Alan on the Wednesday that I would be happy to help if needed. I never thought I would ever serve as a translator because my Mandarin sits in about 10 years of rust, and my spiritual vocabulary exists mostly only in English. But I could tell the translators were struggling, and later found out they had to translate from Mandarin to Cantonese to English in their heads.
My Mandarin may be rusty (and it definitely showed on a few occasions), but there's something about growing up bilingual that I realised I can no longer take for granted. In more than one way, it was also a reminder for me to return to my first clear call to ministry: to the ones living in-between cultures, where translation is more than just about the language barriers--something I'll be unpacking more in the days to come.
The other highlight took place on that same Thursday that I did about 4 hours of translating. At lunch the day before, I had the opportunity to be a part of a brief conversation between our Chinese and Japanese national leaders (identities concealed for security reasons). If you're familiar with the history, these two nations have had a long-standing political enmity towards each other. Our Chinese pastor shared that growing up in China, he had always been taught in school to hate the Japanese, though he had no clear understanding of why. Yet as his understanding of the Gospel grew, he began to understand that for God so loved the world, and the world included Japan and the Japanese. He then requested for a moment of reconciliation between the Chinese and Japanese Church at the end of the China Consultation Day the next day.
That next day was a moment in history I will never forget. (A small piece of personal history here: my first call to ministry was to "return" to China. There are a lot of cultural pieces surrounding this "return" that will be explained at a later time.) Witnessing that moment of reconciliation where the Japanese and Chinese brothers and sisters embraced each other (and also serving as translator for that entire segment) is something that will forever be etched in my heart. There were tears, hugs, words of encouragement to each other. I've studied biblical reconciliation for a while now thanks to my seminary work, but to see it first hand in a moment like that is a completely different experience.
"And they'll know we are Christians by our love..."
Unity.
Ah yes. Sweet unity.
That's a line from a familiar song. We are one in the Spirit; we are one in the Lord...
Some friends from my time in Anderson and I have had our share of musings over the theological repercussions about that line in the song. When it was sung at the Asia Pacific Church of God Conference last week, I found myself smiling fondly--not because of the discussions of the theological repercussions, but because there was something about the spirit of unity as we were singing that song.
Unity. That's one of the pillars of the Church of God Reformation Movement. And unity was what we saw at the APCGC last week.
As I had shared during the morning devotion time on Friday, I had grown up in the Church of God in Singapore hearing about this APCGC. Uncle Mac and Auntie Jean Johnson were regular visitors at our church, and I would hear about this conference from time to time. So to have been not only present for the first time, but also asked to share during this year's conference was a big honour.
But I digress. Unity.
Growing up in the Church of God in Singapore, I had come to eagerly anticipate church camps and conferences. Yes, I was THAT church kid. As a kid, that was the one time I got to hang out with my church friends for a whole week. But as a teenager exploring my call to ministry, those few days of camp became a time of seeking, of spending time with those whom, upon looking back now, have been mentoring me from the time I was a shy kid hiding away from the crowds. Because of that, church camps and conferences were always special to me. It wasn't till much later that I found out that this Campmeeting thing was a big thing for this wider Church family I came to love dearly.
In my college and seminary years, the Anderson Campmeeting (and the various names it has come to be known by) slowly grew to become a highlight for me each summer. Part of it, admittedly, was because as part of my job while in seminary, I got to meet church leaders and missionaries from all around the world--and hearing the stories of cross-cultural ministry always fascinated me.
But more importantly, it was the spirit of campmeeting.
The spirit of togetherness.
The spirit of unity.
As I sat in each of the conference sessions at the APCGC last week, it became apparent to me that the spirit of unity was so present in our midst. Pastors, ministry leaders, lay leaders, missionaries alike, were all in the same room sharing about what God was doing in our region. Maybe it's because I've felt so distant from the rest of the Church of God family, since the Church of God presence in Aotearoa New Zealand and the South Pacific is young and tiny. Maybe it was the songs that we sang that reminded me of my childhood growing up in the Church of God in Singapore. Whatever it was, it reminded me of the importance of gathering with the brothers and sisters for the very reason of being together.
Unity.
Ah yes, unity.
Two particular highlights for me from our time together:
The first was the privilege of translating for the second half of the conference. It was an unexpected responsibility because I had only mentioned to Pastor Alan on the Wednesday that I would be happy to help if needed. I never thought I would ever serve as a translator because my Mandarin sits in about 10 years of rust, and my spiritual vocabulary exists mostly only in English. But I could tell the translators were struggling, and later found out they had to translate from Mandarin to Cantonese to English in their heads.
My Mandarin may be rusty (and it definitely showed on a few occasions), but there's something about growing up bilingual that I realised I can no longer take for granted. In more than one way, it was also a reminder for me to return to my first clear call to ministry: to the ones living in-between cultures, where translation is more than just about the language barriers--something I'll be unpacking more in the days to come.
The other highlight took place on that same Thursday that I did about 4 hours of translating. At lunch the day before, I had the opportunity to be a part of a brief conversation between our Chinese and Japanese national leaders (identities concealed for security reasons). If you're familiar with the history, these two nations have had a long-standing political enmity towards each other. Our Chinese pastor shared that growing up in China, he had always been taught in school to hate the Japanese, though he had no clear understanding of why. Yet as his understanding of the Gospel grew, he began to understand that for God so loved the world, and the world included Japan and the Japanese. He then requested for a moment of reconciliation between the Chinese and Japanese Church at the end of the China Consultation Day the next day.
That next day was a moment in history I will never forget. (A small piece of personal history here: my first call to ministry was to "return" to China. There are a lot of cultural pieces surrounding this "return" that will be explained at a later time.) Witnessing that moment of reconciliation where the Japanese and Chinese brothers and sisters embraced each other (and also serving as translator for that entire segment) is something that will forever be etched in my heart. There were tears, hugs, words of encouragement to each other. I've studied biblical reconciliation for a while now thanks to my seminary work, but to see it first hand in a moment like that is a completely different experience.
"And they'll know we are Christians by our love..."
Unity.
Ah yes. Sweet unity.
27 October 2014
The Reluctant Pastor: On Presence
A few years ago when I was in Berlin, I met a woman who greatly changed my perspective on life.
If you have been following this blog from its very beginning, you would know that Ruth made a regular appearance on my blog through my Berlin chapter. See, Ruth was one of those people who would drop everything she's doing to simply be a friend. We would run into her at Herr Minsch's cake shop across the street and she would hop off her bicycle and visit with us.
While I was there, I had to get some dental work done. When Ruth found out, she made the appointment for me to go see her dentist and went with me to every appointment I had to both be my translator and help me figure out the best decisions to make with what the dentist was recommending.
After my 3-month internship in Berlin, I decided I wanted to be Ruthwhen if I grew up. Even though she didn't do the church thing and wasn't entirely convinced by the Jesus thing, she had been my "Jesus with skin-on".
I met Moe last Sunday at a young adult event at one of the churches. She said she had a dance recital on Friday. It had sort of become second-nature as part of my presence-based-ministry job to show up at these events simply to be a friendly face in the crowd, so naturally I was there.
Moe did such a lovely job that night, but I had another event to be at, so I left right after the show without congratulating her. Just before my bus arrived, I spotted her with a few of her mates at the bus-stop, so I headed over to say hello. She was almost in tears when she realised I had actually made it to the show.
Quite honestly, I wasn't expecting that dramatic of a reaction from her. In my head, I had simply checked off another box on my list of things to do as a part of my job. I guess in some ways, I had lost sight of the bigger picture of why we chose to take the presence-based approach with The Bridge. After a while of doing the same thing over and over again, it can be easy to forget that even the littlest things we are doing causes a ripple effect in the world. Or that simply showing up to be a friendly face would actually mean that much to someone.
And then I found myself wondering if Ruth knew how much her company at the dentist truly meant to me.
A few weeks ago, some friends and I were joking about how we would never wear a clergy collar, and the other aspects of ministry that we struggle with because of the pompousness associated with them. One of them however, pointed out that one of our friends intentionally chooses to wear the clergy collar because it opens up conversations with people, and because it reminds him of who and what he represents.
Even today, I struggle with the "pastor" title. I don't mind so much that it keeps random gentlemen trying to strike up conversations in cafes at bay. Or that immigration officers (particularly in New Zealand) give me an easier time. There's just so much negative baggage associated with the "pastor" title (I know, this isn't the first time I've written about this). But more recently, like my friend who wears the clergy collar, I've subconsciously become more intentional (I know that sounds like an oxymoron, but it makes sense if you think about it) about telling people I'm a pastor. Because it definitely opens up interesting conversations that this young, Asian female would be a pastor.
But more importantly, through all the ups and downs that this year of ministry-planting has brought, I'm choosing to regularly use "pastor" as my job description now to remind myself that above all the other potential distractions of business plans and ministry strategies, the most important part of my job is that presence-based focus to build people and relationships, not simply programmes and buildings.
So if you need a friendly face to be your biggest cheerleader, I'm there. Because that's what this pastor thing means to me.
If you have been following this blog from its very beginning, you would know that Ruth made a regular appearance on my blog through my Berlin chapter. See, Ruth was one of those people who would drop everything she's doing to simply be a friend. We would run into her at Herr Minsch's cake shop across the street and she would hop off her bicycle and visit with us.
While I was there, I had to get some dental work done. When Ruth found out, she made the appointment for me to go see her dentist and went with me to every appointment I had to both be my translator and help me figure out the best decisions to make with what the dentist was recommending.
After my 3-month internship in Berlin, I decided I wanted to be Ruth
I met Moe last Sunday at a young adult event at one of the churches. She said she had a dance recital on Friday. It had sort of become second-nature as part of my presence-based-ministry job to show up at these events simply to be a friendly face in the crowd, so naturally I was there.
Moe did such a lovely job that night, but I had another event to be at, so I left right after the show without congratulating her. Just before my bus arrived, I spotted her with a few of her mates at the bus-stop, so I headed over to say hello. She was almost in tears when she realised I had actually made it to the show.
Quite honestly, I wasn't expecting that dramatic of a reaction from her. In my head, I had simply checked off another box on my list of things to do as a part of my job. I guess in some ways, I had lost sight of the bigger picture of why we chose to take the presence-based approach with The Bridge. After a while of doing the same thing over and over again, it can be easy to forget that even the littlest things we are doing causes a ripple effect in the world. Or that simply showing up to be a friendly face would actually mean that much to someone.
And then I found myself wondering if Ruth knew how much her company at the dentist truly meant to me.
A few weeks ago, some friends and I were joking about how we would never wear a clergy collar, and the other aspects of ministry that we struggle with because of the pompousness associated with them. One of them however, pointed out that one of our friends intentionally chooses to wear the clergy collar because it opens up conversations with people, and because it reminds him of who and what he represents.
Even today, I struggle with the "pastor" title. I don't mind so much that it keeps random gentlemen trying to strike up conversations in cafes at bay. Or that immigration officers (particularly in New Zealand) give me an easier time. There's just so much negative baggage associated with the "pastor" title (I know, this isn't the first time I've written about this). But more recently, like my friend who wears the clergy collar, I've subconsciously become more intentional (I know that sounds like an oxymoron, but it makes sense if you think about it) about telling people I'm a pastor. Because it definitely opens up interesting conversations that this young, Asian female would be a pastor.
But more importantly, through all the ups and downs that this year of ministry-planting has brought, I'm choosing to regularly use "pastor" as my job description now to remind myself that above all the other potential distractions of business plans and ministry strategies, the most important part of my job is that presence-based focus to build people and relationships, not simply programmes and buildings.
So if you need a friendly face to be your biggest cheerleader, I'm there. Because that's what this pastor thing means to me.
02 October 2014
On Writing... (And Being a Real Pastor)
Josh said the other day I should write more. I would agree with him, except I haven't had any coherent thoughts lately that would give me a good start to a new post, so I guess I would start this one off with a shout-out to him. Cheers, Batman. Thanks for getting me to start writing again.
Those of you who have been following this blog for a while would know I'm not one of those professional bloggers who have a blogging schedule filled with specific topics. Some months, I have a lot of angst to vent, so I write a lot. Some months, my head is so full that I don't even know where to begin. Then when I finally sit down and force myself to write again, the first post usually has some content about why I write, particularly because the readership of this blog changes with time so some re-introductions are necessary. Well, here is that "this is why I write" post.
I write because it was a way to release the angst I had as a teenager. When life gives you lemons, stew them into alphabet soup and splash them on cyber-space. I cringe when I think about some of the stuff I splashed on cyber-space ten years ago, but that's all a part of life too.
 |
| Cloudy Brain Zen-Doodle 30-09-14 |
I write because it
I write because it
Most people know I struggle with the "pastor" title. Along with some negative associations of what pastors can be like (particularly as I work more and more with a post-Christian demographic), the title can also be loaded with expectations that I somehow lead a more struggle-free or holy life (which can be really handy to speed through immigration procedures at times!). Plus I'm hardly comfortable preaching or teaching so I often disclaim I'm not *THAT* kind of pastor.
But writing... That's a different story (see what I did there?).
I used to give myself heaps of pressure to write highly-intellectual blog posts after all my years of higher-education and pastoral ministry. Sure, my brain loves dissecting the macro and micro of the fate of humankind and once in a while, it leads to a super nerdy post that I get just a bit giddy about. But I can only handle deep academic theology in small doses, and what I really love most is writing about the life stuff. The messy stuff.
Then I used to wonder if writing about the messy life stuff made me a less-than-orthodox pastor (which is really ok, since I'm not *THAT* kind of pastor anyway). I mean, when I first started blogging as a teenager, it was only my peers who read about my angst so I could be as emotionally dramatic as I wanted. But then my audience started shifting, and few of the Christian/theologian bloggers I follow would write about the messy life stuff. At one point, my mum actually said that the bleak posts I was writing as a young adult didn't actually reflect the hope I had in Christ. Admittedly, it stung at first. I didn't want to be another Christian blogger that only talked about how
A few months ago, I wrote about living with clinical depression and spent the hours after that living in fear of being judged for not being a better steward of my mental/emotional health. I didn't know any other pastor who talked openly about depression and wondered if it was one of those topics that no self-respecting pastor would openly talk about. Oddly enough, that was one of the posts I had the most responses from--because more pastors live with depression than you hear about, and it seemed like everyone was waiting for someone else to give them permission to talk about it.
 |
| Perfection: the wall that crumbles Zen-Doodle 01-10-14 |
I guess part of the reason that writing comes more easily for me is because I get to hide away a little bit. I get to take all the time I want to choose what side and how much of the real, messy life stuff I want to share, then craft it into a neat, perfect string of words and backspace fifty-million times before I finally hit "publish".
But that's the thing. I choose to write not because I can hide behind that wall of perfection, because that wall of perfection will crumble.
No, I write because I hope that the stories I collect continually connects me back to the community that holds me and that our stories will keep that wall from building up.
I write because writing invokes my mother's reminder even on my darkest, most cynical days, that I have an unexplainable and completely experiential seed of faith, hope and love that has sunk deep roots in my spiritual being.
