On Job Descriptions...

I had a sobering realisation recently: I know how to be a Christian in a pre-Christian world, but I don’t know how to be a pastor in a post-Christian world.

Let me begin with a disclaimer that for the purpose of this post, I use the words “Christian,” “pre-Christian world,” “pastor” and “post-Christian world” in the traditional evangelical sense.

Coming back from my month of travels meant it was time to tackle my application for permanent residency in New Zealand. All the paperwork I had been waiting for had arrived, and I didn’t need to use my passport again till August at the earliest. All that was left was a letter from my higher-ups saying that my continued presence at the job is necessary for the religious work in New Zealand to move forward, and a job description.

Ahh… That job description.

As mentioned in previous posts, I created my own job and the higher-ups signed off on it. All that we knew at the very beginning was that there was a need for a Christ community to be present in the city; the rest was up to me to figure out.

Well, great. That’s a great job description to send in to the immigration office, aye?

In the last few weeks I’ve had a bit of anxiety over how to describe my job in a way that, as my friend Baruk says, “checks all the boxes in any application form”. Part of the problem came about when I decided to take Ingress more seriously.

What is Ingress? The simplest way to describe it is that it’s an alternate reality game owned by Google. It’s a little bit like geocaching, a little bit like Risk. As explained by my brother, the story goes that there are a bunch of aliens (the Enlightened) that want to dominate the world through portals around the world. The humans (the Resistance) are trying to stop them by taking over these portals.

The reality is that the way this game plays out, neither of those teams stand a chance at real world domination. It’s kind of like playing Age of Empires with friends who are equal-leveled players on each side. I know, the struggle is real.

Until recently, I mostly played the game by myself even though I knew there was a strong Resistance (Go Smurfs!) community in Auckland. But last Thursday, I took a chance and went to one of their events. I’ll spare you the nerdy game details, but it included dinner at the night market, going to the park to work out our next game play.

Needless to say, I was scared out of my mind because my introvert was screaming, HELP HELP HELP, I don’t know how to deal with new social situations. But my curious anthropologist always wins out in these situations.

How does community play out in this gaming world?

Are they friendly?

Will they judge me if I don’t take their gaming seriously enough?

How will I introduce myself?

By my real name, or by my gamer profile?

And what if they ask me what I did for a living?

Crap. That dastardly job description thing again.

Well, thankfully with gamers (this group anyway), as long as you speak enough gaming, they’ll be friendly to you. We finished what we set out to do, nobody asked too many questions, and thankfully it was a weeknight so I had the excuse that I needed to head home so I didn’t have to engage in too much post-game pleasantries.

The next night, they had another social event in a bar. It made me even more nervous because the introvert doesn’t enjoy the bar scene, and (gasp!) what if the Church people knew I was hanging out at the bar?? But I decided to make an appearance and not stay long.

That was when I learnt about the spirit of the game. Yes, it is competitive. But there are a few things I learnt that make it more fun, and also things that can be quite handy to keep in mind as I continue creating “my job”:

1) Community means team
Friday night’s event began with someone asking if anyone was free to help level up a lower level player. One of the things I love about this game is the ethics of it. If you are level 8 or higher, you are expected to set things up to help those at a lower level to level up faster. Yes, I’m still a social justice nerd even in the gaming world. What? It probably is against the ethics of this game to do an anthropological study of it, but I can’t help myself.
As the new kid on the team strategy block, a few of them sat down with me to share tips and offered a few spots where I can capture the portals and they would keep watch on them for me. Let’s just say, it’s also more fun to do things that way.

2) Community means acceptance
Well, the event ended up evolving into a celebration for an Enlightened player who had just hit level 16 (the highest level in the game). There were a lot more Resistance players there for the celebration than there were from her own team.
The first person I spotted was a guy that I had ran into while gaming in the CBD about a week ago. I was greeted with a big hug like an old friend, and introduced to the rest of the team. There were no questions asked about life stories or religious or political views, which was a very refreshing change. They had recruited the bar manager to the Resistance side, so our team got tap beers for $5 and the guy who had developed the relationship with the bar manager over time shouted drinks for anyone who wanted one. People simply belonged because they shared that common identity: being a part of the Resistance. And as evidenced by that night, you don’t even have to be a part of the same team for us to be friendly with each other. What a novel concept!

