Kiwi Birthday Reflections

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arohanui,
Me

Where We Come From: Holiness and Unity Part #4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me just say, they blew my mind.

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

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

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

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

And that. That is where we come from.

Holy Week Treasure Trove

In the days when I worked at Church of God Ministries, we were used to getting phonecalls about the medical conditions or the passing of a minister or retired minister. I remember one of the ladies saying once, "It always happens in threes." She was referring to funerals, of course.

Holy Week this year has been one of those. It happened in threes--not funerals in our case, just... life. You know, the usual big upheavals. And because I take, "i carry your heart," the words of great ecclesiologist, e.e. cummins, way too seriously some times, this week... Well, for lack of fancy vocabulary, this week just plain sucked.

My worldview was shaken all over again as I lived into the life of a family in the midst of pain.
My take on gender roles and the feminist movement that had been slowly taking shape over the last few years were suddenly ripped apart and splattered all over the walls as if a druggy vandal had gotten hold of ugly red pain, and I no longer knew where I stood.
My understanding of social injustice shifted as my own tears mingled with those that I wiped away. The perhaps unintentional actions of one or two can so greatly hurt another.

Too many answers I was looking for.
Too much hurt to carry.
Too many situations that will remain unresolved for a while.
Too many nights of crying, "Why, God?" and "My shoulders aren't big enough for these."

In the midst of it all, I heard the words of the One that called me to this place.
"My child, remember when I brought you here, all I asked from you was to love this land and these people. I'm the one with the answers. You're the one with the skin on to carry My love."

And I began to remember the One had always been at work.

I saw it in the whanau that showed up every day to make sure there was food in everyone's stomachs, and to help calm the upheavals.
I saw it in the simple thank yous and the return of laughter to the dining table and the bedrooms.
I saw it in the tickle fights and the big hugs.

I heard it in the "How are you?"s that demanded a longer-than-five-second response.
I heard it in the "Call us anytime, even if it's 2am."
I heard it in the simple reminders to continue to be who we were created to be, not what circumstances want us to become.

And then yesterday morning, I realised how much I needed a little bit of liturgy to bring calm back into my week. Nina and I were both half awake when I first brought up the idea of trying to pull together a Seder meal, but we pulled it off anyway, and the whanau showed up when they showed up. It wasn't anything fancy, and halfway through the liturgy, I started beating myself up over not taking the time to find a more first-timer-friendly text.

But it wasn't so much about the meal or the liturgy itself.
It was taking time to remember the sacred things.
It was taking time to share stories.
It was taking time to affirm each other in our journey.

It was allowing these ladies to be the "church mums" I've missed.
It was allowing them to speak into my life.
It was allowing them to ask about my story, and to half-heartedly admit I was more qualified for what I do than I like talking or thinking about.
It was allowing them to say, "You may be a nerd, but you are OUR nerd."
It was allowing them to affirm my call as a woman in ministry, and to hear them say, "We know this isn't an easy calling, but you are OUR pastor, and we will do pastoral care for our pastor."

And in the silence of the night as the dust of the wilderness settled for a bit, all that's left was to whisper a word of thanks as I remember the One that started this business of footwashing.

"Rhythmus" Part 2 - Your Kingdom Come, Your Will Be Done

"Rhythmus," he said, with that familiar whimsical look--the one he got whenever a cheeky or brilliant idea was starting to take shape in his head.

I stared at him blankly.

"Rhythmus," he said again. "It's the spiritual rhythm that binds our community here. We don't do the traditional church model, but we still have this rhythm that keeps our group together. It's a rhythm that keeps us eating together, praying together and studying the Word together."

His words were starting to make a bit of sense, but I wondered if the mix of English and German I've had to function with had affected my ability to understand simple English as Kelley, Aaron and I sat at the dining table trying to piece together the website for the XZBerlin community.

Never mind that I had seen it lived out amongst the team members. That kind of taking care of one another, that intentional fellowship and study... I didn't fully understand the rhythm.