And I write because it waters this seed so that even in the darkest corners with a big bucket of lemons and a bad day with Black Dog, I still see the candle in the distance.
 |
| Saying No doesn't have to be complicated Zen-Doodle 30-09-14 |
And to you, I ask this: What is your outlet?
02 September 2014
On Young Adults #1: Some thoughts on engaging the Church...
Even though I've officially only been in the role of student ministries pastor for about eight months, the young adult age group is one that I've been quite passionate about for a long time. I haven't written as much as I would have liked, but here are some very initial thoughts.
There's a lot that the Church tries to do to seemingly cater to this group called the "young adults", and especially so since the "millenial" term was made popular. Which, I genuinely applaud their effort for trying, but not all of these attempts have been sucessful. I don't claim at all to be an expert in this field, but these are simply a few observations both from my own journey and from my conversations with some of the finest I've met.
1) Stop simply talking about us and actually talk to us.
Don't talk about us like we are a problem that needs to be solved. Don't generalise our behaviours. Talk to us, and find out that we, just like every generation that has come before us and every generation that will come after us, are all fearfully and wonderfully made individuals who are as traditional and postmodern, conservative and liberal, creative and original, as it gets. And for every continuum there is, you can find one of us on every end of the spectrum and all the in-betweens. We are not one general "millenial" collective. We are individuals who are just trying to find our place in the world. So thank you for talking about us, and trying to create a programme that we can fit into, but no thank you. Ask how we want to be engaged.
2) Tell us we no longer need permission.
We no longer have school or teachers, youth groups or youth pastors to tell us what to do. We want to make it on our own, but for our whole lives until now, we've lived under some form of safety net which was incredible for our early developmental years. But if we are to make it on our own, we need to know that we no longer need permission to lead our generation or to be creative, and we need to hear that from you. That doesn't mean you leave us alone completely, because we still need to know we can come to you for wisdom and to know that you will always be our biggest cheerleaders even as we make mistakes, struggle and fail.
3) Remind us we are a part of a bigger community.
As we enter adulthood, we are also beginning to realise more and more that the world really does not revolve around us. It is far easier for us to only mingle with our peer-group than for us to initiate conversations with those who seem to have accomplished much in life, even if we have utmost respect and admiration for them. As people ahead of us in the journey of life, you have stories and legacies to share, and we need to hear those stories to remember that we are a part of something bigger. Tell us what it was like growing up in the part of the world you grew up in, how you came to Aotearoa, or why you chose to be in the vocation you are in. And ask us about our hopes and dreams, not so you can tell us how we'll go wrong even if you know from experience we are simply young and idealistic. But walk with us each step of the way. Because these are the things that keep us in the whanau.
4) We are NOT a singles club.
I once mentioned to a pastor friend I was thinking of doing something with young adults and the response I got was, "Great! We definitely need a singles ministry!" *face-palm*
Not all of us spend our twenties dreaming of meeting the right person, or the perfect wedding, or thinking up names for our yet-unborn kids. Some of us simply want a group of friends who can dream together about what it means to make an impact in our communities and in the world. Don't try to pressure us into creating speed-dating events or turning our young adults gatherings into "singles clubs" where we can meet other young, single people. Working against poverty and advocating for sex workers are as noble causes as getting married and raising children.
There you go. What else would you add on this list? I'd love to hear from you.
There's a lot that the Church tries to do to seemingly cater to this group called the "young adults", and especially so since the "millenial" term was made popular. Which, I genuinely applaud their effort for trying, but not all of these attempts have been sucessful. I don't claim at all to be an expert in this field, but these are simply a few observations both from my own journey and from my conversations with some of the finest I've met.
1) Stop simply talking about us and actually talk to us.
Don't talk about us like we are a problem that needs to be solved. Don't generalise our behaviours. Talk to us, and find out that we, just like every generation that has come before us and every generation that will come after us, are all fearfully and wonderfully made individuals who are as traditional and postmodern, conservative and liberal, creative and original, as it gets. And for every continuum there is, you can find one of us on every end of the spectrum and all the in-betweens. We are not one general "millenial" collective. We are individuals who are just trying to find our place in the world. So thank you for talking about us, and trying to create a programme that we can fit into, but no thank you. Ask how we want to be engaged.
2) Tell us we no longer need permission.
We no longer have school or teachers, youth groups or youth pastors to tell us what to do. We want to make it on our own, but for our whole lives until now, we've lived under some form of safety net which was incredible for our early developmental years. But if we are to make it on our own, we need to know that we no longer need permission to lead our generation or to be creative, and we need to hear that from you. That doesn't mean you leave us alone completely, because we still need to know we can come to you for wisdom and to know that you will always be our biggest cheerleaders even as we make mistakes, struggle and fail.
3) Remind us we are a part of a bigger community.
As we enter adulthood, we are also beginning to realise more and more that the world really does not revolve around us. It is far easier for us to only mingle with our peer-group than for us to initiate conversations with those who seem to have accomplished much in life, even if we have utmost respect and admiration for them. As people ahead of us in the journey of life, you have stories and legacies to share, and we need to hear those stories to remember that we are a part of something bigger. Tell us what it was like growing up in the part of the world you grew up in, how you came to Aotearoa, or why you chose to be in the vocation you are in. And ask us about our hopes and dreams, not so you can tell us how we'll go wrong even if you know from experience we are simply young and idealistic. But walk with us each step of the way. Because these are the things that keep us in the whanau.
4) We are NOT a singles club.
I once mentioned to a pastor friend I was thinking of doing something with young adults and the response I got was, "Great! We definitely need a singles ministry!" *face-palm*
Not all of us spend our twenties dreaming of meeting the right person, or the perfect wedding, or thinking up names for our yet-unborn kids. Some of us simply want a group of friends who can dream together about what it means to make an impact in our communities and in the world. Don't try to pressure us into creating speed-dating events or turning our young adults gatherings into "singles clubs" where we can meet other young, single people. Working against poverty and advocating for sex workers are as noble causes as getting married and raising children.
There you go. What else would you add on this list? I'd love to hear from you.
21 August 2014
10 Years Abroad
I remember that day like it was yesterday.
How I cried the entire flight from Singapore to LAX and scared off the guy in the seat beside me.
The eight hours at LAX, homesick and annoyed by the "Do not leave your luggage unattended" PSA.
Having this wishful thought that when I landed in Indianapolis, it would be the people I just left behind in Changi Airport who would greet me.
Walking all around campus trying to find Maplewood Cemetery and reorient myself so I could figure out where Mac and Jean Johnson lived.
My first meal at Steak and Shake.
I always thought I would return to Singapore.
In fact, I told the pastor who mentored me and my church that I would return after four years.
Funny how life turns out.
There was Springfield, Illinois with the Women's Chorus.
Breckenridge, Michigan with the Rhynards for Thanksgiving.
Fort Lauderdale, Florida with Amy D for Spring Break.
Numerous trips to Ohio and Michigan with AU Center for Ministry Education (AUCME).
Atlanta, Georgia with Church on the Street.
Saltillo, Mexico with the Tri-S work camp at La Buena Tierra.
Portland, Oregon with Steph (Hatch) McMorris.
Allen, South Dakota with the Tri-S work camp at Pine Ridge Reservation.
Southwestern states with the family for graduation.
Grand Cayman, Cayman Islands with the Tri-S VBS programme.
鹤山, China with the family to trace our ancestral roots.
New York City, New York with the Tri-S urban ministry team.
Berlin, Germany with the SOT for my urban ministry internship.
Phnom Penh, Cambodia with the family.
East Coast states with the family for graduation.
And then to Auckland, New Zealand...
By then, there was no turning back.
Airports became my friends.
Flight times became my oasis.
On the one hand, I feel like I'm not old enough to have lived abroad by myself (or done anything, really) for ten years.
On the other hand, I'm grateful that this has been a much richer life than I could have ever dreamed.
I learnt to treasure relationships rather than accumulate stuff.
I learnt to breathe in the depth of long hugs.
I learnt to cook with basic ingredients that translate across culture.
I learnt to wash dishes three different ways.
I learnt to live as part of both majority and minority cultures.
I learnt to value mental and emotional health.
The last ten years have probably been filled with more seasons of tears, losses and goodbyes than anything. But even the shortest seasons of celebration and all the incredible new friendships have made it all a sweet deal.
Here's to more years of craziness and incredible friendships, wherever life may lead.
How I cried the entire flight from Singapore to LAX and scared off the guy in the seat beside me.
The eight hours at LAX, homesick and annoyed by the "Do not leave your luggage unattended" PSA.
Having this wishful thought that when I landed in Indianapolis, it would be the people I just left behind in Changi Airport who would greet me.
Walking all around campus trying to find Maplewood Cemetery and reorient myself so I could figure out where Mac and Jean Johnson lived.
My first meal at Steak and Shake.
I always thought I would return to Singapore.
In fact, I told the pastor who mentored me and my church that I would return after four years.
Funny how life turns out.
There was Springfield, Illinois with the Women's Chorus.
Breckenridge, Michigan with the Rhynards for Thanksgiving.
Fort Lauderdale, Florida with Amy D for Spring Break.
Numerous trips to Ohio and Michigan with AU Center for Ministry Education (AUCME).
Atlanta, Georgia with Church on the Street.
Saltillo, Mexico with the Tri-S work camp at La Buena Tierra.
Portland, Oregon with Steph (Hatch) McMorris.
Allen, South Dakota with the Tri-S work camp at Pine Ridge Reservation.
Southwestern states with the family for graduation.
Grand Cayman, Cayman Islands with the Tri-S VBS programme.
鹤山, China with the family to trace our ancestral roots.
New York City, New York with the Tri-S urban ministry team.
Berlin, Germany with the SOT for my urban ministry internship.
Phnom Penh, Cambodia with the family.
East Coast states with the family for graduation.
And then to Auckland, New Zealand...
By then, there was no turning back.
Airports became my friends.
Flight times became my oasis.
On the one hand, I feel like I'm not old enough to have lived abroad by myself (or done anything, really) for ten years.
On the other hand, I'm grateful that this has been a much richer life than I could have ever dreamed.
I learnt to treasure relationships rather than accumulate stuff.
I learnt to breathe in the depth of long hugs.
I learnt to cook with basic ingredients that translate across culture.
I learnt to wash dishes three different ways.
I learnt to live as part of both majority and minority cultures.
I learnt to value mental and emotional health.
The last ten years have probably been filled with more seasons of tears, losses and goodbyes than anything. But even the shortest seasons of celebration and all the incredible new friendships have made it all a sweet deal.
Here's to more years of craziness and incredible friendships, wherever life may lead.
31 July 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: "Story Time"
Every once in a while, I can't help but wonder if I've completely lost the plot by choosing to ministry plant from scratch.
Don't get me wrong, I absolutely adore the people I get to spend time with. No, really. I'm not just saying that because it's a part of my job. I would still hang out with these people even if I didn't also have the privilege of calling it "my job".
But every once in a while, when I get asked what it is that I'm actually doing, I find myself wondering if all I'm really doing is fluffing around, planning parties and hanging out with awesome people for no greater purpose. Because I'm starting this ministry plant from scratch, I have to find my own "bosses" to report to and create accountability structures that complement the style of ministry without hindering its organic DNA. And so a lot of times, this thing I claim to call "my job" just feels like fluff.
Then last week, I finally sat down and had coffee with Gypsey. We've tried several times to do what I like to call "story time," but for one reason or another, they keep getting interrupted. But in those few brief moments of "story time," I caught a glimpse of why this seemingly fluffy model of "just hanging out" wasn't actually quite so fluffy.
Gypsey reminded me that I had somehow managed to get people to hang out more regularly than she has ever remembered. I daren't claim any credit for that because all I did was tell a few people, (mostly Ben, who's the real connector of these awesome people) "hey, it would be crazy awesome if we did this...." and things just kind of happened. And even if the reasons that these pockets of people gathering semi-regularly seem somewhat "fluffy," they are seeing each other more, eating together more, annoying each other more, laughing together more, and doing dishes together more.
That. That's what makes me giddy excited.
Then tonight I met Gina at Valley Road Church's Mid-Winter Christmas dinner. "Story time" led to the discovery that we had a lot of similarities in our stories. Gina is Korean, but started high-school in Pennsylvania and moved to Texas with her host family and spent a total of ten years in the US. Four years ago, she took a job as a maths teacher and moved to Auckland. As I began explaining what I did, she simply nodded like it totally made sense. "Auckland needs people like you for pastors. People like us who have moved around before understand what it means to not really have a place of belonging in any culture anymore. And there's so many of us here in Auckland."
And then suddenly, it all made sense. Just the other day, I found myself telling David something along the lines of how my entire style of ministry comes out of my belief that my life-story was written in a way that gives me the credibility to do ministry in a certain way. And to not take that approach would be to do injustice to The One who wrote the story that way. Quite frankly, I wasn't quite convinced at the time of our conversation (given that it was early in the morning on a sicky brain didn't help much). But "story time" keeps sneaking up in the interactions with my awesome people that I'm left with no choice but to admit that I'm really not just fluffing around with no greater purpose.
And then I'm reminded that in my initial dreaming about The Bridge, I wrote something about collecting stories. I had assumed then it meant I would be writing a lot more this year, but who wants to write when you have awesome people to hang out with? (Don't freak out, I'm still going to write because it's what keeps me sane.) Yet I do truly believe in the power of stories, and not just for the ones hearing them. To give voice to and to allow stories to be heard is just as powerful and life-giving.
"Story time"
That. That's what makes me giddy excited.
Don't get me wrong, I absolutely adore the people I get to spend time with. No, really. I'm not just saying that because it's a part of my job. I would still hang out with these people even if I didn't also have the privilege of calling it "my job".
But every once in a while, when I get asked what it is that I'm actually doing, I find myself wondering if all I'm really doing is fluffing around, planning parties and hanging out with awesome people for no greater purpose. Because I'm starting this ministry plant from scratch, I have to find my own "bosses" to report to and create accountability structures that complement the style of ministry without hindering its organic DNA. And so a lot of times, this thing I claim to call "my job" just feels like fluff.
Then last week, I finally sat down and had coffee with Gypsey. We've tried several times to do what I like to call "story time," but for one reason or another, they keep getting interrupted. But in those few brief moments of "story time," I caught a glimpse of why this seemingly fluffy model of "just hanging out" wasn't actually quite so fluffy.
Gypsey reminded me that I had somehow managed to get people to hang out more regularly than she has ever remembered. I daren't claim any credit for that because all I did was tell a few people, (mostly Ben, who's the real connector of these awesome people) "hey, it would be crazy awesome if we did this...." and things just kind of happened. And even if the reasons that these pockets of people gathering semi-regularly seem somewhat "fluffy," they are seeing each other more, eating together more, annoying each other more, laughing together more, and doing dishes together more.
That. That's what makes me giddy excited.
Then tonight I met Gina at Valley Road Church's Mid-Winter Christmas dinner. "Story time" led to the discovery that we had a lot of similarities in our stories. Gina is Korean, but started high-school in Pennsylvania and moved to Texas with her host family and spent a total of ten years in the US. Four years ago, she took a job as a maths teacher and moved to Auckland. As I began explaining what I did, she simply nodded like it totally made sense. "Auckland needs people like you for pastors. People like us who have moved around before understand what it means to not really have a place of belonging in any culture anymore. And there's so many of us here in Auckland."