Well, back to what I was saying about my job description…

After the night at the night market, I began to realize I needed to figure out a new way to talk about what I do. In prior experiences, whenever I say I’m a pastor, I get one of four responses:

1) They suddenly treat me with a great deal of respect like I’m some kind of saint. Ask any of the crazy kids who hang out with us at The Bridge. I’m not THAT kind of pastor.
2) They try to engage in some deep theological debate that I feel completely inadequate and uncomfortable doing in a big (more than 2-3 people) social setting because I don’t know the crowd well enough to really speak my mind theologically yet.
3) They ask, “What’s that?” and I don’t really know how to explain that I am affiliated with the Church, but I don’t preach and teach in that traditional sense, and no, I’m not the Sunday morning type of pastor.
4) They awkwardly change the subject or walk away.

That’s when I realized: I’ve known for a long time how to be a Christian in a pre-Christian world, but I don’t know how to be a pastor in a post-Christian world.

Most of my best friends growing up didn’t share my religion or faith and we’ve always gotten along. They celebrated my ordination like they would have for any graduations, job promotions or weddings, and my becoming an ordained pastor doesn’t change anything about our friendship; it’s just something I do as a job (or vocation).

The problem is I live in Auckland. Now that I’ve lived here nearly four years, I’m getting a better understanding of what post-Christianity means in Auckland. It’s weird enough to say I’m a Christian; it gets even weirder when I say I work with a church because there's either no understanding, or a negative experience of church.

But I didn’t want to be that Christian kid in high school who hides that I’m a Christian because I’m afraid I would be teased. Besides, my very clever church health consultant friend, Brett had been encouraging me to find a way to describe what I do that would make sense to both the Christian and post-Christian worlds and not threatening either. I decided that I would start saying I’m a community developer by day (and church planter by night, if they ask).

I tested the waters with that on Friday night. As with most social settings where I’m uncomfortable, “watch and learn” has become a lifelong mantra. The first time the “what do you do?” question came up, I took a deep breath to remind myself I’m learning to speak a different language. It went something like that:

Me: I’m a community developer.
Her: Oh, cool! With what organization?
Me: Umm… (Well, clearly I hadn’t thought this through very well) A church?
Her: Oh. (Turns away long enough for me to start getting super anxious). Well, that guy over there? He’s done some church work too.
Me: Oh, cool.
Her: (Slowly walks away)
Me: (Well, that went REALLY well. Next time this comes up, you better have a better game plan.)

So later that night, the guy who’s done some church work comes over to discuss game strategy. It comes up again…

Me: I’m a community developer.
Him: (I catch a glimpse of a knowing look on his face) Oh, nice. With what organization?
Me: (Trying to be brave) It’s a new organization called The Bridge.
Him: Hmm… That must be a new one. I have a bit of a background in community development, and my last supervisor at uni is like the head of several community development organizations around Auckland.
Me: (Oh crap. Oh crap. He’s going to call me out that The Bridge isn’t a real organization because I have no idea what’s on my job description.) Oh, nice. (Tries to change the subject) So what do you do now?
Him: Well, I used to do community development with a church as well, and somehow I keep finding myself coming back to that. I still do community development, just not with a church anymore. So is The Bridge supported by a church as well?
Me: Well, we get our funding from a few churches, but there is not ONE church that we are attached to.
Him: Oh, so who started The Bridge?
Me: (Oh crap. Oh crap. He’s going to find out this is all kind of a fraud. Well, fake it till you make it then, I guess. At least try to sound confident.) Me.
Him: Oh, nice! So is there expectation that you have to bring people to a church from what you’re doing? Because when I was working with the church, there was always that expectation.
Me: Well, I try not to make that the top of my agenda. To me, the community development part is more important, and if a church is formed out of that, then great. (What I didn’t say was, community development done well WILL eventually lead to a church coming together. What form that church takes on remains to be seen.)
Him: Oh, very nice! That actually sounds brilliant.
Me: Yeah, it is. And it’s actually a lot of fun.

And with that, we very easily transitioned the conversation back to game strategy. No need for awkwardness.

As much as I would like to believe that what I’m doing is cutting-edge ministry and relevant for the context of downtown Auckland that I live in, being raised in traditional evangelical church leaves a deep imprint on the way I still process stuff. And I find myself questioning the orthodoxy of what I’m doing on a regular basis. But I also have to remember I live in a different context from the ones that I grew up in physically, spiritually and theologically.