Then one day a few weeks back, I got an e-mail from Joe. Joe and I are better friends on Twitter than e-mail, so I was slightly surprised to get an e-mail from him. He mentioned something about Lent, the journey in the wilderness, the desert experiences, and finding sabbath and a spiritual rhythm.

It was an invitation to a group of friends--a community scattered across the US and here in Auckland--to join in a spiritual rhythm where we, and anyone else whom we knew were keen to join, prayed together, morning and evening, for Kingdom come, for ourselves and for each other. These weren't meant to be intense spiritual times as much as rhythm markers for the day. So we all, scattered across three time zones around the globe, prayed together at 7:30am and 6pm each day wherever we were.

The first day, as I started saying the words, "Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name..." I was swept back to that Blue Church in Berlin, where together we chorused the words in German.

Suddenly I became aware that "Your Kingdom come, Your will be done," meant something far bigger than the simple words I was whispering in my bedroom in Auckland. Because friends in Indiana, Michigan, Ohio and Oklahoma were whispering these same words. The same words people in Germany and all around the world had been whispering throughout ages past. The same words that were whispered at the Pasifika festival only a few weeks later.

Suddenly Rhythmus became much bigger than that website discussion around the Philips' dining table in Berlin.
Suddenly Rhythmus included the friends that sent me the delightful care package only a few months ago when I was in desperate need for a sabbath, without realising I had a sabbath trip planned.
Suddenly Rhythmus included a global family whispering the words together, "Your Kingdom come, Your will be done."

This past week has been one of the more emotionally exhausting ones. There were a couple of very victorious moments, peppered with a couple of very heartbreaking ones, with a side of an answered prayer and one of the most unexpectedly difficult and painful conversations I've had to have in a while.

When it started, I found myself leaning into the prayers of this scattered community, holding on to "Your Kingdom come, Your will be done" like never before.
And then in the middle of it all, I was reminded of promises I made when I first started this chapter in Auckland, and the peace that carried me through because I kept my promises.
And then in the middle of what was about to turn out to be another very difficult day, I heard the words again, "Your Kingdom come, Your will be done"--and from a voice I least expected.

Most who read this blog know that I prefer to let my thoughts simmer for a while before I paint them on the screen so they don't come out ill-intentioned, hurtful or in manners I regret later. Part 2 of this Rhythmus series had been simmering for a while, and I had hoped for a beautiful, happy-ever-after type of ra-ra, celebrate the Rhythm hype.

But tonight, it's 11:44pm as I write this--later than my usual bedtime since I started the 7:30ams. And there's no beautiful, happy-ever-after type of ra-ra hype. Instead, there are tears of release, a very raw sense of pain, and a deep peace and hope in holding on to "Your Kingdom come, Your will be done."

This Lent, I've journeyed the wilderness through some oasis and some very dusty, thorny roads. I've endured the 6:30am alarms, snoozing a bagillion times so I can finally be awake to pray at 7:30am. I've wondered if I was the right person to have gotten thrown into some of the sandstorms because I never felt strong enough. I've learnt to lean into a community that is scattered like the Israelites in exile, and feeling the whispered prayers as we walked our own wilderness in this bigger rhythmus of "Your Kingdom come, Your will be done."

The dust of the wilderness will settle, and we will usher in the coming King with our Hosannas--the King whose Kingdom will reign forever and these seasons of wilderness and exile will be no more. But until then, I will lean into "Your Kingdom come, Your will be done," and the hopeful glimpses of Easter and the empty tomb.


In case you're interested in joining in the spiritual rhythm, here's what it looks like:
At 2 times each day (7:30 a.m. and 6:00 p.m.), everyone involved would commit to the following:
1. Praying the Lord's Prayer (Matthew 6:9-13)
2. Praying the Jesus Creed (Mark 12:29–31)
3. Praying briefly for the people who they know who are involved
4a. In the morning, praying that God would keep them from evil and temptation and thanking God for his provision.
4b. In the evening, confessing any areas where they recall that they sinned and thanking God for his forgiveness.
We are encouraging people to invite others along and don't expect that everyone will even know of all the people who are involved. But the idea is to stay connected to something bigger, so please let me know (by simply leaving your name in the comments below--and location, if you've stumbled upon this space by accident) if you'd like to be a part so I can include you as I pray.