And then suddenly, it all made sense. Just the other day, I found myself telling David something along the lines of how my entire style of ministry comes out of my belief that my life-story was written in a way that gives me the credibility to do ministry in a certain way. And to not take that approach would be to do injustice to The One who wrote the story that way. Quite frankly, I wasn't quite convinced at the time of our conversation (given that it was early in the morning on a sicky brain didn't help much). But "story time" keeps sneaking up in the interactions with my awesome people that I'm left with no choice but to admit that I'm really not just fluffing around with no greater purpose.
And then I'm reminded that in my initial dreaming about The Bridge, I wrote something about collecting stories. I had assumed then it meant I would be writing a lot more this year, but who wants to write when you have awesome people to hang out with? (Don't freak out, I'm still going to write because it's what keeps me sane.) Yet I do truly believe in the power of stories, and not just for the ones hearing them. To give voice to and to allow stories to be heard is just as powerful and life-giving.
"Story time"
That. That's what makes me giddy excited.
29 July 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: Life Support
It has been nearly ten years since I first met Melissa. I was a college freshman (first year of uni) at Anderson University who had been crying herself to sleep out of homesickness. Within the first few minutes of our interaction, I had made the decision to snap out of my painfully shy, socially awkward self to allow her in, whatever that meant.
Melissa was the residence director of the dorm I lived in. At first, she was like the house-mum that made sure I wasn't skipping meals (which happens whenever I'm stressed or homesick). She was only a few years older than I was, but she seemed so much wiser. As the years went by, she became a mentor and friend--someone I came to rely on as part of my life-support network.
A few years later as I was starting seminary, I had to take a class called Spiritual Formation that required us to be paired with a mentor who would journey with us for that first semester. An important part of preparing for the ministerial journey involved exploring our life stories, including some of the deepest, darkest, and possibly most painful chapters, and to begin dealing with some of them. I could think of no better person I wanted to take that journey with than Melissa. We shared the painful loss of Keren and she understood my quirks. But she was also just far ahead enough in life that she would call me out and kick me in the (you know where) as necessary.
The more time I'm spending with the uni students and young adults here in Aotearoa, the more thankful I am for the small town college experience I had in Anderson, Indiana. I recall the long conversations with Melissa about the transition into the young adult stage of life and this new found semi-independence, the cross-cultural move and how relationships with family and the previous "home culture" change in this new phase of life, and all the other "life stuff" I threw at her. And in spite of the season of struggle with Park Place, that church family taught me heaps about the importance of being in an intergenerational community, and I'm richer for having adopted grandparents, spiritual parents and kid-brothers and sisters to do life with. That small town college experience created a life-support network for me that can be hard to create in a city of about 1.5 million people. It can be easy to get lost in the crowd as a university student in the midst of about 40,000 other people.
A few weeks ago on the last week of uni break, a group of about thirteen of us went away for the week. Most of us in this group are involved in some form of leadership in church, and each time we get together, it's about agendas and programmes and coaching and training. But just for those five days, we simply hung out, played games, ate too much, took in the beach, and just for once... be together. On several occasions, Carmel and I found ourselves saying over and over how much we longed for this group to have a few more people just a little ahead of them in life to ask questions as necessary, to poke or prod or kick in the (you know where) as necessary, and simply to just walk alongside in life.
I may have said this too many times now, but I truly, truly love what I get to do in this season. And I truly, truly love each of these crazy young adults I've had the privilege of walking (and mostly laughingat) with. But there's just not enough of us to help support and mentor them through this season of discovering that it's ok to have more questions than answers, and that it's ok to not know what they are doing after graduation regardless of what pressures society might give them. Because if we can be to them who Melissa was to me, how many more generations can be impacted from this group of phenomenal young adults we currently have?
And that's when I realise again that since the very beginning stages as I was thinking about strategies for The Bridge, this life-support network structure was written into the very DNA of the ministry. The vision was never to form another big club or organisation for students or young adults to get lost in, but to create small, intimate settings for life to happen. And just to indulge my need for "success" for a second: If we can have small groups of people gathering regularly to do life together, I think we have a win for our first year.
Have I said yet that I love what I get to do? Because I really, really do.
Melissa was the residence director of the dorm I lived in. At first, she was like the house-mum that made sure I wasn't skipping meals (which happens whenever I'm stressed or homesick). She was only a few years older than I was, but she seemed so much wiser. As the years went by, she became a mentor and friend--someone I came to rely on as part of my life-support network.
A few years later as I was starting seminary, I had to take a class called Spiritual Formation that required us to be paired with a mentor who would journey with us for that first semester. An important part of preparing for the ministerial journey involved exploring our life stories, including some of the deepest, darkest, and possibly most painful chapters, and to begin dealing with some of them. I could think of no better person I wanted to take that journey with than Melissa. We shared the painful loss of Keren and she understood my quirks. But she was also just far ahead enough in life that she would call me out and kick me in the (you know where) as necessary.
The more time I'm spending with the uni students and young adults here in Aotearoa, the more thankful I am for the small town college experience I had in Anderson, Indiana. I recall the long conversations with Melissa about the transition into the young adult stage of life and this new found semi-independence, the cross-cultural move and how relationships with family and the previous "home culture" change in this new phase of life, and all the other "life stuff" I threw at her. And in spite of the season of struggle with Park Place, that church family taught me heaps about the importance of being in an intergenerational community, and I'm richer for having adopted grandparents, spiritual parents and kid-brothers and sisters to do life with. That small town college experience created a life-support network for me that can be hard to create in a city of about 1.5 million people. It can be easy to get lost in the crowd as a university student in the midst of about 40,000 other people.
A few weeks ago on the last week of uni break, a group of about thirteen of us went away for the week. Most of us in this group are involved in some form of leadership in church, and each time we get together, it's about agendas and programmes and coaching and training. But just for those five days, we simply hung out, played games, ate too much, took in the beach, and just for once... be together. On several occasions, Carmel and I found ourselves saying over and over how much we longed for this group to have a few more people just a little ahead of them in life to ask questions as necessary, to poke or prod or kick in the (you know where) as necessary, and simply to just walk alongside in life.
I may have said this too many times now, but I truly, truly love what I get to do in this season. And I truly, truly love each of these crazy young adults I've had the privilege of walking (and mostly laughing
And that's when I realise again that since the very beginning stages as I was thinking about strategies for The Bridge, this life-support network structure was written into the very DNA of the ministry. The vision was never to form another big club or organisation for students or young adults to get lost in, but to create small, intimate settings for life to happen. And just to indulge my need for "success" for a second: If we can have small groups of people gathering regularly to do life together, I think we have a win for our first year.
Have I said yet that I love what I get to do? Because I really, really do.
25 June 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: Emerging Leaders
My most recent TV addiction has been The Voice Australia. If you don't know anything about The Voice, it's essentially kind of like American Idol, except with a twist in that celebrity coaches listen to singers in blind auditions (they sit in chairs with their backs toward the singers) and decide if they hear a voice they want to work with. I enjoy it because 1) there's a lot of good singers, and 2) for a change, these are coaches who offer encouragement rather than tear people down.
In one episode, Kylie Minogue, who is the homecoming star in this season, talked about how when she was an artiste starting out on her career, she didn't have anyone to hold her hand on the journey to offer guidance and encouragement. Now that she's back in Australia for the TV show, she wanted to be that support for a new artiste waiting to be discovered, and to walk that journey with her.
I guess I found myself resonating with her words because in a lot of ways, a chunk of my new season of ministry is doing just that. Yes, I am starting a ministry for university students. But as I have been working on narrowing down the focus of what this ministry will look like, I began to realise that my biggest passion is in helping students connect with, and stay connected to intentional faith communities. The thing about student ministries is that while we may hope to be a part of their lives forever (and letting go will be a big struggle for me, let's be honest), the reality is that for most, we only get them so intimately for a very limited time. But if we are able to help them connect with communities that really get into the stuff where life meets faith, hopefully it will become such a natural part of their lives that no matter where they head off to after uni, finding spiritual communities to be plugged in to will remain a priority.
Which presents the other reality: I have to find out where these intentional faith communities are, or if they even exist. What I began to realise is that while there aren't many in existence, there are several within local churches with a passion for starting healthy young adult ministries that integrates with, rather than exist as a separate entity from the rest of the congregation (important issue that we'll address on a different day) And so, how can we, as The Bridge, help them get started?
Which leads me to an exciting part of this journey: helping to identify emerging leaders within the young adult circles amongst Auckland churches who have that passion and desire to create an age-appropriate ministry for their peers. At the recent Emerge retreat sponsored by the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand, several of these leaders had approached me to discuss this issue when they found out about what I was doing. Just the other week, I had coffee with a few leaders from a church just outside the city to discuss these same issues (and some anonymous kind soul in the cafe even shouted us scones!). And I've met with several key leaders in student-led Christian organisations in one of the city campuses to talk about these same things.
I will admit that in many ways, I was envious of these younger leaders because they had people who identified their leadership abilities and have taken an interest in developing them from a much younger age. For me personally, by the time I had my first conversation with leadership development sage, Arthur Kelly, I was already past the target age of the "emerging leaders" demographic. I remember his words clearly: "I don't know why you weren't a part of this group, but you should have been." By then, I was already jaded by unhealthy ministry practices, and unsure of who to turn to help me process all that I had seen and felt when my picture-perfect image of church and ministry life completely shattered.
Thank God for Arthur Kelly, MaryAnn Hawkins and Paul Dreger who stepped in before I had the time to consider leaving the church or ministry life.
So while I am envious, I am also thankful for the opportunity to play a small role in walking the journey with some of these younger leaders. As my mother (who shudders at the thought of being in any kind of ministry leadership role) would say, "The church can only survive if there are young people in the church."
So yes, I may still be relatively young, but I am not going to be around forever, so it's always time to think of the future.
And no, I'm not kidding when I say I truly love what I do and the fantastic people I get to hang out with, and even more so that I get to call it my job.
In one episode, Kylie Minogue, who is the homecoming star in this season, talked about how when she was an artiste starting out on her career, she didn't have anyone to hold her hand on the journey to offer guidance and encouragement. Now that she's back in Australia for the TV show, she wanted to be that support for a new artiste waiting to be discovered, and to walk that journey with her.
I guess I found myself resonating with her words because in a lot of ways, a chunk of my new season of ministry is doing just that. Yes, I am starting a ministry for university students. But as I have been working on narrowing down the focus of what this ministry will look like, I began to realise that my biggest passion is in helping students connect with, and stay connected to intentional faith communities. The thing about student ministries is that while we may hope to be a part of their lives forever (and letting go will be a big struggle for me, let's be honest), the reality is that for most, we only get them so intimately for a very limited time. But if we are able to help them connect with communities that really get into the stuff where life meets faith, hopefully it will become such a natural part of their lives that no matter where they head off to after uni, finding spiritual communities to be plugged in to will remain a priority.
Which presents the other reality: I have to find out where these intentional faith communities are, or if they even exist. What I began to realise is that while there aren't many in existence, there are several within local churches with a passion for starting healthy young adult ministries that integrates with, rather than exist as a separate entity from the rest of the congregation (important issue that we'll address on a different day) And so, how can we, as The Bridge, help them get started?
Which leads me to an exciting part of this journey: helping to identify emerging leaders within the young adult circles amongst Auckland churches who have that passion and desire to create an age-appropriate ministry for their peers. At the recent Emerge retreat sponsored by the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand, several of these leaders had approached me to discuss this issue when they found out about what I was doing. Just the other week, I had coffee with a few leaders from a church just outside the city to discuss these same issues (and some anonymous kind soul in the cafe even shouted us scones!). And I've met with several key leaders in student-led Christian organisations in one of the city campuses to talk about these same things.
I will admit that in many ways, I was envious of these younger leaders because they had people who identified their leadership abilities and have taken an interest in developing them from a much younger age. For me personally, by the time I had my first conversation with leadership development sage, Arthur Kelly, I was already past the target age of the "emerging leaders" demographic. I remember his words clearly: "I don't know why you weren't a part of this group, but you should have been." By then, I was already jaded by unhealthy ministry practices, and unsure of who to turn to help me process all that I had seen and felt when my picture-perfect image of church and ministry life completely shattered.
Thank God for Arthur Kelly, MaryAnn Hawkins and Paul Dreger who stepped in before I had the time to consider leaving the church or ministry life.
So while I am envious, I am also thankful for the opportunity to play a small role in walking the journey with some of these younger leaders. As my mother (who shudders at the thought of being in any kind of ministry leadership role) would say, "The church can only survive if there are young people in the church."
So yes, I may still be relatively young, but I am not going to be around forever, so it's always time to think of the future.
And no, I'm not kidding when I say I truly love what I do and the fantastic people I get to hang out with, and even more so that I get to call it my job.
15 June 2014
Rethinking "Missionaries": An Introduction
This blog series is one that has been stewing for a while, but a few recent developments sparked off a memory of an incident from last year... Which I'm hoping will help set the framework for why this is a necessary conversation for the time we live in.
In the final unit I did with the children's ministry I was previously on staff at, we did a series on what it means to be a missionary. On of the first discussions we had was what is a missionary, and so I asked the kids if they knew anyone who were missionaries. It took them a little while, but they finally figured out that both our senior pastor and I were missionaries, as were all the other previous pastoral staff at the church.
The conversation took off in a different tangent when one of the kids suddenly remembered that their parents had served a year in the US on short-term missions, which, under the definition we were using ("people who go to a different culture to tell them about Jesus"), meant that their parents were missionaries too.
And then it took another interesting twist when they suddenly named all the other expats in our church community. They came from a different culture, and they love Jesus. And once in a while, some of them take a rotation with kids' church. Are they missionaries too?
How do we draw that distinction for kids?
And then my mind went back a little further to a conversation I had with one of the parents at that same church earlier in the year. We had somehow started talking about missionaries, and I said something about, "I don't really see myself as a missionary" (because there are negative connotations to the term "missionary" -- Bible bashers, colonialists etc). To which this parent responded with, "Well, I don't really see you as a missionary either because you just live here with us".
But by the definition used with the kids that missionaries were people who go to a different culture to tell people about Jesus, I would be considered a missionary. Except not in that parent's perspective.
Well, this is the initial opening of this conversation. In the next few posts, I'm hoping to sort out the various pieces in my brain about what the term "missionary" means in this age of increasing globalisation.
Watch this space and feel free to jump in the conversation.
In the final unit I did with the children's ministry I was previously on staff at, we did a series on what it means to be a missionary. On of the first discussions we had was what is a missionary, and so I asked the kids if they knew anyone who were missionaries. It took them a little while, but they finally figured out that both our senior pastor and I were missionaries, as were all the other previous pastoral staff at the church.
The conversation took off in a different tangent when one of the kids suddenly remembered that their parents had served a year in the US on short-term missions, which, under the definition we were using ("people who go to a different culture to tell them about Jesus"), meant that their parents were missionaries too.
And then it took another interesting twist when they suddenly named all the other expats in our church community. They came from a different culture, and they love Jesus. And once in a while, some of them take a rotation with kids' church. Are they missionaries too?
How do we draw that distinction for kids?
