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.
Showing posts with label Whanau. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Whanau. Show all posts
02 September 2014
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...
01 April 2013
Where We Come From
I've talked for a while about wanting to do a revamp to make better use of my social media presence. Well, I haven't come up with anything brilliant yet, but this has got me thinking about a new series that I've been mulling over separately. It's called "Where We Come From."
In an unexpected twist of events, I ended up with a quiet day at home to do anything I wanted. Because I work from home, I hardly ever want to stay home any more than necessary. But today, I wasn't allowed to do work. It was Easter Monday, and everyone else in New Zealand had the day off. And for once, the house was clean, the dishes were done and put away, and the laundry was on the line.
I could do anything I wanted for once.
Wow.
And so I got on Facebook and Twitter. I jumped back in to an ongoing conversation with the girls on Whatsapp. I scheduled Skype dates. And in the midst of trying to carefully plan my social life this week so that my tank could be refilled but not to a point that I was emotionally drained again, I realised something.
I won't deny that part of the reason why I'm on social media as much as I am is partially because I have a mild addiction to information overload. But there was something more.
In the five seconds or so that it takes to skim through the headlines that filter through the notifications I've set up on Facebook or Twitter over the years, I'm reminded again that I'm connected to something far bigger than me. These are the people who have shared one part of my story, and as I read about where they are today, I'm reminded of the adventures of when we sojourned together.
Someone pointed out the other day that often when I talk, I use "we" more than I. It was something I had noticed a while back and found to be slightly odd since I function mostly as an I on most social levels. But there's always a "we" involved in everything, and I've found it difficult to simply use "I" because it feels like I'm discrediting everything and everyone else that help keep things in order.
And so begins this new series called, "Where We Come From".
These are the stories of the collective voices that I have come to love as whanau (Maori for extended family).
These are the faces that complete my kampong (Malay for village).
These are the ones who have spoken Life to my weary being in seasons when I haven't taken care of myself.
These are the ones who have challenged me to live life outside the box.
These are the ones who have been imago Dei and who have extended grace and love to me.
These are the ones who have helped keep my faith and spirituality grounded.
And we all have our own stories and places where we have been.
I've mulled over this series for the past few months, starting and stopping and throwing everything out and found it to be a ridiculous series to even consider writing.
But I think the time has come to remind myself, mostly, of where I've come from.
And so these are the stories of Where We Come From.
In an unexpected twist of events, I ended up with a quiet day at home to do anything I wanted. Because I work from home, I hardly ever want to stay home any more than necessary. But today, I wasn't allowed to do work. It was Easter Monday, and everyone else in New Zealand had the day off. And for once, the house was clean, the dishes were done and put away, and the laundry was on the line.
I could do anything I wanted for once.
Wow.
And so I got on Facebook and Twitter. I jumped back in to an ongoing conversation with the girls on Whatsapp. I scheduled Skype dates. And in the midst of trying to carefully plan my social life this week so that my tank could be refilled but not to a point that I was emotionally drained again, I realised something.
I won't deny that part of the reason why I'm on social media as much as I am is partially because I have a mild addiction to information overload. But there was something more.
In the five seconds or so that it takes to skim through the headlines that filter through the notifications I've set up on Facebook or Twitter over the years, I'm reminded again that I'm connected to something far bigger than me. These are the people who have shared one part of my story, and as I read about where they are today, I'm reminded of the adventures of when we sojourned together.
Someone pointed out the other day that often when I talk, I use "we" more than I. It was something I had noticed a while back and found to be slightly odd since I function mostly as an I on most social levels. But there's always a "we" involved in everything, and I've found it difficult to simply use "I" because it feels like I'm discrediting everything and everyone else that help keep things in order.
And so begins this new series called, "Where We Come From".
These are the stories of the collective voices that I have come to love as whanau (Maori for extended family).
These are the faces that complete my kampong (Malay for village).
These are the ones who have spoken Life to my weary being in seasons when I haven't taken care of myself.
These are the ones who have challenged me to live life outside the box.
These are the ones who have been imago Dei and who have extended grace and love to me.
These are the ones who have helped keep my faith and spirituality grounded.
And we all have our own stories and places where we have been.
I've mulled over this series for the past few months, starting and stopping and throwing everything out and found it to be a ridiculous series to even consider writing.
But I think the time has come to remind myself, mostly, of where I've come from.
And so these are the stories of Where We Come From.