It is a different day in a different world. It may be a while before I really get comfortable with what this job description looks like. And realistically, what I’m going to turn in with my residency application will not be an accurate of what “work” looks like on a daily basis because that will keep evolving. But for now, this community development/church planter “checks all the boxes in any application form”. More importantly, it sits well with the call God has placed on my life. And that’s good enough for me.

Unfinished Stories #1: Auckland to Berlin (via Atlanta)

Date: 20150303
Location: Auckland

Time: 1312hr
Sitting in a food court downtown.
Behind, the ladies are complaining about the last meeting they had to sit through.
Across, the gentleman is leafing through his notes.

I check Facebook for the fifth time in twelve minutes.
There are no updates.
So I try Google.
The last update was an hour ago.
Twitter.
At last, there is some vague update that doesn't say very much.
We are still waiting.

I had shied away from posting much about this most recent troubling news because of a variety of reasons, amongst which one of them was that I wasn't sure where I stood about capital punishment or execution.
No, rather, I was ashamed of my upbringing that for so long, I had viewed execution only as a means to keep people out of trouble.
Execution wasn't something I wanted to talk about because there were so many grey areas I wasn't willing to explore yet.
But because a dear, dear friend pleaded and pleaded on all forms of social media, I finally paid attention.

Kelly Gissendaner

Have you met her?

I haven’t.
But I know people who have.
I know people who have heaps of stories to tell of her.
Of her life, a story that is ridden with twists and turns.
But more importantly, a life REDEEMED.

Suddenly she wasn’t just a name in the headlines anymore.
No, she was a friend.
A mother.
A minister.
A fellow follower of Christ.
And she had a story, just like I do.


My mind raced back to that one afternoon in Berlin.

My visits to Neustart had become part of the rhythm of my time in Berlin.
There are so many stories in that tiny space on Kurfürstenstraße, but there’s one that always bring a sting to my eyes at just the thought of him.

Neustart was a café that served as a safe house for sex workers in Berlin. I can’t say that I made much of a contribution to that place in my short time there, but something broke inside me that would leave a permanent mark forever.

I first met him on one of the first few visits I made to Neustart. It had been explained to us that because it was a safe house for sex workers, men were not allowed in that space. But J (identity concealed) was a different story. He had earned the trust of most of the women and was allowed to hang out there while his girlfriend was at work on the streets.

We sat down with him one afternoon. He spoke to us in brilliant English, and we learnt that he picked up the language from a fellow inmate when he was in prison. He was only a few years older than I was, but there was something in his demeanour that looked like the world had taken its toll on him. And then he laid it all out.

When he was about twelve, his parents sold him to druggies. Life on the streets led him to witnessing his best friend being shot the first time he was in Berlin when he was only eighteen. He was so matter-of-fact in telling us his story. I, on the other hand, struggled to believe that this could be real life for anyone.

After that afternoon, I was curious to hear more of his story, but we hardly got a chance to sit down with him again. I would get an update once in a while from one of the social workers there that he was doing well, and that he had checked into a rehab facility and was willing to give God a chance. In the midst of the dark stories in that space, I had found a glimmer of hope. Perhaps I could witness redemption at work in real life after all.

On my last visit there, I asked one of the social workers there if they had heard anymore from him. I had hoped for a chance to say goodbye, and to wish him well as he continued on his journey. I don’t remember how she said it, but the news broke me, and I left in tears that afternoon.

As part of the process to get clean, J had to get tested for HIV.
The test returned positive.

I remembered pleading with God that afternoon on the bus ride home. J had decided to take steps to wholeness and had been doing so well.

It wasn't fair that he had HIV.
It wasn't fair that he never stood a chance.
It wasn't fair that he wasn't even a teenager when he got sold into the drug life.

But it also wasn't fair that I wasn't the one born into that situation. I honestly couldn't say that I would have made better life choices than J tried to if I had been born into a different family. Even now, five years later, my heart still aches that I was born into privilege, and he never stood a chance.

Yet there was something that nagged at me as I struggled to make sense of the latest twist in J’s life.

That’s not the end of the story.

I had no idea what that could mean, but I could only be thankful that that thought saved me from being crippled by despair and helplessness that there was NOTHING I could do about J’s life. His story remains unfinished for me, but there was that twisted irony that I could only trust there would be redemption in his story—even if I would never get to find out what that would look like.