And then my mind went back a little further to a conversation I had with one of the parents at that same church earlier in the year. We had somehow started talking about missionaries, and I said something about, "I don't really see myself as a missionary" (because there are negative connotations to the term "missionary" -- Bible bashers, colonialists etc). To which this parent responded with, "Well, I don't really see you as a missionary either because you just live here with us".
But by the definition used with the kids that missionaries were people who go to a different culture to tell people about Jesus, I would be considered a missionary. Except not in that parent's perspective.
Well, this is the initial opening of this conversation. In the next few posts, I'm hoping to sort out the various pieces in my brain about what the term "missionary" means in this age of increasing globalisation.
Watch this space and feel free to jump in the conversation.
12 June 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: The Gift That Keeps On Giving
If you've followed this blog for a while, you'd probably know that once in a while, I gush and reminisce about that wonderful season of my life called "seminary".
Oh, don't get me wrong. Life was anything but a bed of roses during that season. But I learnt a lot from that season mostly because I had an incredible group of people to journey with.
See, when I was first starting seminary, I had made a deal with my parents that we would do whatever we could to get me through school without having to take out a loan. Which meant I needed to work. A lot.
Thankfully, through some strange connections (mostly just being at the right place at the right time), I managed to get a ministry job that understood I would be going back to school after my first year of working there full-time, and they allowed me the flexibility of working part-time during the school year. The full-time hours during the summer was supposed to pay for school, but there would be nights that I would be crunching numbers and it still wouldn't add up to being enough. And then the next day at work, I would be quietly fretting about the financial situation, and Ryan Chapman, this gentleman who works down the hallway from me would randomly come up to my desk quietly with a $20 note in hand. "Seminary textbooks are expensive, and I know this isn't a lot. But I hope it helps pay for at least part of a textbook."
And I would sit there with tears streaming down my face. Maybe it wasn't a lot, but the symbolic gesture (that happened on about two or three different occasions, and always the day after I'm fretting about money again -- maybe it wasn't so random after all) was the reminder I needed that God had promised to provide. True to form, I finished seminary without any debt.
Why am I bringing this up now?
Well, I just got another $20 note in the mail from a dear friend in the States. It was accompanied with a beautiful note:
Maybe it doesn't seem like a big deal, but lately the money thing has been a big issue all over again. Money hasn't been coming in for my salary because I am too far away from my main financial supporters to really fundraise. I had been writing letters and trying to come up with creative ways to raise the money all while trying to juggle figuring out this new season of ministry at the same time. Truth be told, I was starting to wonder if the reality that no money was coming in meant I was crazy (let's be honest, I'm gaining a reputation for doing the crazy) for even thinking this ministry made any sense. Because if it did, why did it seem like nobody else was buying into it except me?
And then a few weeks ago, I had reached the point where my savings was depleted and thanks to a bit of car trouble, was left with about $20 to my name. While I don't usually talk about my money situation, it somehow came up in my conversation with Emily. When she found out, she contacted one of her major supporting churches that she knew had emergency funds set aside for situations like these.
I should have known that Emily was cut from the same mold of theological and spiritual formation that so changed my worldview.
You see, back in our seminary days, we journeyed with a group of friends who truly taught us how to live in community. There was little that wasn't shared between us. We had pitch-in dinners about once a week or so to make sure everyone was fed. Because I was one of the few who had a steady income that was more than minimum wage, I pitched my share to pay for the more costly ingredients for the meal. Amity often fed us from her garden and sometimes when they had a surplus, the canned tomatoes or soups would get shared all around. And Tim changed my oil for free so I didn't have to pay for labour to get it done at a shop.
Perhaps because we all knew that most of us weren't going in to ministry for the fame or fortune, we felt a sense of responsibility to take care of each other in whatever way we could. After all, we all understood the reality that everything we have belongs to the kingdom anyway.
Well, going back to that $20 note...
About two weeks ago, I had scheduled a lunch meeting with a student. I knew that there was money coming from Emily's supporting church, but because of the international transfers and stuff, I hadn't received it yet. So I drove into the city to meet the student with the $20 I had left and the bit of spare change I set aside for parking (city parking costs $3/hour for the first two hours, then $6/hour for every hour after -- Auckland is expensive). I had a bit of trouble finding the cafe where I was supposed to meet the student and was running a few minutes late. I knew he only had a short lunch break, so I was getting a bit flustered when I finally found him. Before I fully comprehended what I was doing, I had offered to shout him lunch.
Right as the words came out of my mouth, I found myself thinking, "Are you out of your mind?? This is your last $20 for a little while. Sure, your fridge is stocked and your gas tank is full at the moment, but who knows how long it will take before the money finally gets through."
But then I remembered the words one of my former youth leaders from my church in Singapore used to say when he took us out for lunch after worship team practise and would shout our drinks.
Ok. Alright. Besides, it was too late to take the words back now.
Thankfully, that last $20 was just enough to pay for both our lunches. As we wrapped up the meeting, the student thanked me for lunch and said, "Honestly, I was only planning to get a drink when we met because I didn't really have the money for a meal." But this is your lunch break, right? "Yeah, but I don't always eat lunch."
Well, everything we have belongs in the Kingdom anyway. I was glad my last $20 paid for both our lunches.
Which was why when I opened the card from Emily and found another $20 note in it, I had to fight back the tears. You see, Emily is fundraising herself. She lives in the basement of the pastors' home on Pine Ridge reservation (together with all the workcampers that come in for workcamp season) while raising funds for her home and the community building to be built on the reservation. And yet, not only did she take the time to send the beautiful card, but she also gave that $20 note that was to be my reminder that God had promised to provide. And Emily has reminded me time and again that as long as we are being faithful to our call to being missionaries, it is ok to rely on the financial gifts from others. In fact, she wrote this beautiful piece on fundraising.
And so tonight, I just would like to say a big thank you to the beautiful people who have given the gifts that allow me to keep on giving.
To the good people at Germantown First Church of God, thank you.
To the good people who have offered me a place to stay while we wait for funds to trickle in, thank you.
To the good people at the national Church of God in New Zealand who purchased the vehicle for the ministry, thank you.
To the good people with gifts big and small over the last three years, thank you.
To the good people with your $20 notes, thank you.
You are beautiful, beautiful people.
Thank you. With all my heart.
Arohanui
Oh, don't get me wrong. Life was anything but a bed of roses during that season. But I learnt a lot from that season mostly because I had an incredible group of people to journey with.
See, when I was first starting seminary, I had made a deal with my parents that we would do whatever we could to get me through school without having to take out a loan. Which meant I needed to work. A lot.
Thankfully, through some strange connections (mostly just being at the right place at the right time), I managed to get a ministry job that understood I would be going back to school after my first year of working there full-time, and they allowed me the flexibility of working part-time during the school year. The full-time hours during the summer was supposed to pay for school, but there would be nights that I would be crunching numbers and it still wouldn't add up to being enough. And then the next day at work, I would be quietly fretting about the financial situation, and Ryan Chapman, this gentleman who works down the hallway from me would randomly come up to my desk quietly with a $20 note in hand. "Seminary textbooks are expensive, and I know this isn't a lot. But I hope it helps pay for at least part of a textbook."
And I would sit there with tears streaming down my face. Maybe it wasn't a lot, but the symbolic gesture (that happened on about two or three different occasions, and always the day after I'm fretting about money again -- maybe it wasn't so random after all) was the reminder I needed that God had promised to provide. True to form, I finished seminary without any debt.
Why am I bringing this up now?Well, I just got another $20 note in the mail from a dear friend in the States. It was accompanied with a beautiful note:
Maybe it doesn't seem like a big deal, but lately the money thing has been a big issue all over again. Money hasn't been coming in for my salary because I am too far away from my main financial supporters to really fundraise. I had been writing letters and trying to come up with creative ways to raise the money all while trying to juggle figuring out this new season of ministry at the same time. Truth be told, I was starting to wonder if the reality that no money was coming in meant I was crazy (let's be honest, I'm gaining a reputation for doing the crazy) for even thinking this ministry made any sense. Because if it did, why did it seem like nobody else was buying into it except me?
And then a few weeks ago, I had reached the point where my savings was depleted and thanks to a bit of car trouble, was left with about $20 to my name. While I don't usually talk about my money situation, it somehow came up in my conversation with Emily. When she found out, she contacted one of her major supporting churches that she knew had emergency funds set aside for situations like these.
I should have known that Emily was cut from the same mold of theological and spiritual formation that so changed my worldview.
You see, back in our seminary days, we journeyed with a group of friends who truly taught us how to live in community. There was little that wasn't shared between us. We had pitch-in dinners about once a week or so to make sure everyone was fed. Because I was one of the few who had a steady income that was more than minimum wage, I pitched my share to pay for the more costly ingredients for the meal. Amity often fed us from her garden and sometimes when they had a surplus, the canned tomatoes or soups would get shared all around. And Tim changed my oil for free so I didn't have to pay for labour to get it done at a shop.
Perhaps because we all knew that most of us weren't going in to ministry for the fame or fortune, we felt a sense of responsibility to take care of each other in whatever way we could. After all, we all understood the reality that everything we have belongs to the kingdom anyway.
Well, going back to that $20 note...
About two weeks ago, I had scheduled a lunch meeting with a student. I knew that there was money coming from Emily's supporting church, but because of the international transfers and stuff, I hadn't received it yet. So I drove into the city to meet the student with the $20 I had left and the bit of spare change I set aside for parking (city parking costs $3/hour for the first two hours, then $6/hour for every hour after -- Auckland is expensive). I had a bit of trouble finding the cafe where I was supposed to meet the student and was running a few minutes late. I knew he only had a short lunch break, so I was getting a bit flustered when I finally found him. Before I fully comprehended what I was doing, I had offered to shout him lunch.
Right as the words came out of my mouth, I found myself thinking, "Are you out of your mind?? This is your last $20 for a little while. Sure, your fridge is stocked and your gas tank is full at the moment, but who knows how long it will take before the money finally gets through."
But then I remembered the words one of my former youth leaders from my church in Singapore used to say when he took us out for lunch after worship team practise and would shout our drinks.
"Consider this an investment into the next generation."
Ok. Alright. Besides, it was too late to take the words back now.
Thankfully, that last $20 was just enough to pay for both our lunches. As we wrapped up the meeting, the student thanked me for lunch and said, "Honestly, I was only planning to get a drink when we met because I didn't really have the money for a meal." But this is your lunch break, right? "Yeah, but I don't always eat lunch."
Well, everything we have belongs in the Kingdom anyway. I was glad my last $20 paid for both our lunches.
Which was why when I opened the card from Emily and found another $20 note in it, I had to fight back the tears. You see, Emily is fundraising herself. She lives in the basement of the pastors' home on Pine Ridge reservation (together with all the workcampers that come in for workcamp season) while raising funds for her home and the community building to be built on the reservation. And yet, not only did she take the time to send the beautiful card, but she also gave that $20 note that was to be my reminder that God had promised to provide. And Emily has reminded me time and again that as long as we are being faithful to our call to being missionaries, it is ok to rely on the financial gifts from others. In fact, she wrote this beautiful piece on fundraising.
And so tonight, I just would like to say a big thank you to the beautiful people who have given the gifts that allow me to keep on giving.
To the good people at Germantown First Church of God, thank you.
To the good people who have offered me a place to stay while we wait for funds to trickle in, thank you.
To the good people at the national Church of God in New Zealand who purchased the vehicle for the ministry, thank you.
To the good people with gifts big and small over the last three years, thank you.
To the good people with your $20 notes, thank you.
You are beautiful, beautiful people.
Thank you. With all my heart.
Arohanui
08 June 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: "Ministry Planting"
These days, when people ask me what it is I do, I don't really know what to say.
I'm a pastor... Sort of. Not in the traditional clergy-collar with a parish sense, but I do the vocational ministry and pastoral care thing.
I'm a church-planter... But not really. I'm not exactly planting a church, but I am starting a ministry, just not a traditional church. Brett says it belongs in the "Fresh Expressions" category. Ok...
Let me backtrack a little bit.
About a year ago, several things came into play that drastically shook my belief that I was called to ministry. Never mind that years of good ol' AUSOT teaching and my own slightly feminist mother had convinced me otherwise. All it took was the outcome of a church-planting personality test that said I didn't have the right personality to be a key person to lead or plant a ministry, and everything crumbled.
The trouble was, I kept pushing forward pretending that personality test didn't sting.
The trouble was, I kept pushing forward trying to prove them wrong.
The trouble was this ugly fuzz ball that in grief counselling terms, we call "compounding grief" (not dealing with one aspect of grief and allowing it to snowball into something much bigger).
The trouble was all the signs still said it wasn't time for me to quit ministry, even though I came so close to throwing in the towel so many times (after all, if even the personality tests said I didn't have what it takes, why do I even bother?) and my mental health was at stake.
The trouble was, in pretending it didn't sting, I ended up screwing up more.
And so I forced myself to think like my friends with the right personalities for church planting would.
I forced myself to come up with business plans, programmes and solutions -- not so much to generate numbers or results, but to at least be able to pull off the pretence that there are things happening.
And you know what happened?
Nothing.
Nothing great, but also nothing terrible.
Just... Nothing.
And then it suddenly occurred to me I was hurting because of that personality test.
And then it suddenly occurred to me I needed to make peace with that personality test.
And then it suddenly occurred to me I needed to stop trying to prove the personality test wrong.
Because while I may not have the right personality traits to pass that church-planting personality test, the truth is, I never believed in having all the right answers anyway (that's a story for another time).
Because while I may not have the right answers to pass that personality test, I have this strange, twisted, whimsical life story that is real and relevant to the ones I'm called to pastor in this season.
Because while I may have proved the personality test right in not gaining any results, I quickly learnt that there is no tried-and-true template for what this ministry plant is going to look like anyway.
Because ultimately, my core value in ministry (and thank you to Kara, Janice, and several others who have been constantly reminding me of this) has always been about relationships.
And that's what makes me good at what I do.
And that's what makes me called to ministry--believing in relationships and the power of agape love to carry us all through life.
So honestly, I don't really have a clue what this student ministry is going to look like because nothing has gone as I thought it would.
But I have some pretty incredible students teaching me a lot about life. And even if we never achieve any of the lofty goals I had envisioned, I really would be at peace knowing I get to walk with some incredible people on their journey with life meets faith.
So personality tests and your results, and that fuzz ball of compounding grief, you can pack your sorry little bags and say goodbye. We're done here.
Because whatever title you choose to call this thing I'm doing, so be it.
Because I am called to ministry.
And I am choosing to remain in ministry.
Game on.
I'm a pastor... Sort of. Not in the traditional clergy-collar with a parish sense, but I do the vocational ministry and pastoral care thing.
I'm a church-planter... But not really. I'm not exactly planting a church, but I am starting a ministry, just not a traditional church. Brett says it belongs in the "Fresh Expressions" category. Ok...
Let me backtrack a little bit.
About a year ago, several things came into play that drastically shook my belief that I was called to ministry. Never mind that years of good ol' AUSOT teaching and my own slightly feminist mother had convinced me otherwise. All it took was the outcome of a church-planting personality test that said I didn't have the right personality to be a key person to lead or plant a ministry, and everything crumbled.