09 January 2013
Rites of Passage
Growing up, I was never the kid who loved school. I was (and still am) socially awkward, had a substitute teacher come in at the end of the year who picked another girl to be prefect over me even though I had been on my best behaviour and was the top girl in my class that year, and a best friend who eventually decided it was cooler to hang with the good kids than the one who didn't turn in her homework on time. I even told Mum once that I had really bad cramps because I was tired of being the black sheep that got to school late.
I had every reason to hate being at school. But every year, at least at the beginning of the year while I was in Primary, I LOVED starting school because I had new textbooks that had pages that still sometimes stuck together and smelt like they came fresh off the press. There were no creases in the spine--at least, not yet--a reminder that it was another opportunity for a fresh start, another opportunity to make it better than the last year.
And there were the coloured pencils. Every year around December, Mum would take us shopping for new pencils and erasers and coloured pencils and clothes for Chinese New Year. Every year, I would wrap those up and tuck them under the Christmas tree until Christmas morning when we got to unwrap all our new school supplies.
I didn't realise it then, but that became my rite of passage into a new school year--the little things we did to celebrate another year, another day.
This year, I find myself looking into the faces of the kids in Kids Club, each one of them proudly telling me, "I'm one year older this year, one year closer to being an adult." I marvel at their joy and pride in growing up, and wish I could keep their childlike perspective so I don't lose sight in the everyday miracle simply known as Life.
And the precious year 6s who will be graduating and heading on up into Intermediate, where they finally get to hang out in youth group with those cool big kids--an experience all fun and terrifying at the same time.
I remember being 11. I started being a part of the worship team at church, which brought with it questions of why I'm even serving when I don't get what being a Christian meant. It was the same year I wrote in my journal that I felt like a rubbish bin that was used by the once-bestfriend where she unloaded and unloaded all her junk, then set me out on the street for the dumpster-man while she ran off to play with the pretty girls. The dumpster-man that never came.
I look back on those experiences now and wish there had been an adult in my life that I could talk about those experiences with. Adults who would allow me to question my faith instead of telling me I just needed to know the Sunday School answers. At 11, Sunday School answers weren't cutting it anymore for my faith journey. I knew them all, but still they did nothing for my feeling like a complete fake when I sat at the piano in front of the church because what I claimed to be believing had no real meaning.
And then I look back again at the faces of the precious year 6s whom I've had the joy (and sometimes sorrow) of walking with in the last year. I wonder if I've done enough to help them along their journey. I want to say to them, it's ok if you don't understand the faith thing. It's ok to have questions. It's ok to be socially awkward. You don't have to pretend to be looking forward to Intermediate if you're terrified deep down inside that you're not going to be the big kids at school anymore.
I want to tell them, I was a mess when I was 11--still am a mess today. But we have a friend who knows our mess and will not leave us out on the streets for the non-existent dumpster-man. And you have friends in this place we call Church who will walk with you.
In a little less than a month, we'll be kicking-off kids' church for the year. Just like the coloured-pencils I looked forward to every year, I hope whatever we end up planning for the kick-off will be that same celebration of a rite of passage for these kids. But more importantly, I hope they know that these same people (maybe not the exact same faces, but the same people we call the Church whanau) who celebrate their rites of passage with them now will continue to celebrate every milestone with them along the way.
Happy 2013, my little people.
I had every reason to hate being at school. But every year, at least at the beginning of the year while I was in Primary, I LOVED starting school because I had new textbooks that had pages that still sometimes stuck together and smelt like they came fresh off the press. There were no creases in the spine--at least, not yet--a reminder that it was another opportunity for a fresh start, another opportunity to make it better than the last year.
And there were the coloured pencils. Every year around December, Mum would take us shopping for new pencils and erasers and coloured pencils and clothes for Chinese New Year. Every year, I would wrap those up and tuck them under the Christmas tree until Christmas morning when we got to unwrap all our new school supplies.
I didn't realise it then, but that became my rite of passage into a new school year--the little things we did to celebrate another year, another day.
This year, I find myself looking into the faces of the kids in Kids Club, each one of them proudly telling me, "I'm one year older this year, one year closer to being an adult." I marvel at their joy and pride in growing up, and wish I could keep their childlike perspective so I don't lose sight in the everyday miracle simply known as Life.
And the precious year 6s who will be graduating and heading on up into Intermediate, where they finally get to hang out in youth group with those cool big kids--an experience all fun and terrifying at the same time.
I remember being 11. I started being a part of the worship team at church, which brought with it questions of why I'm even serving when I don't get what being a Christian meant. It was the same year I wrote in my journal that I felt like a rubbish bin that was used by the once-bestfriend where she unloaded and unloaded all her junk, then set me out on the street for the dumpster-man while she ran off to play with the pretty girls. The dumpster-man that never came.