Today

Today

Today a brief note from The Big Death flew in through the window
Today my blood boiled

You killed a part of me

Today

Today I went and sat outside
Today I stared into emptiness

You had more strength, less heart

Today

Today I lamented and wept
Today I ached for depth and authenticity

You didn't know

Today

Today I fell into the arms of community that loves and carries me
Today they kicked me in the behind and said, you're letting THIS get you down?

You can't stop me

Today

Today I put my bare hands to the shattered pieces from The Big Death and slowly sweep them up
Today I allow myself to feel that pain all over again as they pierce my fingers

You can't stop me

Today I'll write stories again
Today I'll feel again

You can't stop me

Today I'll be vulnerable again
Today I'll trust wholeheartedly again

You can't stop me

Today I'll learn to love you again.

Not because I want to. Not at this moment, I really don't
But because you're family, I'll learn to love you until it comes naturally again.

And no, this time, you can't stop me.
Because the tsunami of Agape has more weight than human boundaries and social structures.

Today I'll choose to love you.
And no, you can't stop me.

Today.
And everyday.

Culture Shock: Paradigm Shift

I've now spent nearly a third of my life away from my country of birth, and every day I'm even more aware of the things I have yet to learn or re-learn.

Like most days, I fumble over grammar. Is this the right English word to use in this English-speaking country?
Or the cucumber story. I still don't know where to find them in the grocery store in Singapore. Every time I'm back, I have a mild panic attack before I head downstairs to the shops because I wouldn't know where to find the cucumbers.
Or the realisation that I've lived in Western countries for the past 8 years but I still don't know how to make a white sauce.

Today it was the realisation that my cultural biases toward racism surprised even myself. While I was at the store earlier, these two men were yelling rather loudly at each other. It took me a while to realise the store manager, a White man (using "White" here because I couldn't figure out if he had non-European blood as well), had been accused by an Indian man of being racist. These were the bits I caught:

"I'm a customer here. Don't think that just because you're the manager here, you can tell me to come back later."
"I was saying that to the other man."
"Don't think that you're the manager here so you can be racist."
"I don't think you understand what that word means."

It went on for quite a while, but out of fear that someone would end up getting hurt, I quickly got my yoghurt and walked down the next aisle.

That was when I realised that I was feeling sorry for the White man even though I hadn't had the full story. The bits I gathered seem to suggest that he wasn't the one at fault, but again I didn't have the full story.

But it made me realise too, in similar situations of ambiguity, I always end up feeling bad for the White folks. Then I had another mild panic attack. Have I become that kid that thinks of her roots as inferior to the Great White that I should always assume they're right? Or was it something else?

I had a moment of flashback to Freshman year. It was a very vivid scene where I was sitting up in the balcony with the other international kids (cos we're badass like that). Bear in mind these were in my good-girl days where I decided I was going to hang out with the "bad" kids so that I could influence them to be like me and Jesus AKA before the realisation we were all equally bad, just at different things. It was the usual chaos that I tried to tune out, but the Gospel Choir leading the Black History Month celebration was the bigger distraction this time.

Why in the world is it necessary to celebrate Black History Month, asked the kid that grew up in multi-culti Singapore where the worse of racial riots happened in the 1960s, prior to our independence. Why can't everybody just decide they want to get along and do it? I mean, I acknowledge Singapore is small and the history of racial tensions is short compared to the rest of world history. Still, it's been so many years since Dr King's assassination. Aren't people tired of that tension?

It wasn't until much later when someone pointed out the far-reaching effects of slavery that I understood why it was difficult. Reconciliation IS hard work. But reconciliation can't happen while one side hangs their head in shame while the other continues wagging a finger at them. They'll always hear the, "Bad dog. Bad, bad, bad." We know it's not good for kids' self-esteem so we avoid it, but why do we do it elsewhere?