The trouble was, I kept pushing forward pretending that personality test didn't sting.
The trouble was, I kept pushing forward trying to prove them wrong.
The trouble was this ugly fuzz ball that in grief counselling terms, we call "compounding grief" (not dealing with one aspect of grief and allowing it to snowball into something much bigger).
The trouble was all the signs still said it wasn't time for me to quit ministry, even though I came so close to throwing in the towel so many times (after all, if even the personality tests said I didn't have what it takes, why do I even bother?) and my mental health was at stake.
The trouble was, in pretending it didn't sting, I ended up screwing up more.
And so I forced myself to think like my friends with the right personalities for church planting would.
I forced myself to come up with business plans, programmes and solutions -- not so much to generate numbers or results, but to at least be able to pull off the pretence that there are things happening.
And you know what happened?
Nothing.
Nothing great, but also nothing terrible.
Just... Nothing.
And then it suddenly occurred to me I was hurting because of that personality test.
And then it suddenly occurred to me I needed to make peace with that personality test.
And then it suddenly occurred to me I needed to stop trying to prove the personality test wrong.
Because while I may not have the right personality traits to pass that church-planting personality test, the truth is, I never believed in having all the right answers anyway (that's a story for another time).
Because while I may not have the right answers to pass that personality test, I have this strange, twisted, whimsical life story that is real and relevant to the ones I'm called to pastor in this season.
Because while I may have proved the personality test right in not gaining any results, I quickly learnt that there is no tried-and-true template for what this ministry plant is going to look like anyway.
Because ultimately, my core value in ministry (and thank you to Kara, Janice, and several others who have been constantly reminding me of this) has always been about relationships.
And that's what makes me good at what I do.
And that's what makes me called to ministry--believing in relationships and the power of agape love to carry us all through life.
So honestly, I don't really have a clue what this student ministry is going to look like because nothing has gone as I thought it would.
But I have some pretty incredible students teaching me a lot about life. And even if we never achieve any of the lofty goals I had envisioned, I really would be at peace knowing I get to walk with some incredible people on their journey with life meets faith.
So personality tests and your results, and that fuzz ball of compounding grief, you can pack your sorry little bags and say goodbye. We're done here.
Because whatever title you choose to call this thing I'm doing, so be it.
Because I am called to ministry.
And I am choosing to remain in ministry.
Game on.
01 June 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: When I'm 64
Lately, reality has been starting to sink in that I'm heading towards the end of my twenties (granted there's still about twenty-ish months). One of the things that has hit together with that reality check is the thought that I don't want to get to my thirties and regret not having done things that later in life I can look back and say, "Back when I was young and stupid..."
Oh, don't get me wrong. I've done lots of young and stupid things, but nothing significantly memorable. And I don't mean that I've hit quarter-/mid-life crisis and want to go get a motorbike license or dye my hair purple. But I do sort of mean that I do want to go get a motorbike license and dye my hair purple. After all, Hashtag YOLO, right? (#YOLO - You Only Live Once)
I guess what I mean is... From time to time, I've looked around and wondered what other twenty-somethings are doing, particularly considering that in my last two jobs that spanned most of the last decade, I mostly worked with people who were in completely different life-stages from me. I'm too introverted for the clubbing scene, and care too little about becoming famous to over-achieve at any accolades that the world would care about, and it seemed those were the only things I hear other twenty-somethings do.
Then this past weekend I caught a glimpse of something different.
This past weekend was spent with a number of other young leaders in ministry in the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand. I learnt that in your twenties, you also...
... live with the #YOLO mantra
... take too many selfies
... begin stepping up more fully into responsibilities
... find things you're passionate about and pursue them in spite of obstacles and those trying to convince you you won't succeed
... laugh a lot
... don't take life too seriously
... can take God seriously without having a middle-aged outlook on life
I guess, perhaps, coming out of my season of burnout and depression, it has been a tremendously refreshing weekend finding out it's ok to want to live a life where I can one day look back and say, "back when I was young and stupid..."
That it's ok to "waste time" taking too many photos and creating memories with people you may only cross paths with about once a year.
That it's ok to want to live a carefree life that doesn't involve kids, a life-partner, or the search for one.
And maybe all I can say at the end of my twenties is that I was young and stupid to realise too late that there were ways to be young and stupid without also being irresponsible to my vocation. But at least, I have about twenty-ish months to make up for that. That's not too late, I reckon.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I've done lots of young and stupid things, but nothing significantly memorable. And I don't mean that I've hit quarter-/mid-life crisis and want to go get a motorbike license or dye my hair purple. But I do sort of mean that I do want to go get a motorbike license and dye my hair purple. After all, Hashtag YOLO, right? (#YOLO - You Only Live Once)
I guess what I mean is... From time to time, I've looked around and wondered what other twenty-somethings are doing, particularly considering that in my last two jobs that spanned most of the last decade, I mostly worked with people who were in completely different life-stages from me. I'm too introverted for the clubbing scene, and care too little about becoming famous to over-achieve at any accolades that the world would care about, and it seemed those were the only things I hear other twenty-somethings do.
Then this past weekend I caught a glimpse of something different.
This past weekend was spent with a number of other young leaders in ministry in the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand. I learnt that in your twenties, you also...
... live with the #YOLO mantra
... take too many selfies
... begin stepping up more fully into responsibilities
... find things you're passionate about and pursue them in spite of obstacles and those trying to convince you you won't succeed
... laugh a lot
... don't take life too seriously
... can take God seriously without having a middle-aged outlook on life
I guess, perhaps, coming out of my season of burnout and depression, it has been a tremendously refreshing weekend finding out it's ok to want to live a life where I can one day look back and say, "back when I was young and stupid..."
That it's ok to "waste time" taking too many photos and creating memories with people you may only cross paths with about once a year.
That it's ok to want to live a carefree life that doesn't involve kids, a life-partner, or the search for one.
And maybe all I can say at the end of my twenties is that I was young and stupid to realise too late that there were ways to be young and stupid without also being irresponsible to my vocation. But at least, I have about twenty-ish months to make up for that. That's not too late, I reckon.
22 May 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: Cultural Identity
We've officially hit a lull with the ministry of The Bridge.
It is almost the end of May, and we're not quite where I thought we would be by now. Instead of already moving and settling into the ministry house and getting things up and running, I am currently house-sitting for one of the couples who attend one of the Wesleyan Methodist churches. They return at the end of June, and have family coming in July. Which means I have approximately five weeks to figure out where I'm moving to next, since we still don't have a master-plan for the finances for the ministry house. I've been in New Zealand for less than three years and have already lived in eight different homes. What's another one gonna hurt, right?
During one of our brainstorming conversations, Kara suggested I got in touch with the folks at TSCF (Tertiary Students Christian Fellowship). And so this afternoon, I met with Andy, the Auckland Regional Team Leader.
Our conversation went something like that:
Andy: Thanks for making the time and getting in touch. So, tell me about The Bridge.
Me: Well, we're still in the very beginning stages, but we're hoping to establish sort of a hub and resource center type of a community house for students. We're not particular about what church they eventually connect with, but we simply hope they will eventually become connected with a church community.
Andy: Now, where are you from?
Me: [awkward pause]
Andy: I guess I mean, where all do you claim to be from?
Me: Well, that's kind of a loaded question...
After I explained my all-over-the-place-ness, he didn't even flinch and just went on with the conversation. It hit me all over again that my "all-over-the-place-ness" isn't unique in Auckland. To quote Andy, "Almost every person in Auckland can trace back to having chosen to move here from some place else; it's just a matter of how many generations have been here before them."
Perhaps that's why I've been struggling with trying to find a way to frame the ministry of The Bridge. Yes, our focus is on international students in Auckland, but what does the term "international student" even mean? Andy shared an example of one of the student councils he worked with that had student representatives from the "Kiwi" and the "International" community. The "Kiwi" representative was born in Nepal, but is of European descent, whose parents were missionaries. The "International" representative was a fourth generation Kiwi-Chinese who was born in New Zealand. What do we make of that?
Back when I was an international student in the States, being "international" was much easier to define. I simply wasn't born and raised in the US, and I was treated differently. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't treated inferiorly, I was just treated *differently* with the understanding my worldview is most likely different from the majority. Here in Auckland, everyone's worldview differs on varying degrees, and one can never make assumptions of what cultural roots another may identify with.
At the university age, these dynamics come out to play a lot more. Standing on the fringe of adulthood, one makes decisions, whether consciously or not, about the cultural roots they may claim. For some cultural groups, not attending Sunday worship with others from their "motherland" meant that one was disowning their cultural heritage--even if they had simply gone to a different congregation with their Kiwi mates from uni. What happens when one of the young adults from one of these cultural groups are sensing that God was calling them to minister to others who were as culturally mixed-up as they were and didn't have the same sense of obligation to the culture of the motherland? Will the church be there to rally around these young adults who often come from a highly community-oriented home-culture to a more individualistic society?
Just some very beginning thoughts on some of the dynamics at play as we continue ministering in this multi-cultural community that is Auckland...
It is almost the end of May, and we're not quite where I thought we would be by now. Instead of already moving and settling into the ministry house and getting things up and running, I am currently house-sitting for one of the couples who attend one of the Wesleyan Methodist churches. They return at the end of June, and have family coming in July. Which means I have approximately five weeks to figure out where I'm moving to next, since we still don't have a master-plan for the finances for the ministry house. I've been in New Zealand for less than three years and have already lived in eight different homes. What's another one gonna hurt, right?
During one of our brainstorming conversations, Kara suggested I got in touch with the folks at TSCF (Tertiary Students Christian Fellowship). And so this afternoon, I met with Andy, the Auckland Regional Team Leader.
Our conversation went something like that:
Andy: Thanks for making the time and getting in touch. So, tell me about The Bridge.
Me: Well, we're still in the very beginning stages, but we're hoping to establish sort of a hub and resource center type of a community house for students. We're not particular about what church they eventually connect with, but we simply hope they will eventually become connected with a church community.
Andy: Now, where are you from?
Me: [awkward pause]
Andy: I guess I mean, where all do you claim to be from?
Me: Well, that's kind of a loaded question...
After I explained my all-over-the-place-ness, he didn't even flinch and just went on with the conversation. It hit me all over again that my "all-over-the-place-ness" isn't unique in Auckland. To quote Andy, "Almost every person in Auckland can trace back to having chosen to move here from some place else; it's just a matter of how many generations have been here before them."
Perhaps that's why I've been struggling with trying to find a way to frame the ministry of The Bridge. Yes, our focus is on international students in Auckland, but what does the term "international student" even mean? Andy shared an example of one of the student councils he worked with that had student representatives from the "Kiwi" and the "International" community. The "Kiwi" representative was born in Nepal, but is of European descent, whose parents were missionaries. The "International" representative was a fourth generation Kiwi-Chinese who was born in New Zealand. What do we make of that?
Back when I was an international student in the States, being "international" was much easier to define. I simply wasn't born and raised in the US, and I was treated differently. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't treated inferiorly, I was just treated *differently* with the understanding my worldview is most likely different from the majority. Here in Auckland, everyone's worldview differs on varying degrees, and one can never make assumptions of what cultural roots another may identify with.
At the university age, these dynamics come out to play a lot more. Standing on the fringe of adulthood, one makes decisions, whether consciously or not, about the cultural roots they may claim. For some cultural groups, not attending Sunday worship with others from their "motherland" meant that one was disowning their cultural heritage--even if they had simply gone to a different congregation with their Kiwi mates from uni. What happens when one of the young adults from one of these cultural groups are sensing that God was calling them to minister to others who were as culturally mixed-up as they were and didn't have the same sense of obligation to the culture of the motherland? Will the church be there to rally around these young adults who often come from a highly community-oriented home-culture to a more individualistic society?
Just some very beginning thoughts on some of the dynamics at play as we continue ministering in this multi-cultural community that is Auckland...
09 May 2014
Dear Keren: "Displace Me" Revisited
Series history: This series unofficially began in 2007 in honour of Keren Berrios. We had started at Anderson University together as international students in 2004. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I had come to rely on her as my sense of "home" while we lived in between cultures. In my hurry to get through life, I graduated a year earlier than most in our class. The summer between my graduation and hers, Keren's life ended unexpectedly less than three weeks after she turned twenty-one. As I grappled with grief, loss and the roller-coaster of post-graduation life, I began writing to her. In the years after, this series has brought comfort as I remember Keren's legacy and imprint on my life. More recently, it has provided a way to take me back to a time before disillusionment caused me to stop dreaming, and to keep pursuing a life well-lived.
Dear Keren,
I recently found out that we get Al Jazeera on free-view. Needless to say, this political junkie has been spending a bit of time on that channel.
Last night, I caught a few documentaries and talk-shows one after another about the situations in Nigeria, Eritrea and Libya. Halfway through about the third documentary about Eritrean refugees, I suddenly realised how emotionally unaffected I was, and it startled me.
Perhaps a part of it is that so much has happened since the days of our idealistic we-can-save-the-world college selves that I'm no longer as vulnerable as I used to be. Perhaps it's those few weeks in the cafe with the women on the streets of Berlin that made me feel like a wimp for being so emotional. Or perhaps it's that everyday on the news, there are more reports of violence and disasters that my helplessness has slowly become callousness.
Keren, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me of that idealistic self that I used to be. Remember when we used to dream about saving the world? Remember that feeling when you discovered your avenue to use your passion to save the world through Displace Me? I want to remember what that idealistic buzz feels like again. Keren, what happened?
Maybe it's that we were young and naive. Even after I eventually climbed out from under that mountain of grief after you died, I still had that desire to change the world--and to do it twice as well to make up for the good the world was missing because you were no longer around. And now, seven years after graduation and your passing, I sit in this comfortable home, even if not a place to call my own, wondering what our twenty-one-year-old selves would think about where I am today.
On days when depression hits its lowest point, I'm convinced we would be ashamed. I haven't fought or won a worthy cause. I haven't started a revolution. I haven't nurtured change in anyone's lives. I haven't joined the UN, helped a homeless person get off the streets, or even protected a child from the consequences of their parents' choices. I have no material possessions to boast of, and heck, seven years have passed and I still haven't found the guts to go experience homelessness like I wanted to. On those days, I want to hide in bed all day and pretend I live in an alternate universe where the last seven years didn't feel so worthless. On those days, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me that there still are things worth being passionate about, the same way you had been one of the few who didn't think I was crazy or try to talk me out of wanting to experience homelessness.
But then there are better days when I remember that even if I'm no revolutionary like Katniss Everdeen or Beatrice Prior, I still have a place in this world to do all the good I can and more importantly, to love with all that I can. Buried somewhere under all that disillusionment is that idealistic twenty-one-year-old self that still believes she can change the world even if she cannot physically rescue all the girls in Nigeria, find all the victims of MH370, or spark change overnight in Eritrea, Libya, Berlin or even a neighbourhood in Auckland. On these better days, I cling on to that idealism in the hopes that it will teach me to keep breathing when the difficult days come back.