I look back on those experiences now and wish there had been an adult in my life that I could talk about those experiences with. Adults who would allow me to question my faith instead of telling me I just needed to know the Sunday School answers. At 11, Sunday School answers weren't cutting it anymore for my faith journey. I knew them all, but still they did nothing for my feeling like a complete fake when I sat at the piano in front of the church because what I claimed to be believing had no real meaning.
And then I look back again at the faces of the precious year 6s whom I've had the joy (and sometimes sorrow) of walking with in the last year. I wonder if I've done enough to help them along their journey. I want to say to them, it's ok if you don't understand the faith thing. It's ok to have questions. It's ok to be socially awkward. You don't have to pretend to be looking forward to Intermediate if you're terrified deep down inside that you're not going to be the big kids at school anymore.
I want to tell them, I was a mess when I was 11--still am a mess today. But we have a friend who knows our mess and will not leave us out on the streets for the non-existent dumpster-man. And you have friends in this place we call Church who will walk with you.
In a little less than a month, we'll be kicking-off kids' church for the year. Just like the coloured-pencils I looked forward to every year, I hope whatever we end up planning for the kick-off will be that same celebration of a rite of passage for these kids. But more importantly, I hope they know that these same people (maybe not the exact same faces, but the same people we call the Church whanau) who celebrate their rites of passage with them now will continue to celebrate every milestone with them along the way.
Happy 2013, my little people.
21 September 2012
Whanau
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- Whānau is a Māori-language word for extended family, now increasingly entering New Zealand English, particularly in official publications.
- (the basic unit of Maori society into which an individual was born and socialised),
Web definitions |
I've been giving some thought to what life is going to look like past December 2013, the official date my contract with WCF ends, but mainly only because my visa expires then. If it makes sense for the Church to have me stay on past December 2013, by all means, I'll be here. But if I've become more of a nuisance than I am now, I'm not going to overstay my welcome. Anyhow, that's still a ways ahead so there's no pressure for concrete plans.
At the same time, as much as I have thoroughly enjoyed drifting where the wind blows/where the Lord leads, there are moments--sometimes long days on end--when I long for a bit more stability. Often the most nagging one is the financial stability.
I have made it through a whole year through the generosity of family and friends, and then some. There's a part of me that says, "Cool, let's see how Providence continues to sort this out." Then there's a part of me that's becoming increasingly obnoxious with the, "'Making it through' was fine while you were in college and seminary. But you're 26. That's not going to cut it anymore."
I'll be eternally grateful to Missionary Action Projects--and all involved to get me connected to them--for graciously helping me transfer funds. But because they only transfer my funds and there isn't a formal sending organization, a lot of times I have to pull out the dusty memory files from the Global Missions days to create a whole new system to "send" myself.
Along with the steep learning curve that comes with moving to a new culture and process the immense grief of the whole transition period, I've also had to force myself to be intentional about pastoral care--shamelessly throwing myself at mentors, begging them to pastor me through this process. I've never really worked with a budget, much less having to create a feasible one for a lifestyle I knew nothing about, to know what to present to folks who might be keen to throw in financial support. I've always enjoyed the writing process, but to create newsletters that are succinct enough to communicate all that's going on here (bear in mind these newsletters go to the odd combination of old friends, folks who want to support ministry, and mentors who want to know I still have a little bit of sanity left) and make sure they go to all the folks they are supposed to go to, holy shenanigans... Where do I even start writing? Throw in the non-existent budget to go hang out with folks who send money, cards, candy and beat-up iPods, and figuring out how to get the cheapest flights to go to all these places...
I found myself wishing again that I either wasn't born outside of the US, or hadn't spent those seven years there that resulted in the formation of most of my networks within that country.
Which was why when I stumbled upon a possibility of an official sending agency, I got really excited. Not only would there be a little bit of help in all of those other areas, but I would also more formal financial support--even if they are from folks I've never met before.
And then...
Of course. Why should I be surprised?
I got a little note from dear, sweet friends in Anderson. There weren't very many words on the little page, but to know that Phil and Phyllis Kinley who had given a significant part of their lives to the Church in Japan took the time to write that little note and say, "Hey, we think of you often, and we're praying for you." left me shaking my head.
"No, I'd rather have instability with whanau (family) than stability with strangers."
After all, this has been a year of embracing the very significant but often distracted part of me that desperately wants to dig into the grassroots. I'm barely getting my shoes muddy and the distractions have been aplenty.
Well, guess what?
I'm happy in the mud.
That's where my whanau is.
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