I remembered having the same struggle in Germany. How long are we going to wag fingers at them for the 2 World Wars? Or the Pakeha for not holding up their end of the Treaty of Waitangi?

Maybe it's easy for me to speak since I come from the part of the world that history books would paint as victims of violence rather than perpetrators. Maybe it's because neither of my grandmothers have any stories (or at least, not ones they've told) of being raped by the Japanese soldiers. Maybe it's because I live in such a safe bubble that I don't have any reason to hate the perpetrators of violence. Maybe it's because as I loaded groceries in the van, I caught a reflection of myself--that Asian-looking girl that sounds American but is dressed like a hippie (I know, I know, I'm far from looking anything like a real hippie since I'm still refusing the dreads. But try convincing my ANTM-watching sister of that...) and drives a family van that's only loaded with kids on the rare occasion--and realised anyone meeting me for the first time would have no idea what box to put me in so I feel less judged by either side. Or maybe it's just very simply because I haven't gotten the whole story, or the historical accuracy of the stories.

But really, how long?

And what are WE, as Christians, supposed to do about reconciliation?

I don't know how I would respond if the day should come where I, too, become a victim of violence. I hope someone would look and say, "She responded with the love of Christ," but I also know I'm human.

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

Roots

I met Amber at The Stream, the Wesleyan theological conference in New Zealand. That I was meeting more folks outside the WCF circle was of course exciting. But what was even more so was that
1) we have similar backgrounds of education by liberal arts colleges in the Midwest USA (talk about Settlers of Catan or the libertarian political viewpoints of contemporaries and she's right there with you)
2) she's also a single, theologically-educated female eager to engage in the nerdy theological discoursing
3) I can safely admit my guilty pleasure of the occasional good chick flick without being judged
4) her deep commitment to the Wesleyan denomination.

I'm starting to understand the differences between a denomination and what we in the Church of God like to call, "a movement". During the conference, I had asked one of the ladies if that church building was where they usually had these conferences. Her response was, "well, this is one of our centers and sometimes we rotate around, but it's usually here."

"One of OUR" -- that statement struck me as odd. I found myself wondering if, if I had asked one of the ministers at NAC if the AU campus was where we usually held our conferences, would she/he respond with the same, "one of OUR ..."?

Then last week I met Amber's flatmate Jes, who was recently ordained. The conversation about the ordination process in the Wesleyan movement seemed like it was part of the natural next step in ministry. Everything was so systematic that it seemed like it would be easier to feel a sense of belonging in the denomination. Even when she said she went to Houghton College in NY, she and Amber automatically explained that it was one of THEIR Wesleyan colleges.

There's a Chinese saying that goes, 人比人 气死人 (literally translates as, people comparing with people, people will be aggravated to death--in other words, comparison will only lead to anger). I shouldn't make the comparison of whether the denomination is functioning more effectively than the movement (Amber and Jes have their own stories to tell), but I can't help but wonder if there are some things we can learn from the Wesleyans.

While I appreciate the autonomy of the Church of God, there's something to be said about the systems that are put in place with the Wesleyans. I think what surprised me most about Amber and Jes was the realisation that there ARE folks (especially young women) outside of my circle of seminary friends who have this same deep commitment to theological development within their denominations/movements. It definitely makes ministry in Auckland feel a little less isolated as we each face different challenges of having this sense of commitment. At the same time, it raises for me the question of how do we ignite this same sense of commitment that goes beyond the local congregation--and perhaps even beyond denominational lines to that sense of belonging in the Kingdom?

We all know that relationships are a complicated thing. "Love one another" is a simple concept theoretically, but so much harder to live out. As I think about the challenges we face with being Church, I personally find it most difficult to talk about issues of commitment--whether they are commitments to being present at events, to responsibilities, and most importantly, stepping up to responsible relationships that love one another but are also willing to give and receive accountability.