And then I remember that even when I was most idealistic, it wasn't the desire to revolutionise the world that kept me going. No, it was simply the desire to be where simply being who God created me to be would bring a smile to someone's face. And I realise that our twenty-one-year-old selves would probably still be ok with all that has happened in the last seven years, even if, on this end of the seven years, there aren't significant accolades to boast about.
And suddenly, I regain that excitement again. Suddenly in spite of how beaten down I feel, that buzz returns. Suddenly in spite of how I feel like I'd bitten off more than I can chew with The Bridge, I feel it in my bones again. Suddenly I remember that even if it's not my role to spark a revolution, I have a role to play, to journey with the idealisms of the university students as they discover their buzz and to stand with them when they decide they want to experience homelessness, or move to Christchurch, or help with food distribution and disaster relief in the Philippines.
Because I'm no longer that twenty-one-year-old self. My buzz no longer comes from the idealism of starting a revolution, but from being there when today's twenty-one-year-olds discover their buzz and celebrating with them who God created them to be.
Dear Keren, I still wish you were here to experience all this with me so you can sit me down in a way only you know how and help me process all that has happened. But it's ok now that you're not. I've gotten quite used to it now.
Dear Keren... Hey, I miss you. Someday, when we meet again we can go splash in the puddles and dance in the rain, then pile the pillows on the balcony, sip tea and talk about everything that has happened. But for now, I have things to do.
Until next time.
Arohanui,
Me
Dear Keren,
I recently found out that we get Al Jazeera on free-view. Needless to say, this political junkie has been spending a bit of time on that channel.
Last night, I caught a few documentaries and talk-shows one after another about the situations in Nigeria, Eritrea and Libya. Halfway through about the third documentary about Eritrean refugees, I suddenly realised how emotionally unaffected I was, and it startled me.
Perhaps a part of it is that so much has happened since the days of our idealistic we-can-save-the-world college selves that I'm no longer as vulnerable as I used to be. Perhaps it's those few weeks in the cafe with the women on the streets of Berlin that made me feel like a wimp for being so emotional. Or perhaps it's that everyday on the news, there are more reports of violence and disasters that my helplessness has slowly become callousness.
Keren, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me of that idealistic self that I used to be. Remember when we used to dream about saving the world? Remember that feeling when you discovered your avenue to use your passion to save the world through Displace Me? I want to remember what that idealistic buzz feels like again. Keren, what happened?
Maybe it's that we were young and naive. Even after I eventually climbed out from under that mountain of grief after you died, I still had that desire to change the world--and to do it twice as well to make up for the good the world was missing because you were no longer around. And now, seven years after graduation and your passing, I sit in this comfortable home, even if not a place to call my own, wondering what our twenty-one-year-old selves would think about where I am today.
On days when depression hits its lowest point, I'm convinced we would be ashamed. I haven't fought or won a worthy cause. I haven't started a revolution. I haven't nurtured change in anyone's lives. I haven't joined the UN, helped a homeless person get off the streets, or even protected a child from the consequences of their parents' choices. I have no material possessions to boast of, and heck, seven years have passed and I still haven't found the guts to go experience homelessness like I wanted to. On those days, I want to hide in bed all day and pretend I live in an alternate universe where the last seven years didn't feel so worthless. On those days, I wish you were here to shake me up and remind me that there still are things worth being passionate about, the same way you had been one of the few who didn't think I was crazy or try to talk me out of wanting to experience homelessness.
But then there are better days when I remember that even if I'm no revolutionary like Katniss Everdeen or Beatrice Prior, I still have a place in this world to do all the good I can and more importantly, to love with all that I can. Buried somewhere under all that disillusionment is that idealistic twenty-one-year-old self that still believes she can change the world even if she cannot physically rescue all the girls in Nigeria, find all the victims of MH370, or spark change overnight in Eritrea, Libya, Berlin or even a neighbourhood in Auckland. On these better days, I cling on to that idealism in the hopes that it will teach me to keep breathing when the difficult days come back.
And then I remember that even when I was most idealistic, it wasn't the desire to revolutionise the world that kept me going. No, it was simply the desire to be where simply being who God created me to be would bring a smile to someone's face. And I realise that our twenty-one-year-old selves would probably still be ok with all that has happened in the last seven years, even if, on this end of the seven years, there aren't significant accolades to boast about.
And suddenly, I regain that excitement again. Suddenly in spite of how beaten down I feel, that buzz returns. Suddenly in spite of how I feel like I'd bitten off more than I can chew with The Bridge, I feel it in my bones again. Suddenly I remember that even if it's not my role to spark a revolution, I have a role to play, to journey with the idealisms of the university students as they discover their buzz and to stand with them when they decide they want to experience homelessness, or move to Christchurch, or help with food distribution and disaster relief in the Philippines.
Because I'm no longer that twenty-one-year-old self. My buzz no longer comes from the idealism of starting a revolution, but from being there when today's twenty-one-year-olds discover their buzz and celebrating with them who God created them to be.
Dear Keren, I still wish you were here to experience all this with me so you can sit me down in a way only you know how and help me process all that has happened. But it's ok now that you're not. I've gotten quite used to it now.
Dear Keren... Hey, I miss you. Someday, when we meet again we can go splash in the puddles and dance in the rain, then pile the pillows on the balcony, sip tea and talk about everything that has happened. But for now, I have things to do.
Until next time.
Arohanui,
Me
05 May 2014
Aotearoa Diaries: Day #1 on Te Atatu Peninsula
Most stories begin with "Once upon a time," but I'm not convinced that there is a point in time when stories begin.
Like for instance, I struggle with writing the beginning of my Aotearoa story.
Did it begin the day I arrived here? Because I remember that day...
It was 10 September 2011, the day after the opening ceremonies of the rugby world cup that Aotearoa was hosting. I had booked my flight less than a week before I flew (that's another story for another time), so it looked suspicious to the immigration officer. Add that to the fact that under occupation I had listed "religious worker" (that's when I learnt "pastor" goes down a lot better with immigration)...
It was a great welcome to Aotearoa, even with the extended immigration process I had to go through because of how suspicious my papers looked. Having gone through immigration in a few other places (that shall remain unnamed *ahem*), I was prepared to be interrogated like a criminal until I could prove myself innocent. Instead, the immigration officer apologised that he had to ask additional questions only because it was part of the process.
Talk about culture shock. I was starting to fall in love with Aotearoa.
On the other side of immigration, Chad Davenport, Doug, Danette and Allison Beisley, and Steve Ringelspaugh were there with leis in hand to welcome my arrival. They would quickly grow to become family in the months to come.
But my most vivid memory was of my arrival at Stefan and Kathrin Marks' home. I had never met them in person, and had only had a very brief conversation with Kathrin via Skype for my interview (through which the only thing I established was that 1) she hated me, then 2) wait, she's German, so she's just very direct, then 3) she's just doing her job in the interview). But they welcomed me into their home and almost immediately became big brother and sister to me.
I remember going out for a walk later that day where Stefan introduced me to all the various birds and greenery we spotted along the boardwalk close to their place. You know how they say every country has a distinct smell? I don't know if it's true for everyone, but Aotearoa's lush greenery has definitely become its distinct smell for me.
Not too far down that boardwalk, I caught a view of the city skyline and the body of water that separated us. It took my breath away in that even though I was still finding it hard to believe I had made it to Aotearoa, I was home.
We rounded up that evening having a meal together with the Beisleys and Felicity. Now, this is why I have a problem with knowing where my Aotearoa story truly begins, because it all started with the Beisleys back in 2008. But that's another story for another time...
Like for instance, I struggle with writing the beginning of my Aotearoa story.
Did it begin the day I arrived here? Because I remember that day...
It was 10 September 2011, the day after the opening ceremonies of the rugby world cup that Aotearoa was hosting. I had booked my flight less than a week before I flew (that's another story for another time), so it looked suspicious to the immigration officer. Add that to the fact that under occupation I had listed "religious worker" (that's when I learnt "pastor" goes down a lot better with immigration)...
It was a great welcome to Aotearoa, even with the extended immigration process I had to go through because of how suspicious my papers looked. Having gone through immigration in a few other places (that shall remain unnamed *ahem*), I was prepared to be interrogated like a criminal until I could prove myself innocent. Instead, the immigration officer apologised that he had to ask additional questions only because it was part of the process.
Talk about culture shock. I was starting to fall in love with Aotearoa.
On the other side of immigration, Chad Davenport, Doug, Danette and Allison Beisley, and Steve Ringelspaugh were there with leis in hand to welcome my arrival. They would quickly grow to become family in the months to come.
But my most vivid memory was of my arrival at Stefan and Kathrin Marks' home. I had never met them in person, and had only had a very brief conversation with Kathrin via Skype for my interview (through which the only thing I established was that 1) she hated me, then 2) wait, she's German, so she's just very direct, then 3) she's just doing her job in the interview). But they welcomed me into their home and almost immediately became big brother and sister to me.
I remember going out for a walk later that day where Stefan introduced me to all the various birds and greenery we spotted along the boardwalk close to their place. You know how they say every country has a distinct smell? I don't know if it's true for everyone, but Aotearoa's lush greenery has definitely become its distinct smell for me.
Not too far down that boardwalk, I caught a view of the city skyline and the body of water that separated us. It took my breath away in that even though I was still finding it hard to believe I had made it to Aotearoa, I was home.
We rounded up that evening having a meal together with the Beisleys and Felicity. Now, this is why I have a problem with knowing where my Aotearoa story truly begins, because it all started with the Beisleys back in 2008. But that's another story for another time...
Aotearoa Diaries: An Introduction
I don't by any means consider myself a great writer, but I believe there is something sacred and precious about stories.
When I was last in Singapore a little over a month ago, I had the opportunity to invite the good people of the congregation I grew up in into the story I've been creating on this little corner south of the equator called the Land of the Long White Cloud, Aotearoa New Zealand. One of the "aunties" who watched me grow up in that church said to me afterwards, "It's so nice to hear about what you're doing in New Zealand. I guess we all knew you were there, but we didn't really know what you were doing."
Which made me re-evaluate what I had been doing with storytelling. My excuse for the lack of stories had been that my first two years in Aotearoa had been "dark and twisted" (to borrow the words of Meredith Grey). The reality was more that I had given my storyboard away to everyone else to fill while I sat in the corner and sulked like I was completely helpless. And perhaps the longer I dwelt in that corner, the more helpless I felt even though the easier thing would have been to reclaim my storyboard and fill it with my own stories.
So this new series, Aotearoa Diaries, is intended to be just that: the reclamation of my storyboard, and the invitation into the story I'm creating here in the Land of the Long White Cloud. I'm not sure where these stories will go, or how much of the last two years I will write about, but I need to write these stories again. If not for anyone else, but for myself, to believe again in the sacredness and preciousness of story.
When I was last in Singapore a little over a month ago, I had the opportunity to invite the good people of the congregation I grew up in into the story I've been creating on this little corner south of the equator called the Land of the Long White Cloud, Aotearoa New Zealand. One of the "aunties" who watched me grow up in that church said to me afterwards, "It's so nice to hear about what you're doing in New Zealand. I guess we all knew you were there, but we didn't really know what you were doing."
Which made me re-evaluate what I had been doing with storytelling. My excuse for the lack of stories had been that my first two years in Aotearoa had been "dark and twisted" (to borrow the words of Meredith Grey). The reality was more that I had given my storyboard away to everyone else to fill while I sat in the corner and sulked like I was completely helpless. And perhaps the longer I dwelt in that corner, the more helpless I felt even though the easier thing would have been to reclaim my storyboard and fill it with my own stories.
So this new series, Aotearoa Diaries, is intended to be just that: the reclamation of my storyboard, and the invitation into the story I'm creating here in the Land of the Long White Cloud. I'm not sure where these stories will go, or how much of the last two years I will write about, but I need to write these stories again. If not for anyone else, but for myself, to believe again in the sacredness and preciousness of story.
17 April 2014
Churchless on Holy Week
Every year for the last ten years, the significance of Holy Week became more and more real to me.
Perhaps it was the AU/AUSOT community.
Perhaps it was Park Place Church.
Perhaps it was Doug Berky's Holy Week programme.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
I've played the role of the good church kid for a long time.
I've played the role of the dutiful minister for not as long, but long enough.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
Even through the years of worship wars
Even through the years of watching parishioners rip their ministers to shreds
Even through the years of watching religious teachers tear each other apart
Even through the years of rejection
Even through the years of endless meaningless debates with academic theologians
Even through the years of being of the wrong gender, age, nationality and personality type
Even through the years of ridiculous politics
I still came home to church
Even if more wounded and broken than before.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
Don't get me wrong
I will still be at a church this weekend
(The good church kid and the dutiful minister still lives somewhere inside and need a sense of normality)
Don't get me wrong
I won't be there simply out of duty
(The good church kid and the dutiful minister misses all that is sacred of the rituals way too much)
Don't get me wrong
I'm not there because I haven't thought of leaving
(Even the good church kid and the dutiful minister gets tired of fighting for no real reason)
Don't get me wrong
I simply am searching for my own meaning of Church that isn't bound
By the trappings of the good church kid
Or the dutiful minister
Or the wounds and the brokenness of the years gone by
Or the false pride that the Church never did, and never would be able to hurt me
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
More importantly,
Jael needs to find Church again
Not Jael the good church kid
Or Jael the dutiful minister
Or Jael the wounded and broken
Or Jael the angry church-leaver
Just simply,
Jael
Perhaps that's why, just for a change, it's ok to be churchless on Holy Week this year.
Because sometimes, we all need to be a little unsettled.
(Just for the record:
In case you're concerned, Jesus and I are doing ok. But the church stuff... Yeah, that. I've managed to botch)
Perhaps it was the AU/AUSOT community.
Perhaps it was Park Place Church.
Perhaps it was Doug Berky's Holy Week programme.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
I've played the role of the good church kid for a long time.
I've played the role of the dutiful minister for not as long, but long enough.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
Even through the years of worship wars
Even through the years of watching parishioners rip their ministers to shreds
Even through the years of watching religious teachers tear each other apart
Even through the years of rejection
Even through the years of endless meaningless debates with academic theologians
Even through the years of being of the wrong gender, age, nationality and personality type
Even through the years of ridiculous politics
I still came home to church
Even if more wounded and broken than before.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
Don't get me wrong
I will still be at a church this weekend
(The good church kid and the dutiful minister still lives somewhere inside and need a sense of normality)
Don't get me wrong
I won't be there simply out of duty
(The good church kid and the dutiful minister misses all that is sacred of the rituals way too much)
Don't get me wrong
I'm not there because I haven't thought of leaving
(Even the good church kid and the dutiful minister gets tired of fighting for no real reason)
Don't get me wrong
I simply am searching for my own meaning of Church that isn't bound
By the trappings of the good church kid
Or the dutiful minister
Or the wounds and the brokenness of the years gone by
Or the false pride that the Church never did, and never would be able to hurt me
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
More importantly,
Jael needs to find Church again
Not Jael the good church kid
Or Jael the dutiful minister
Or Jael the wounded and broken
Or Jael the angry church-leaver
Just simply,
Jael
Perhaps that's why, just for a change, it's ok to be churchless on Holy Week this year.
Because sometimes, we all need to be a little unsettled.