Perhaps I had taken the naïve and easy way out by simply clinging desperately to the belief that there HAD to be a greater being in control of J’s life instead of giving over completely to anger and helplessness. The honest truth was that I selfishly HAD to believe that there was a divine being in control. Because if that wasn’t true, everything I had given my life to so far would have been a fraud, and I was too much of a wuss to live a life without hope. While I didn’t subscribe to the belief that this divine being was, as my spiritual pops Ed puts it, “an interventionist God” who would undo J’s HIV, I NEEDED to believe that there would be an ending to J’s story that would have the ultimate redemption and grace written all over it—if for no other reason than the selfish one: I just need to be able to sleep at night.

Time: 1513hr
I was sick in my stomach waiting for an update and could not finish lunch.
So I moved to a café to start writing.

I scroll through Facebook again.
And then Twitter.
Another Google search.

Kelly’s execution was scheduled for 133 minutes ago. She was sentenced to death for the 1997 killing of her husband, having recruited an ex-lover to carry out the murder. My friend Hannah met her when she was teaching a theology course at the women’s prison in Atlanta. You can read more about that here.

Since I began working on this book, my week in Atlanta has been on my mind a lot. Like the Berlin chapter, there are so many stories from that week in Atlanta to tell, but lately there’s been that one scene that has replayed itself over and over again in my mind recently.

The motel we stayed in during our week there was right smack in the middle of where a majority of the drug deals go down. On our way back to the motel after walking the streets and talking to the homeless one night, I finally paid attention to the people gathered right outside the gates of our motel. We had met a number of druggies by then that I was starting to be able to tell which ones were high. But that was when I noticed that there were kids that hung around that street as well while mum and dad were doing… well, what they did. And the kids. What chance did they stand?

I didn’t realize it until I met J four years after Atlanta, and walked the streets of a community rampant with domestic violence as an advocate for children in Auckland two years after that: that night in Atlanta was when I was just beginning to understand that there was a brokenness in humanity that desperately needed Big Picture REDEMPTION.


Time: 1607hr
187 minutes have passed since Kelly’s scheduled execution.

Checking Facebook again.
And Twitter.
Google at this point is proving pretty worthless.

The people of Starbucks at Aotea Square have come and gone.
Life is still moving on as usual in this corner of the world, and I allow myself a moment to lament that this is what happens when your heart lives in so many different corners of the world at a time.

But I think that’s what gets me.

That Big Picture REDEMPTION is so desperately needed all around the world.

For J.
For the children on the streets of Atlanta that night who are probably teenagers and young adults by now.
And I could tell you about the children in Cambodia piled on motorbikes
And children on the streets of Pine Ridge reservation in South Dakota

And grownups around the world crying out for whom Big Picture REDEMPTION.

And then I think of Kelly.
She made a decision to allow that Big Picture REDEMPTION into her life as well.
But yet humanity had somehow discerned that we would make a better judgment call on her life. 

That.
That, I cannot understand.

Allow me a moment of anger to say this:
I have found myself wondering over the last few days if it would be better for her sanity for this to be the end of it all for her.
If it would be better for the twisted nature of human judgment to end here for her.
Because if not, how long?

But yet I want to believe that there is Big Picture REDEMPTION for ALL of humanity.
That we would uncover our own desperate need for redemption that saves us from the need to judge another or inflict revenge, and leave that to the work of a more divine being: A God that sees all and knows all and reconciles all to Godself.

And so we wait.

Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison.
Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

Reimagining Church

This week, I attended Savaira's uncle's funeral service. Because we weren't familiar with the customs of Fijian funerals, we ended up showing up on the evening when the family service was happening. I was admittedly nervous about having shown up on the wrong day because it might have made for a really awkward situation.

But the minute we walked in, Auntie Selina greeted us with hugs and kisses, and thanked us for showing up. Then Savaira came and sat beside us, and proceeded to explain what was happening because a good half of the service was in Fijian.


My mind began to wander back to a conversation I had earlier in the week. At our lunch group, the conversations revolved around whether we should be thinking about a different way of doing Church--a way that would be more welcoming for new people, and particularly whether a 40-minute long sermon made it more overwhelming for someone new.