Maybe it's because I've been blessed to have consistently had good people to constantly challenge me to keep pursuing those levels of commitment, that I automatically assume it shouldn't be difficult. At the same time, this constant uprooting has also necessitated the task of shamelessly digging for a sense of belonging in relationships so that I don't feel completely crushed when the good people call me out. Which makes me wonder if it would be easier for folks to choose to be committed to tasks/accountability/Christ if we did a better job at creating space for a sense of belonging to develop, especially in a time where the laissez-faire take on life has become even more common.

So I guess my question is, what does it take for folks to feel rooted?

"God has willed that we should seek and find God's living Word in the testimony of other Christians, in the mouths of human beings . . . If we have been elected and accepted with the whole church in Jesus Christ before we could know it or want it, then we also belong to Christ in eternity with one another . . . Because God already has laid the only foundation of our community, because God has united us in one body with other Christians in Jesus Christ long before we entered into common life with them, we enter into that life together with other Christians, not as those who make demands, but as those who thankfully receive . . . In other words, a life together under the Word will stay healthy only when it does not form itself into a movement, an order, a society, a collegium pietatis, but instead understands itself as being part of the one, holy, universal, Christian church, sharing through its deeds and suffering in the hardships and struggles and promise of the whole church."
- Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together

时间会冲淡一切 (Time Will Dilute All Things)

The Chinese saying goes, 时间会冲淡一切, or "time will dilute all things".

It's hard to believe so much time has passed and the tear glands still act up every time that episode gets brought up.

Today I realised I'm struggling to regain my ability to trust that relationships I've given myself to will come through for me.

                            They told me
once upon a time,
                                              if you
            give
                  yourself
               to relationships,
       there comes a time
                      when there's enough trust
            built
that you can depend on those
                                    relationships.

Then you tried to tell me they were wrong.
                               2.5 years wasn't enough...

时间会冲淡一切

I wasn't going to ask for any more favours
           I just wanted to
                    know
               if we could still be
friends.

It didn't hurt because you couldn't help.
or didn't want to, but... technicalities.

It hurt because you didn't want to talk.

时间会冲淡一切

I haven't stopped loving you
I can't stop loving you
You're still family even if my passport tries to tell you otherwise.
I still love you.
I wouldn't be here otherwise.

Today I sat and wept.
They said 时间会冲淡一切
I wish time would hurry up and dilute all this pain from that episode.

It was trivial.
Right?
So why this pain?

The on-lookers are saying that wasn't fair.
But life isn't fair
If it was, there would be a whole lot less suffering in the world.


All those years you've preached at me to not walk the journey alone.
Yet when it became time you said, "We'll walk with you while you're here but we can't do anything once you leave here."


I'm dare not ask for fairness.
But Lord help me, my trust issues from the dark ages threaten to return.

"I do not ask on behalf of these alone, but for those also who believe in You through our word; that we may all be one; even as You, Father, are in Jesus and He in You, that we also may be in You, so that the world may believe that You sent Him." - John 17:20-21


时间会冲淡一切
I hope one day we can look back with a smile and say, that wasn't pretty, but it was ok.

"That we may all be one..."

Thank you for the "other" voices from that episode, and the reminder that in spite of the crappy hand I've been dealt, I still had/have quality people in my life.

Becoming Human Together

I'll confess that when it comes to my brothers and sisters who go to a mega-church, I often am less than gracious with them. So when the City Harvest saga broke out, I'll admit that I quickly jumped to conclusions that, of course, they would be guilty.

But that's not the point. The point is that regardless of whether or not they are guilty, there's a part of the Family that is hurting. Regardless of whether they provided the spiritual leadership they should have, there's a part of the Family that is asking questions. Regardless of why they did or didn't do what they were accused of, there's a part of the Family trying to make sense of what has happened.

I'm learning again what it means to stop older-brothering the prodigal. It's so easy for me to jump on the self-righteous bandwagon. And so, in light of the City Harvest saga, I'm reminded again that, mega-church or not, we all belong in the body of Christ. And when one member of the family is hurting, it's only fair that I try to push aside my self-righteous judgement and hurt with them.

It's part of the experience of becoming human together.

The Wax House

She stood watching, with tears streaming down her face. Too many years had passed since the last time she played an active role in the hustle and bustle of activities in that old house.