(Just for the record:
In case you're concerned, Jesus and I are doing ok. But the church stuff... Yeah, that. I've managed to botch)
16 April 2014
3 Weeks of Grace Part #3: Broken
I took a 19-day whirlwind adventure around a few parts of Asia recently. I can't say I was expecting a lot, but I was surprised by Grace... (As usual, I hear you say)
There's something about camps.
A few days of sharing breathing space with the same group of people and you find yourself at a place of vulnerability with this group.
It's why family camps are great for the church -- it was at my last family camp as a teenager that I first experienced a vague sense of call to ministry.
It's why I believe so strongly in the potential that exists in youth camps.
Or why retreats can be such a time of refreshment.
The primary purpose of my 19-day whirlwind adventure was to eventually land in Narita, Japan, for the Church of God Asia/Pacific Missionaries Retreat.
And what a time those 3-ish days were.
Simply sharing breathing space with my co-labourers in the region did more for my soul than I could have ever expected.
Somewhere between my return from Germany and that retreat, something broke inside.
Whatever that something was, it kept breaking over and over again that I wasn't sure there was anything left that I recognised anymore.
Perhaps it was a silly assumption that the move to Aotearoa New Zealand would be the season that would bring new life.
Because in the middle of the scramble to find new life, what was found instead, was a shell to hide under to pretend that nothing could hurt anymore.
And if nothing could hurt anymore, then nothing could break anymore, right?
But in that shared breathing space, it became safe for the shell to fall apart, knowing that whatever is left would be held by those who shared that same brokenness and that same breathing space.
And all the pretence that was began crumble as well.
For the first time since my three-month stint in Germany, I began to feel like myself again.
In the Grace that abound in that shared breathing space, there was freedom again.
"Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart . . . For we do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’ sake . . . But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us."- 2 Corinthians 4
There's something about camps.
A few days of sharing breathing space with the same group of people and you find yourself at a place of vulnerability with this group.
It's why family camps are great for the church -- it was at my last family camp as a teenager that I first experienced a vague sense of call to ministry.
It's why I believe so strongly in the potential that exists in youth camps.
Or why retreats can be such a time of refreshment.
The primary purpose of my 19-day whirlwind adventure was to eventually land in Narita, Japan, for the Church of God Asia/Pacific Missionaries Retreat.
And what a time those 3-ish days were.
Simply sharing breathing space with my co-labourers in the region did more for my soul than I could have ever expected.
Somewhere between my return from Germany and that retreat, something broke inside.
Whatever that something was, it kept breaking over and over again that I wasn't sure there was anything left that I recognised anymore.
Perhaps it was a silly assumption that the move to Aotearoa New Zealand would be the season that would bring new life.
Because in the middle of the scramble to find new life, what was found instead, was a shell to hide under to pretend that nothing could hurt anymore.
And if nothing could hurt anymore, then nothing could break anymore, right?
But in that shared breathing space, it became safe for the shell to fall apart, knowing that whatever is left would be held by those who shared that same brokenness and that same breathing space.
And all the pretence that was began crumble as well.
For the first time since my three-month stint in Germany, I began to feel like myself again.
In the Grace that abound in that shared breathing space, there was freedom again.
3 Weeks of Grace Part #2: Hands and Feet
I took a 19-day whirlwind adventure around a few parts of Asia recently. I can't say I was expecting a lot, but I was surprised by Grace... (As usual, I hear you say)
I've travelled a fair amount in my time. But travelling with a "pastor" title can be quite a different experience, as I come to learn.
Like the immigration officer that does a double take when he looks at your occupation title on your immigration form. You can't tell if he's sheepish because he thinks he needs to let you through without asking questions or if he suddenly thinks he needs to treat you with more respect simply because you have a religious title.
Or when you're in the home of another pastor and suddenly you're no longer the kid waiting patiently at the dining table for the pastor to say a blessing before we all eat. No, it's a little bit weird when you're the one who's asked to say the blessing.
I've heard heaps of stories of pastor friends who have spent time in a village in one of the African nations where they were treated like the guest of honour. The chicken that has been saved for the special occasion is caught and slaughtered. And I remember thinking whenever I heard those stories that I would feel so uncomfortable being in that place of being a "guest of honour".
And then your hosts have you feasting on one delicious meal after another, and these mangoes that are so sweet and juicy as they take you around their city and share with you about their ministry. And you suddenly realise your hosts have been treating you like that "guest of honour," and you suddenly feel really uncomfortable.
But when your hosts usher you into the guest room upstairs and beam with pride when they tell you that you're staying in the room that "Reverend Don and Caroline stayed in when they were here," you suddenly realise you're not a guest of honour because of anything you've done. No, it's because your hosts recognise that as you fumble around in your early years of ministry, you're merely trying to find your sense of balance as you stand on the shoulders of giants. And they simply want to be gracious hosts to you as you pass through along your journey.
At least, that was my experience in my less-than-24-hour stay in Manilla, Philippines with Brother Eddie, Sister Fely, Sister Marlene and Pastor Bob, and all the other good people at Grace Family Helper Project. And in all the correspondence that followed after that short less-than-24-hour stay, they constantly remind me that I'm not alone in my passion for student ministries.
This.
This is what it means to be the recipient of grace from those who are the hands and feet of the Living Christ.
And this is why we, at The Bridge, are looking forward to partnering with the church in the Philippines.
I've travelled a fair amount in my time. But travelling with a "pastor" title can be quite a different experience, as I come to learn.
Like the immigration officer that does a double take when he looks at your occupation title on your immigration form. You can't tell if he's sheepish because he thinks he needs to let you through without asking questions or if he suddenly thinks he needs to treat you with more respect simply because you have a religious title.
Or when you're in the home of another pastor and suddenly you're no longer the kid waiting patiently at the dining table for the pastor to say a blessing before we all eat. No, it's a little bit weird when you're the one who's asked to say the blessing.
I've heard heaps of stories of pastor friends who have spent time in a village in one of the African nations where they were treated like the guest of honour. The chicken that has been saved for the special occasion is caught and slaughtered. And I remember thinking whenever I heard those stories that I would feel so uncomfortable being in that place of being a "guest of honour".
And then your hosts have you feasting on one delicious meal after another, and these mangoes that are so sweet and juicy as they take you around their city and share with you about their ministry. And you suddenly realise your hosts have been treating you like that "guest of honour," and you suddenly feel really uncomfortable.
But when your hosts usher you into the guest room upstairs and beam with pride when they tell you that you're staying in the room that "Reverend Don and Caroline stayed in when they were here," you suddenly realise you're not a guest of honour because of anything you've done. No, it's because your hosts recognise that as you fumble around in your early years of ministry, you're merely trying to find your sense of balance as you stand on the shoulders of giants. And they simply want to be gracious hosts to you as you pass through along your journey.
At least, that was my experience in my less-than-24-hour stay in Manilla, Philippines with Brother Eddie, Sister Fely, Sister Marlene and Pastor Bob, and all the other good people at Grace Family Helper Project. And in all the correspondence that followed after that short less-than-24-hour stay, they constantly remind me that I'm not alone in my passion for student ministries.
This.
This is what it means to be the recipient of grace from those who are the hands and feet of the Living Christ.
And this is why we, at The Bridge, are looking forward to partnering with the church in the Philippines.
11 April 2014
"Remember Your Baptism"
11 April 2004
I remembered being immersed in that water, and coming out feeling nothing different. The rational part of me knew that was normal, but a part of me wanted to feel different.
But that was the beginning of everything.
For years before then, I had been thinking about the blessing that came when God changed a person's name in the Bible.
Abram to Abraham.
Sarai to Sarah.
Jacob to Israel.
And I had wanted that blessing, but I felt like there had to be a reason or occasion for that blessing.
Easter Sunday was rolling around that year. My brother and I had decided we wanted to be baptised that Easter Sunday. And I had brought up the name thing, so my mum got involved with the process of looking for a new name.
We wanted names that started with the letter J to keep with our legal names. For some reason, my mum didn't want me to pick the name Jezebel (I wonder why). And so we kept searching.
Then one day she said she stumbled upon the name Jael and told me to look up what it meant. Everything that Google found said it meant "mountain goat" or something along those lines.
So we took it to my pastor, and in his best attempt to parse the Hebrew name, we came up with "Ja" sounding like Yahweh or Jehovah, and "El" sounding like El Shaddai -- something along the lines of calling out to God.
And then I read the story of Jael in Judges 4. I was impressed by the strength that woman possessed to be a part of Kingdom work, so mountain goat or not, Jael was the name to be. It was short and simple, and I grew to like it more and more.
But... Well, back to that time of immersion in water baptism.
I came out of the water feeling nothing different. What I didn't realise was that that was the beginning of what I now affectionately call "all that crazy".
At the time, I thought it was a momentous occasion because... well, there was that name change thing. And the guy I thought I was going to marry at the time (all grown-up at 18-years-old) was there as well.
More importantly, my BFF was there. She wasn't a church-goer and we didn't share the same faith, but she was there because she knew it was important to me. And to this day, even though she still wouldn't say we share the same faith, she reminds me constantly of that water baptism. That commitment I made, that even if she didn't completely understand, to surrender my life and call to my belief and my faith. Juan, you really are the best.
But even more importantly, that was the beginning of "all that crazy".
You see, I didn't know it at the time, but later that year, I would move to Anderson, Indiana for college.
And Anderson, Indiana was the beginning of "all that crazy".
Good crazy, I should probably add.
And there was no turning back.
10 years, a whirlwind of life experience and a whole collection of passport stamps later, here I am in Auckland, New Zealand, remembering that baptism.
There was nothing special about that water.
And I didn't come out feeling any different.
But things were becoming different.
Remember your baptism
I remembered being immersed in that water, and coming out feeling nothing different. The rational part of me knew that was normal, but a part of me wanted to feel different.
But that was the beginning of everything.
For years before then, I had been thinking about the blessing that came when God changed a person's name in the Bible.
Abram to Abraham.
Sarai to Sarah.
Jacob to Israel.
And I had wanted that blessing, but I felt like there had to be a reason or occasion for that blessing.
Easter Sunday was rolling around that year. My brother and I had decided we wanted to be baptised that Easter Sunday. And I had brought up the name thing, so my mum got involved with the process of looking for a new name.
We wanted names that started with the letter J to keep with our legal names. For some reason, my mum didn't want me to pick the name Jezebel (I wonder why). And so we kept searching.
Then one day she said she stumbled upon the name Jael and told me to look up what it meant. Everything that Google found said it meant "mountain goat" or something along those lines.
So we took it to my pastor, and in his best attempt to parse the Hebrew name, we came up with "Ja" sounding like Yahweh or Jehovah, and "El" sounding like El Shaddai -- something along the lines of calling out to God.
And then I read the story of Jael in Judges 4. I was impressed by the strength that woman possessed to be a part of Kingdom work, so mountain goat or not, Jael was the name to be. It was short and simple, and I grew to like it more and more.
But... Well, back to that time of immersion in water baptism.
I came out of the water feeling nothing different. What I didn't realise was that that was the beginning of what I now affectionately call "all that crazy".
At the time, I thought it was a momentous occasion because... well, there was that name change thing. And the guy I thought I was going to marry at the time (all grown-up at 18-years-old) was there as well.
More importantly, my BFF was there. She wasn't a church-goer and we didn't share the same faith, but she was there because she knew it was important to me. And to this day, even though she still wouldn't say we share the same faith, she reminds me constantly of that water baptism. That commitment I made, that even if she didn't completely understand, to surrender my life and call to my belief and my faith. Juan, you really are the best.
But even more importantly, that was the beginning of "all that crazy".
You see, I didn't know it at the time, but later that year, I would move to Anderson, Indiana for college.
And Anderson, Indiana was the beginning of "all that crazy".
Good crazy, I should probably add.
And there was no turning back.
10 years, a whirlwind of life experience and a whole collection of passport stamps later, here I am in Auckland, New Zealand, remembering that baptism.
There was nothing special about that water.
And I didn't come out feeling any different.
But things were becoming different.
Remember your baptism
04 April 2014
3 Weeks of Grace Part #1: The Good Soil
I took a 19-day whirlwind adventure around a few parts of Asia recently. I can't say I was expecting a lot, but I was surprised by Grace... (As usual, I hear you say).
It would be ten years this August since I last lived in Singapore. And of course, it's only taken me the last ten years of being gone to realise I was lucky to have landed in good soil. And no, I don't mean blessed. I mean lucky.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a family that rallies around in times of need.
Luck would have it that the winds blew and the storms came, but somehow we are still standing and holding each other in gestures that may not quite suggest intimacy as much as simply the need to ensure each other's survival.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a circle of girls that still stick around, twelve years after our school days.
Luck would have it that we all landed in a school, way back in the beginning, that would churn us out ok--successful perhaps not by the world's standards, but by the abundance of health, laughter and the ties that bind us together through the years--and that the dramas of our lives pale drastically in comparison with so many of our contemporaries.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a "youth group" (which really isn't a "youth group" if you look at our ages, but we just don't know what other category we fit into) that had managed to somehow still stick together through the tumultuous years of church politics.
Luck would have it that each time I return, the landscape of that "youth group" changes drastically, yet somehow, the few remain faithful and committed to each other's ridiculousness as much as we were in the years that passed.
Don't get me wrong, I truly believe also, that I'm blessed. I'm just not convinced that landing in good soil was one of those blessings, as much as what often feels like random selection (luck, perhaps) because I did nothing to deserve better soil than my neighbour.
But Grace.
Grace, both in spite of, and because of, my unworthiness.
Grace that landed me in good soil.
Grace, from random selection
Now that, I might just be brave enough to receive.
It would be ten years this August since I last lived in Singapore. And of course, it's only taken me the last ten years of being gone to realise I was lucky to have landed in good soil. And no, I don't mean blessed. I mean lucky.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a family that rallies around in times of need.
Luck would have it that the winds blew and the storms came, but somehow we are still standing and holding each other in gestures that may not quite suggest intimacy as much as simply the need to ensure each other's survival.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a circle of girls that still stick around, twelve years after our school days.
Luck would have it that we all landed in a school, way back in the beginning, that would churn us out ok--successful perhaps not by the world's standards, but by the abundance of health, laughter and the ties that bind us together through the years--and that the dramas of our lives pale drastically in comparison with so many of our contemporaries.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a "youth group" (which really isn't a "youth group" if you look at our ages, but we just don't know what other category we fit into) that had managed to somehow still stick together through the tumultuous years of church politics.
Luck would have it that each time I return, the landscape of that "youth group" changes drastically, yet somehow, the few remain faithful and committed to each other's ridiculousness as much as we were in the years that passed.
Don't get me wrong, I truly believe also, that I'm blessed. I'm just not convinced that landing in good soil was one of those blessings, as much as what often feels like random selection (luck, perhaps) because I did nothing to deserve better soil than my neighbour.
But Grace.
Grace, both in spite of, and because of, my unworthiness.
Grace that landed me in good soil.
Grace, from random selection
Now that, I might just be brave enough to receive.
07 March 2014
06 March 2014
2014 Lenten Meditation #2: Brother Frank and the Bird Song
"I sing because I'm happy
I sing because I'm free
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know he watches me"
- Civilla D. Martin and Charles H. Gabriel
As some may know, I wear Brother Frank on a chain around my neck.