As the conversation went back and forth, I heard Dr Shively's voice in my head saying, "A sermon should be no longer than 20-minutes. Any longer, and you lose the attention."

But I had another nagging thought. I wasn't ready to throw the baby out with the bath water and say that the sermon was unnecessary. I couldn't quite figure out how to explain myself as the conversation continued. All I could think of was that the sermon time was meant to be a time where, perhaps like at family reunions, there's a lot of other flurry of activity. But at some point, Grandma or Grandpa starts telling the stories of the family traditions and the heritage that has been passed on to us.

So perhaps we need to re-examine the way we preach sermons. Are we just giving a speech each Sunday just for the sake of giving a speech, or are we framing the stories of our Christian heritage in such a way that helps us understand why we make certain lifestyle decisions now?


Then the question was raised: What about the new people? How do they get included in story time?

At Savaira's uncle's funeral, the question was resolved for me. When we as a family truly live out our understanding of hospitality, everyone eventually gets adopted into the family. Perhaps we start with the greeting that we are truly welcomed, even if we showed up on the wrong day. Then maybe the one friend we are connected to sits beside us and translates as the elder is speaking. At the end of the service, we're all sharing a meal together and before long, all the aunties and uncles are trying to adopt us into the family.


Now, that. That is Church.

The Umbrella: Engaging "Leaving Church" From the Grassroots

I recently facilitated a "Becoming a Younger Adult" workshop at a Christian youth camp. The conversations I had after led me to writing this post to share a few thoughts.

“Anyone who listens to my teaching and follows it is wise, like a person who builds a house on solid rock. Though the rain comes in torrents and the floodwaters rise and the winds beat against that house, it won’t collapse because it is built on bedrock. But anyone who hears my teaching and doesn’t obey it is foolish, like a person who builds a house on sand. When the rains and floods come and the winds beat against that house, it will collapse with a mighty crash.” - Matthew 7:24-27


Ten years ago, when I was about to move halfway around the world, my youth group got me an interesting gift. It was an umbrella that had been signed by the people in that youth group that I loved dearly.

That umbrella has lived in the storage closet in my parents' home for the last ten years. Every once in a while, I would think about it, but not once did I think about taking it with me when I left my parents' home again after a visit.

I never realised it, but that umbrella was to become a symbol of what that youth group meant to me. Having grown up in a comfortable home and having attended church regularly, life was predictable and having a faith system was easy. And everyday, I woke up knowing what to expect. I would take a shower, sit down at breakfast, then hop on the bus and go to school. In many ways, life was as if I had an umbrella that would protect me rain or shine. The people who had signed that umbrella were, for me, symbols of constants.


Last December when I was back in my parents' home, I dug it out and used it on one of those days when it was pouring down rain. Mum had kept it tucked away and not let anyone use it because she knew I was sentimental about things like that. I found myself twirling the umbrella around and around as I walked to the train station, looking at all the notes and signatures on it. There was one in particular, signed by one of my youth leaders that said, "We will be waiting for you to come back." 

Half of those people were no longer a part of our church. A few of them had found other church homes to plug into, and I was truly happy for them. Some of them I don't hear from anymore. Of the two youth leaders that I had, one no longer attended church at all, and the other did so half-heartedly.

But they said on the umbrella they would be waiting for me to come back... Sigh.


As I continued reading the notes on the umbrella, I didn't realise that my feet were getting wet and muddy because I wasn't watching where I was going and had been splashing in puddles. I began to realise a lot of the frustrations I had about the church political mess I had found myself entangled with in the recent years might have been exactly because I had focused too much on the signatures on the umbrella.

Even if I were to have gone back, youth group isn't the same anymore. Church isn't the same anymore. And if I was honest, I'm not the same anymore either. How can you be the same when you spent seven years at a Christian university, watching your friends one by one fall away from the regular, predictable routine of going to church every Sunday? To be fair, we were in Christian community all the time, and had to be at chapel services twice a week, so was Sunday church really necessary? How can you be the same when, in those seven years at a Christian university, you had spent more than half of that time uncovering the brokenness and inadequacies of the institution, and the humanity and fallibility of her leaders?

I began to realise the certainty of that umbrella and that youth group was never going to be enough to protect me from the storms of life. The truth is, no physical thing would ever be able to provide enough protection from the storms unless I stayed indoors all day--but what would be the meaning of life if I only did that?