She visited the old house every year since she left. It had become like a ritual for paying homage to the role the old house played in her life. Some of her old friends had left; others that stuck around noticed the different energy with the new faces that came. Most seemed excited about the different energy, and she hoped it was for the best.

Then one day she noticed the paint starting to peel away. The flowers looked thirsty, and she wondered if she was the only one who noticed. She could water the flowers, but she didn't have enough time to start the paint job. She left and again, she hoped it was for the best.

The next year, the garden was parched, and the paint had become even more splotchy. She wondered again if she was the only one who noticed. Again she watered the garden, and as she did, she began to see an image of what the old house would look like if nothing changed. She shuddered and wondered if their little old house was about to become like the story of the lighthouse that she heard not too long ago. She told a friend of that wax house she saw in that image. It looked like someone had made it into a candle with wax slabbed around rusty iron poles and set the whole thing on fire. Beyond that, she wasn't sure what to do. That old house had been her stomping ground as a child, but there were others running the place now.

Not too long ago, she made another visit. The energy again felt different, and again she hoped for the best. There were new flowers in the garden, and they asked if she would help water the garden. But how could she when she had just given immense amounts of energy starting a different garden from scratch? And besides, it still bothered her that nothing had been done to change the soil or to create a better environment for the flowers to thrive better.

Still she did what she could while she fought to ignore the voice that said, "Change doesn't come with a new garden, or a fresh coat of paint. Remember? Real change never comes from the top down or the bottom up. It comes from the inside out." She found her own way to make a difference, ways they may never recognise as anything of significance, ways they will probably see as rebellious. Not that she really cared anymore what they thought. She had spent too many hours grieving the loss of too many flowers to care.

But still she wept. She wept for the old house that didn't feel like the house she grew up in anymore. She wept for the years gone by and the flowers that faded away. She wept for how the old house was starting to look more and more like the image she saw way back when. She wept for the flowers that told her to leave them alone. She wept for how she had just spent so much of her life in that land elsewhere putting pieces back into place for other old houses that have been down that same road. She wept for her own fears of being sucked back into those dark places when she grieved the other old houses.

And then he came and took her by the hand.

"My child, it's time for you to leave now. You came for rest but you found you had to hide your face. Your heart cannot be broken for so many places and this is not a house for you to grieve over anymore. Let it go. Let the flowers go. I am still in charge. Remember that lesson from way back when? Feed my sheep. But they still are MY sheep."

Faith and the Human Experience

I was talking to an old friend, Ben, recently. Apparently his existential crisis has hit an all-new level that would be his personal best so far. This was, of course, curious to me because the Singaporean society seemed like the least likely breeding ground for the ideologies of post-christendom. We may have a first-world economy, but our theology is still very third-world. Which is perfectly fine, until we stumble upon a little "trouble-maker," like my friend Ben.

Strange timing also, that I stumbled upon a chapter of my life from ten years ago when life was simple and "Jesus" was the answer I would give because that's what I thought people wanted to hear. I go through phases where I long for the days when the good old christian girl in me could just as easily have been the star of the Chris Rice song, Me and Becky. I still grieve that those days are long-gone because I didn't have to bear the responsibilities I carry now.

But the reality is, those days are gone. Ten years is along time, and to pretend that all the junk that happened in the last ten years didn't exist would not only be marginalizing my story and my grief, but also the creativity of the Redeemer that weaved all these pieces together. And I cannot go on pretending the hurt in the world doesn't exist, or that Grace did not surprise my conventional definitions of the Creator's imagination when it weaved its way in to redeem all these broken pieces.

And then I stumbled upon the idea of "faith and the human experience" -- something I have no doubt I would have already figured out if I had only paid more attention to Dr. Overstreet's Faith and Human Development class in undergrad.

Human experience is wondering how falling sick from alternating between the steaming hot dish-room that was my first job in college and the unbearable (remember, this is the girl from the tropical island-city) Anderson winters four days a week was an appropriate response from god to my attempt to answer my call to ministry.
Faith is the realisation that the ministry of washing dishes is essential for table fellowship (a big part of the Church of God tradition I claim as heritage).