Brother Frank (better known as St Francis of Assisi) was given to me by Momma H, Pops Fry and the 3Ts (better known as Heidi, Ed, Thad, Toby and Theo Freer-Fry) when I first left Anderson 2.5 years ago. He currently hangs out with Jesus (or at least, the cross anyway) on that chain. Pops and Momma gave that to me when I left Anderson last (northern hemisphere) summer.
In my previous role as children's pastor, I often get seven- and eight-year-olds asking who it is I'm wearing on the chain.
How do you explain that St Francis of Assisi is this great monk with deep theological insights (but no, he's not my boyfriend) to a seven-year-old, whose attention span (when asking this question anyway) is about ten-seconds long?
As I stumbled over my own words the first time, I found myself praying, "Crap. Jesus, please let me do justice to the sainthood of Brother Frank without sounding too dumbed-down or too smart to be irrelevant."
Then the words came.
"My friends gave me this chain when I left America a few years ago. St Francis of Assisi, or as my friends and I like to call him, 'Brother Frank,' was this guy who learnt how important it was to take care of the small things. He liked spending time with the birds because it reminded him that even the little things were important. And I wear this chain because it reminds me that God wants me to take care of the little things, and especially the little people like you guys."
It is the second day of Lent.
As I sit here fiddling with the chain, I find myself willing myself to slow down and notice the little things.
I listen to the cicadas outside--their buzzing becoming a familiar soundtrack to my day.
The clock on the wall provides an accompanying rhythm as I listen to the seconds tick away.
Breathe.
And I remember this time last year.
In the middle of chaos, and crises and wilderness, I drove home one morning in tears.
Some of the little people in my life were in a complicated situation that I accidentally walked into, and I didn't know how to help them.
As I pulled into the driveway and sat in the car weeping, a sparrow appeared on my rear-view mirror and sang its song for a little while while I continued weeping.
And then the words came:
"His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me."
Because even in the little things, there is a Sovereign Being who holds it all.
And we are merely dust. And to dust we will return.
I sing because I'm free
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know he watches me"
- Civilla D. Martin and Charles H. Gabriel
As some may know, I wear Brother Frank on a chain around my neck.
Brother Frank (better known as St Francis of Assisi) was given to me by Momma H, Pops Fry and the 3Ts (better known as Heidi, Ed, Thad, Toby and Theo Freer-Fry) when I first left Anderson 2.5 years ago. He currently hangs out with Jesus (or at least, the cross anyway) on that chain. Pops and Momma gave that to me when I left Anderson last (northern hemisphere) summer.
In my previous role as children's pastor, I often get seven- and eight-year-olds asking who it is I'm wearing on the chain.
How do you explain that St Francis of Assisi is this great monk with deep theological insights (but no, he's not my boyfriend) to a seven-year-old, whose attention span (when asking this question anyway) is about ten-seconds long?
As I stumbled over my own words the first time, I found myself praying, "Crap. Jesus, please let me do justice to the sainthood of Brother Frank without sounding too dumbed-down or too smart to be irrelevant."
Then the words came.
"My friends gave me this chain when I left America a few years ago. St Francis of Assisi, or as my friends and I like to call him, 'Brother Frank,' was this guy who learnt how important it was to take care of the small things. He liked spending time with the birds because it reminded him that even the little things were important. And I wear this chain because it reminds me that God wants me to take care of the little things, and especially the little people like you guys."
It is the second day of Lent.
As I sit here fiddling with the chain, I find myself willing myself to slow down and notice the little things.
I listen to the cicadas outside--their buzzing becoming a familiar soundtrack to my day.
The clock on the wall provides an accompanying rhythm as I listen to the seconds tick away.
Breathe.
And I remember this time last year.
In the middle of chaos, and crises and wilderness, I drove home one morning in tears.
Some of the little people in my life were in a complicated situation that I accidentally walked into, and I didn't know how to help them.
As I pulled into the driveway and sat in the car weeping, a sparrow appeared on my rear-view mirror and sang its song for a little while while I continued weeping.
And then the words came:
"His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me."
Because even in the little things, there is a Sovereign Being who holds it all.
And we are merely dust. And to dust we will return.
My friend, Ed Breeden shared this on Facebook this morning,
which was a big part of the inspiration for today's post.
05 March 2014
2014 Lenten Meditation #1: The Scattered Community
"We've travelled through deserts, survived by His grace
We've kept souvenirs to commemorate
All the times that he washed the tears from our faces
Showed us new places to help renovate us"
- Renovatus
It is Ash Wednesday here in Auckland.
As we sat in St Patrick's Cathedral this morning reflecting on Ash Wednesday and this season of Lent, my mind drifted back to this time last year.
My scattered community were gathering for the first time, at least in a sense of spiritual togetherness, even if we weren't able to gather physically.
We were each travelling through our own seasons of wilderness.
But around that spiritual table, the seasons of wilderness became less lonely.
The deserts were still dry. Our souls were still parched.
But at least, we were together.
That's already better than wandering in the desert alone.
This year finds us in a different landscape.
Still together, but in a different way.
Yet around the ashes, all is the same.
We remember.
We remember the roads travelled.
We remember the dust.
We remember the struggle.
We've kept souvenirs to commemorate
All the times that he washed the tears from our faces
Showed us new places to help renovate us"
- Renovatus
It is Ash Wednesday here in Auckland.
As we sat in St Patrick's Cathedral this morning reflecting on Ash Wednesday and this season of Lent, my mind drifted back to this time last year.
My scattered community were gathering for the first time, at least in a sense of spiritual togetherness, even if we weren't able to gather physically.
We were each travelling through our own seasons of wilderness.
But around that spiritual table, the seasons of wilderness became less lonely.
The deserts were still dry. Our souls were still parched.
But at least, we were together.
That's already better than wandering in the desert alone.
This year finds us in a different landscape.
Still together, but in a different way.
Yet around the ashes, all is the same.
We remember.
We remember the roads travelled.
We remember the dust.
We remember the struggle.
We remember that we are from dust, and to dust we return.
27 February 2014
South Pacific News: A New Day is Dawning
A new day is dawning in the South Pacific.
The pastors and leaders of the Church of God in Australia and New Zealand have, for a long time, desired to connect as co-labourers of the Kingdom across the Tasman Sea. Thanks to the wonders of technology, Chad Davenport, Dwayne and Kara Goldman, Marissa Haskins, Dave Ravell, Dave and Greta Reames, Janice Spearritt, and Jael Tang, together with Regional Coordinators, Don and Caroline Armstrong, had the opportunity to convene on Skype for the first time this week.
Australia and New Zealand are geographically isolated from most other parts of the world, which has historically left ministers in this region feeling isolated in ministry as well. Ministers in this region have recognized the unhealthy of doing ministry isolated, and have been eager to bridge the distance across the Tasman Sea. Today, geography no longer stands as a barrier to building community. Participants in this week’s conversation are looking forward to making this a part of the regular ministry rhythm, convening once a month to share celebrations and struggles.
A new day is dawning in the South Pacific. We are better when we are together.
The pastors and leaders of the Church of God in Australia and New Zealand have, for a long time, desired to connect as co-labourers of the Kingdom across the Tasman Sea. Thanks to the wonders of technology, Chad Davenport, Dwayne and Kara Goldman, Marissa Haskins, Dave Ravell, Dave and Greta Reames, Janice Spearritt, and Jael Tang, together with Regional Coordinators, Don and Caroline Armstrong, had the opportunity to convene on Skype for the first time this week.
Australia and New Zealand are geographically isolated from most other parts of the world, which has historically left ministers in this region feeling isolated in ministry as well. Ministers in this region have recognized the unhealthy of doing ministry isolated, and have been eager to bridge the distance across the Tasman Sea. Today, geography no longer stands as a barrier to building community. Participants in this week’s conversation are looking forward to making this a part of the regular ministry rhythm, convening once a month to share celebrations and struggles.
A new day is dawning in the South Pacific. We are better when we are together.
24 February 2014
True Confession: I Hate Fundraising
I've been meaning to write this post for a long time, but for a variety of reasons never got around to it. So here goes.
True confession: I hate fundraising.
The more I'm in this fundraising process, the more I dislike it. I know it's a necessary evil for being in my current ministry role. And I know even in your dream job, there will always be stuff you dislike about it. And while I've learnt important lessons like not taking for granted anything you have because people have sacrificed so you can have your next meal, and the humility that comes with asking for partnerships, I still hate the process. And here's why:
1) I hate walking the fine line between celebrating what God is doing and making a splash with a "success story" to "win" support. I love stories, and I love telling stories, but I have often felt compelled to simply share "successful" statistics, or moving stories of major transformation. I see life change happening everyday in baby steps, but they don't make for fantastic success stories to tell. I want to celebrate the spectacular things God is doing, even if only in baby steps, but the pressure of the fundraising process often weighs so heavy that I feel obligated to only tell "success stories". And I hate that because it disrespects the life story for what it is--a journey in process, not a successful statistic.
2) I hate talking about myself or what I am doing, and the fundraising process often feels like we have to "market" ourselves. Amber and I had this discussion a little while ago that missionaries should fundraise in pairs because it's easier for us to talk each other up than for us to talk about ourselves and our ministries. Which leads me to the main point of today's blog post.
3) I hate that fundraising sometimes feels like a competition. Some of my favourite people whom I have journeyed with and have a great deal of respect for are stuck in the same fundraising rut that I am. I've been thinking about writing this post since my dear, dear friends Dan, Christy and Sofie Kihm, and Jenny, Bobby and Moore Mihsill were still in their fundraising process. These two families have finally finished their fundraising process, and the Kihms are now in the Netherlands and the Mihsills are at language school in France, preparing to move to Cote d'Ivore.
I wanted to tell you why you should support them financially and why you should believe in their ministry.
And I want to tell you why you should support Zach and Audrey Langford and their involvement in 3Worlds, particularly because of Audrey's role with missionary kids. Because I *get* why it's a challenge trying to raise support to go somewhere that is a part of the developed world when it's often easier to get folks to give compassionately to a mission in the developing world.
And I want to tell you why you should support Rebecca, Ryan and Ashton Hodges because I truly believe God has called them to Kenya--and not just because we should feel compassion for the poor, starving children of Africa.
And I want to tell you why you should support Emily Clark and the Place of Promise on Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. Because it's a ministry that is near and dear to my heart having been on the reservation myself seven years ago.
And I want to tell you why you should support Amber Livermore, and help her get back to Aotearoa New Zealand for another two years to build on all the good work she has started here. Because I love watching her interact with the youths across all the churches in the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand, and the way she's earned the respect of the local pastors here.
But in my completely selfish internal dialogue, I find myself thinking, "If I advocate for them, who's advocating for me? And will there be any funds left for me?"
And this is what I hate most about fundraising. I truly believe that God has called each one of us, and that there will be enough resources in the Kingdom so that all who are called will be taken care of. But through a few unfortunate conversations along the way, I've come to realise that if we're not careful about the way we view the process, we're going to feel like we're competing against one another when we're really all playing for the same team.
And I am completely aware that churches and missions committees sometimes have to make difficult decisions about which ministries to support because they are all worthy causes--to which I sincerely applaud you for taking the time to pray and discern. But all I'm asking is that in your process of prayer and discernment, please be gentle with us who are in this aggravating fundraising process when you tell us you've decided to go in a different direction. While I truly believe there is enough for everyone, the process of knocking on doors asking for support can be very discouraging. Help us to not have to feel like we're in a competition against people whom we love and respect dearly.
From the depths of my heart, thank you for giving sacrificially so that Kingdom work can keep happening all around the world.
I just... still hate fundraising.
True confession: I hate fundraising.
The more I'm in this fundraising process, the more I dislike it. I know it's a necessary evil for being in my current ministry role. And I know even in your dream job, there will always be stuff you dislike about it. And while I've learnt important lessons like not taking for granted anything you have because people have sacrificed so you can have your next meal, and the humility that comes with asking for partnerships, I still hate the process. And here's why:
1) I hate walking the fine line between celebrating what God is doing and making a splash with a "success story" to "win" support. I love stories, and I love telling stories, but I have often felt compelled to simply share "successful" statistics, or moving stories of major transformation. I see life change happening everyday in baby steps, but they don't make for fantastic success stories to tell. I want to celebrate the spectacular things God is doing, even if only in baby steps, but the pressure of the fundraising process often weighs so heavy that I feel obligated to only tell "success stories". And I hate that because it disrespects the life story for what it is--a journey in process, not a successful statistic.
2) I hate talking about myself or what I am doing, and the fundraising process often feels like we have to "market" ourselves. Amber and I had this discussion a little while ago that missionaries should fundraise in pairs because it's easier for us to talk each other up than for us to talk about ourselves and our ministries. Which leads me to the main point of today's blog post.
3) I hate that fundraising sometimes feels like a competition. Some of my favourite people whom I have journeyed with and have a great deal of respect for are stuck in the same fundraising rut that I am. I've been thinking about writing this post since my dear, dear friends Dan, Christy and Sofie Kihm, and Jenny, Bobby and Moore Mihsill were still in their fundraising process. These two families have finally finished their fundraising process, and the Kihms are now in the Netherlands and the Mihsills are at language school in France, preparing to move to Cote d'Ivore.
I wanted to tell you why you should support them financially and why you should believe in their ministry.
And I want to tell you why you should support Zach and Audrey Langford and their involvement in 3Worlds, particularly because of Audrey's role with missionary kids. Because I *get* why it's a challenge trying to raise support to go somewhere that is a part of the developed world when it's often easier to get folks to give compassionately to a mission in the developing world.
And I want to tell you why you should support Rebecca, Ryan and Ashton Hodges because I truly believe God has called them to Kenya--and not just because we should feel compassion for the poor, starving children of Africa.
And I want to tell you why you should support Emily Clark and the Place of Promise on Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. Because it's a ministry that is near and dear to my heart having been on the reservation myself seven years ago.
And I want to tell you why you should support Amber Livermore, and help her get back to Aotearoa New Zealand for another two years to build on all the good work she has started here. Because I love watching her interact with the youths across all the churches in the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand, and the way she's earned the respect of the local pastors here.
But in my completely selfish internal dialogue, I find myself thinking, "If I advocate for them, who's advocating for me? And will there be any funds left for me?"
And this is what I hate most about fundraising. I truly believe that God has called each one of us, and that there will be enough resources in the Kingdom so that all who are called will be taken care of. But through a few unfortunate conversations along the way, I've come to realise that if we're not careful about the way we view the process, we're going to feel like we're competing against one another when we're really all playing for the same team.
And I am completely aware that churches and missions committees sometimes have to make difficult decisions about which ministries to support because they are all worthy causes--to which I sincerely applaud you for taking the time to pray and discern. But all I'm asking is that in your process of prayer and discernment, please be gentle with us who are in this aggravating fundraising process when you tell us you've decided to go in a different direction. While I truly believe there is enough for everyone, the process of knocking on doors asking for support can be very discouraging. Help us to not have to feel like we're in a competition against people whom we love and respect dearly.
From the depths of my heart, thank you for giving sacrificially so that Kingdom work can keep happening all around the world.
I just... still hate fundraising.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)