What I also had to realise was that the storms of life cannot hurt me. Neither do they change who I am. Because my foundation has been built on solid rock--rock that is more solid than an umbrella with signatures of people whom I once sojourned with. But maybe the problem was that I needed help remembering what my foundation was built on.

And so I stumbled upon mentors who refused to let me walk away. And friends who kept me accountable. Sabbaths I had to learn to take to shift my perspective back to the things that matter. Walks I had to take to remind me to breathe and there's a Greater Being holding things together.


Well, I thought it was finally time to take the umbrella with me this last time that I left my parents' home. If nothing else, it would serve as an illustration at the workshop I was facilitating. What ended up happening was that the umbrella never made it to Auckland with me. I was walking out the main doors at the Auckland airport when I realised I had left the umbrella behind. I rang the luggage office every day at least twice before I left the country again, and would get the same message that they would call me if they found it.

Truth be told, I wasn't entirely fussed that it got left behind either, because it almost made for a better story to tell.

By no means am I suggesting that youth group or church community is a bad thing that should be left behind. I'm merely suggesting that for some of us, just going to church on Sundays isn't enough. We need rhythm markers along the week to remind us of the things that really matter when it all hits the fan again.


So this: what are your rhythm markers? What serves as reminders for you to remember where to keep your focus on?

Aotearoa Diaries: 返来 Return

Hello, 2015. It's nice to meet you.

First things first.
The last 3 months have been a whirlwind. 6 countries in some 80 days. Whoa.

Would I do it all over again? I don't know.

Don't get me wrong. The last 3 months on the road have not managed to kill my spirit of adventure or love for the world. But maybe that's the problem. Travelling stirs up all kinds of thoughts, feelings and dreams that I'm not sure I have the energy to keep up with anymore.

Let me back track a little bit.

2014 was a great year. Sure, it might have been because 2013 had been one big hell-hole, such that 2014 felt like a completely different life altogether. And even though ministry-wise, nothing had gone as I had expected, things were slowly taking shape.

The only problem was the one main one I had been ignoring all year long hoping that some miracle would just take care of it. That money problem.

I don't like talking about financial stuff because it's awkward and I like pretending that ministry doesn't involve money. But we had reached a point where reality was sinking in: something desperate needed to happen with the finances for the ministry or it's not going to go on. Then some friends sat me down and had me actually figure out that we were only at about 20% of what we needed each month.

That was when it hit the fan.

In the 3 months that I had spent on the road, I had a couple of offers for full-time ministry positions with a more stable income. When the first offer came, I still felt very strongly about returning to New Zealand. That the chapter with The Bridge isn't over. How could it be when we still have plans and dreams for this year? But by the time I began having more conversations with people and the other offers came through, I began to wonder if returning to Auckland was a stupid idea. 3.5 years of living with limited resources and moving every half a year or so because I couldn't afford to pay rent was beginning to wear on me emotionally. It's one thing to say, "I choose to live by faith and trust that the resources will come in." It's another thing to face the reality that this "live by faith" mentality was becoming a waste of resources because it was greatly limiting the effectiveness of the ministry. I hated going in to the city because it was a 40 minute commute each way, and parking was limited and expensive (The cheapest Auckland city parking costs $3/hour for the first 2 hours, then $6/hour after that). How could I really call The Bridge a presence-based community ministry when I wasn't even all that present in the community?

And doesn't the lack of financial support coming in also translate to the lack of value placed in a ministry like that? And if no one believes in it, am I just wasting my time when I could be making a difference elsewhere?

And then Hong Kong happened. Here's another conference to go to. Another networking opportunity. Another go at seeing whether this money miracle will happen.

Well, what ended up happening, I did not see coming at all. This overwhelming sense of call to "返来" or "return" that I had promised in an earlier post that I would write about.

You see, at this conference in Hong Kong, there was an overwhelming number of Chinese brothers and sisters in Christ. From a very young age, I had been fascinated with the underground church in China, and my first real sense of call to ministry had, in fact, been to go to China. Ten years had past since then, and somewhere in that ten years I had forgotten about that nudging.