Human experience is trying to make the best of a $35/week income by humbly accepting your parents' help with rent while surviving on $2/day (Taco Bell's $1.89 bean burrito can make for a filling lunch AND dinner if you're willing to ride your bike out) when savings ran out.
Faith is the realisation Someone's always looking out.

Human experience is facing the temptation every year to give up all this "call to ministry" nonsense for a better material life in the home-country where the economy is still one of the most stable in the world.
Faith is the realisation a dream happened nearly ten years ago about things to come, and that Someone already knew way back when.

Human experience is coming face-to-face with human trafficking, and the sobering realisation that it could just as easily have been me.
Faith is the realisation that because Someone cries for each oppressed minority voice, and Someone has cared about me, I should care about what Someone cares about as well.

Human experience is the daily battle with existentialism and the constantly evolving world.
Faith is the realisation that Some____ is.

Human experience is what social scientist Maslow would probably hashtag as #firstworldproblems -- controversial religious/spiritual debates.
Faith is the realisation that Some____ already defied all of the above with the simple, "I am".

Greg, my professor of theology at AUSOT once explained it something like that: To simply live in the human experience is an obvious negligence of the Christian faith. But to simply use faith to explain away suffering, whether physical, emotional, mental or spiritual, and the human experience is to belittle Jesus' own human experience. If the human experience can be simply explained away by faith, then it would not have been necessary for Jesus to exist as both completely human and completely divine at the same time. And if that were true, then the Christology of Church tradition will have to be completely reconstructed.

As with most things human, it's often difficult for two extremes to co-exist in tangent. We swing between conservative and liberal, traditional and contemporary. Neither extremes are completely right or wrong, but once we realise there's a bit more in the world than the box we were raised in, it's easy to be completely disgusted by the old box, and want to have nothing to do with it. But even after Jesus redefined what "mother" and "brothers" meant, he still made sure Mary was taken care of as he hung on the cross.

And yes, I know. We're not Jesus. Everyday I'm reminded of how unlike Jesus I am. And so we continue to struggle in our humanity between the extremes. But as Henri Nouwen pointed out, there are the unhealed wounders, and the wounded healers. I can only wish that in our struggling between the extremes that we always find room for a little bit of grey areas, and a lot of room for grace.

These are initial thoughts that I've been itching to write down in a more cohesive space than on the notepad on my phone since I've been away from a computer. There's been a whole lot more that I want to write about, but as usual, I get distracted way too easily, so we'll see if this gets revisited.

As always, I'm open to conversations. My only request is that you extend me at least as much grace as you feel you're receiving from me.

Also, extend grace to my poor grammar. I've had one too many days of one too many languages.

My "Leaving Church" Story

Years ago when I first started taking blogging more seriously, I gave myself a few rules of things I will not blog about.

1) Political commentary.
As it is, there are enough opinions out there to sway the crowds one way or another. I don't need, or want to, start another heated debate. Words are only of use if they compel people into action.

2) Reactionary posts.
Because the blogosphere is a public forum, I don't need to throw out a passionate reaction to an event or something I came across only to process my thoughts a little further and regret a post a week later.

3) Personal drama.
Again, the blogosphere is a public forum. Unless healing and reconciliation have taken place, dirty linen doesn't have to be aired in public.

Today, I'm breaking rules #2 and #3.
I'm treading carefully with this post today because there are episodes that I'm considering writing about where reconciliation has not taken place, so I'll throw in a disclaimer early on that these stories are only shared to give credibility to the bigger story, and not to turn this blog into a bitch-fest.

So here we go. This is my "Leaving Church" story, a response to the recent frenzy in the blogosphere.

It began in 2005, when I came across Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz. I was on a student-leadership team in a Christian liberal arts college, and that was the book we were reading on campus that year. Miller's book articulated many of my frustrations with a brand of Christianity that I had been struggling with because it was getting too superficial for my liking, and made me want to apologise to every person whom the church had left a bad after-taste with.