Then at this conference in Hong Kong, I found myself offering to translate for the overwhelming number of Chinese brothers and sisters. Because I had registered for the conference as a representative of the church in New Zealand, most of them were surprised that I was bilingual. In conversations with several of them afterwards, I found myself having to explain that my grandparents migrated to Singapore from China, and that I was actually a "华侨" or "overseas Chinese". I forgot that to the Chinese, even if I had never lived in China, the very nature that I was a 华侨 meant that China would still be home, or at least, the Motherland. Kind of like when my immediate family took a trip back to my grandpa's village in China. All the relatives there greeted us with the over-excited, "你们返来了!" (you have finally come home!)

In those moments of conversations with these brothers and sisters, I had several of them ask if I would "return" to China to work with their youth. They were impressed with my bilingualism and my understanding of spiritual things, and reminded me again that China needed people like me.

"返来" "Return"

There was that word again. I wondered what God was thinking listening in to all these conversations. God sure seemed to have a sense of humour about these things, and frankly I was getting quite annoyed.

I found myself explaining that there were Chinese all around the world that needed the faith we shared as well, and that those were the people I would work better with. Frankly, I have no idea where those words came from, but suddenly I found myself in the shower in my residence hall my freshman year of college again. It was ten years ago, but I recall having a chuckle at how all that weekend, I had been serving as a "translator" between a friend from Hong Kong and another one from Korea. Never mind that I didn't speak Korean--I had been exposed to enough bad English in my life that I was translating from one dialect of bad English to another. In that moment, I began to wonder if God would be ridiculous enough to call me back to Asia after I had finally settled down from crying about moving halfway across the world to the US.

Ten years later, at that conference back in Asia, the words spilling out of my mouth suddenly shed light on all the nonsense in that shower room. I would find myself "return"-ing-ish to Asia-ish, just not in the conventional way. Well, if everything else leading up to that moment in my life was anything to go by, "conventional" doesn't usually work out for me, so really, I had no reason to be surprised.


Still, I was undecided. There were overseas Chinese all around the world. Why did it have to be Auckland? Sure, there was job stability there, but there was no money to go with the job. 20% is still a grim figure, and I would be returning to Auckland with less than a month to find another place to live (my current flatmate is wonderful, but we've reached a point where it's no longer fair for her to keep offering me free accommodation).


Then those youth camps. Those blasted youth camps.

Since the first of the year, I've been at back-to-back youth camps. I generally love youth camps because I love camps in general, but even more so, I love being around the ridiculousness of teenagers. Except this time, my role was a bit different. Along with just hanging out with the teenagers, I also got to spend significant time with some of the youth leaders--young adults whom I had just spent a whole year getting to know. The more we talked, the more they shared their hopes and dreams, the more I began to have that sense that my journey with them wasn't over. It couldn't be.

But then what? There still is that grim reality of 20% (I hate numbers, but it keeps haunting me). And then the first nudging I felt about The Bridge returned.

It was January 2013 and I had taken 48 hours to go away to Wellington. The afternoon before I was to return to Auckland, I passed by a house. It was an ordinary house, and there was no reason for it to have stood out, but it did. I had already decided before the trip that I would be done with my assignment with WCF, and kind of figured at least part of the 48 hours away would be spent praying about next steps. Still, there was no reason for me to have stood in front of that ordinary house for so long, but I came home from that trip and asked my prayer circle to begin praying about a house.

Well, it's been two years since that trip. I'm still not sure what that house is about, but I have a stronger feeling than ever that it's going to happen, even if I have no idea how.

Over the weekend at that last camp I was a part of, we were challenged over and over again to make "Bold Crossings". Frankly, I had not given a second thought to the theme because I was there only to be a support person for the camp, and had even been pretty insistent on the first two days that I wasn't going to let it get to me. I was exhausted and ready for the busyness to be over so I could go away by myself to think and pray and sort things out.

Then that night, Clint talked about making the "Bold Crossing" to surrender. In our leaders' meetings prior, we were reminded that these messages could stir up some things amongst the youth that we should be prepared to deal with. I found myself thinking in my head, I've had enough experience with these youth events that I know what to expect. How different would this night be from all the others?

But that night, as Clint made the call to surrender, I found myself drifting to the back of the room, and from my corner, I found two of my people who had been going through some really challenging junk with their hands raised in the air. In that moment, there was no holding back the tears. I still had no idea what I was supposed to be doing in Auckland, but at that moment I knew God was doing something, and I wanted in. I wanted to stay.


So in conclusion, well... I have no conclusion. Except... I guess I'm staying in Aotearoa. It is good to return home.