A year later, as a ministry intern, I found myself watching theologians, professors of religious studies and retired ministers bickering amongst themselves about how much time our staff organist should be allowed to rehearse on the organ in the sanctuary. I realised then how broken institutions can be, and decided that if this is what becomes of theologians, professors of religious studies and retired ministers, I would never go to seminary, and never work in a religious institution (never mind that I had already "responded to my call to ministry"). I wasn't ready to completely abandon the institution--the church is family. Just because all the Big Brothers and Sisters screw up or don't play fair doesn't mean you disown them.

So instead, my first real grown-up job was at a para-church organization. Freshly graduated with the conviction that I knew nothing, I thought working at a para-church organization would still keep me involved in the local churches, but at a level where I only need to watch from the peripheries and not get tied up in the politics. That would buy me some time to work through my issues with the local church, find some healing and eventually start seminary feeling less jaded.

Maybe I only have myself to blame for getting overly-involved. But after a couple years of watching policy after policy being implemented that were quick-fixes to a more deeply-rooted problem without thorough thinking through of what long-term implications there might be to those directly affected by these new policies, one cannot help but feel even more jaded by institutions. And then I discovered more and more voices amongst my new-found community in seminary that resonated with my thoughts. Oh, I could tell you of the countless hours we spent dreaming up what Church could be like if we could just start our own church amongst our own circle of friends and not have anyone else join in--most of which happened while we were avoiding writing about sanctification and the likes of it.

But we all knew. We couldn't run away and start our own thing. Most of us who understood the history of our tradition, the Church of God Reformation Movement, started by DS Warner, knew that that was exactly how we started off. As students of Church History, we knew that it had been done before--countless times, even before DS Warner.

The summer of 2010, I had the privilege of spending a few months with a group in Berlin, Germany. This was a group that came together to figure out what Church meant in 21st Century Berlin, a cosmopolitan, global city that had moved on from the days where Luther's reformation had a significant impact on ecclesiology. The group in Berlin wasn't a sensation because they were trying to start a hip 21st-Century style of monastic-living. They were sensational because they were intentionally committed to community and to the spiritual betterment of each one in the group. But even more so, to the reality that engaging in community means engaging in each other's dirt and learning to fight fair when we disagree rather than say, I'm just going to go off and start my own thing.

Kelley Philips, my internship supervisor in Berlin explained to me that the statement, "If we would all just go back to the 1st-Century Church where everyone came together to take care of everyone else, the world would be a better place," had become a popular catch-phrase in church-language these days. But we often ignore the possibility that the 1st-Century Church probably fought all the time too, as they define what "fair share" meant. We paint idealistic pictures of what the Church should be or look like, rather than embrace it for what it is and try to work through those pieces. I could quote you one Bonhoefferian thought after another about the impact of pursuing human idealism instead of pursuing the reality of God, but the reality is, these are only words.

So what IS your leaving church story, you ask. I could tell you of the heartache of trying to find healing after that dark year in undergrad. I could tell you of the 4 years I spent defending an institution even though there were realities I faced everyday in that institution that discouraged me even more. I could tell you of how I beat up a TV in anger when this same institution told me they wanted no part in my involvement with the missio Dei since I wasn't one of them (ask my friends Emily, Ashley, Michael, Yocum and Jason. They witnessed the anger).

You want a leaving church story? I don't have one to tell you because after all this time, I haven't left. And it's not because I haven't wanted to, or haven't had the guts to. But it's because the Church is family. I can dream all day about being born into my ideal family, but it is in digging through the dirt with my real family that I can truly understand "For God so loved the world..."

Beloved Church of God theologian Gil Stafford is known for his words, "Be the Church." As I was ruminating over how to articulate my "leaving church" story, I found it ironic that we're talking about leaving the church when the reality is, we ARE the Church. How can we possibly leave the church if that requires us leaving ourselves?

Or maybe that's what it comes down to. Maybe we need to leave ourselves, our ideals and definitions of what Church should be, and just simply BE the Church.