I took a 19-day whirlwind adventure around a few parts of Asia recently. I can't say I was expecting a lot, but I was surprised by Grace... (As usual, I hear you say).
It would be ten years this August since I last lived in Singapore. And of course, it's only taken me the last ten years of being gone to realise I was lucky to have landed in good soil. And no, I don't mean blessed. I mean lucky.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a family that rallies around in times of need.
Luck would have it that the winds blew and the storms came, but somehow we are still standing and holding each other in gestures that may not quite suggest intimacy as much as simply the need to ensure each other's survival.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a circle of girls that still stick around, twelve years after our school days.
Luck would have it that we all landed in a school, way back in the beginning, that would churn us out ok--successful perhaps not by the world's standards, but by the abundance of health, laughter and the ties that bind us together through the years--and that the dramas of our lives pale drastically in comparison with so many of our contemporaries.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a "youth group" (which really isn't a "youth group" if you look at our ages, but we just don't know what other category we fit into) that had managed to somehow still stick together through the tumultuous years of church politics.
Luck would have it that each time I return, the landscape of that "youth group" changes drastically, yet somehow, the few remain faithful and committed to each other's ridiculousness as much as we were in the years that passed.
Don't get me wrong, I truly believe also, that I'm blessed. I'm just not convinced that landing in good soil was one of those blessings, as much as what often feels like random selection (luck, perhaps) because I did nothing to deserve better soil than my neighbour.
But Grace.
Grace, both in spite of, and because of, my unworthiness.
Grace that landed me in good soil.
Grace, from random selection
Now that, I might just be brave enough to receive.
04 April 2014
07 March 2014
06 March 2014
2014 Lenten Meditation #2: Brother Frank and the Bird Song
"I sing because I'm happy
I sing because I'm free
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know he watches me"
- Civilla D. Martin and Charles H. Gabriel
As some may know, I wear Brother Frank on a chain around my neck.
Brother Frank (better known as St Francis of Assisi) was given to me by Momma H, Pops Fry and the 3Ts (better known as Heidi, Ed, Thad, Toby and Theo Freer-Fry) when I first left Anderson 2.5 years ago. He currently hangs out with Jesus (or at least, the cross anyway) on that chain. Pops and Momma gave that to me when I left Anderson last (northern hemisphere) summer.
In my previous role as children's pastor, I often get seven- and eight-year-olds asking who it is I'm wearing on the chain.
How do you explain that St Francis of Assisi is this great monk with deep theological insights (but no, he's not my boyfriend) to a seven-year-old, whose attention span (when asking this question anyway) is about ten-seconds long?
As I stumbled over my own words the first time, I found myself praying, "Crap. Jesus, please let me do justice to the sainthood of Brother Frank without sounding too dumbed-down or too smart to be irrelevant."
Then the words came.
"My friends gave me this chain when I left America a few years ago. St Francis of Assisi, or as my friends and I like to call him, 'Brother Frank,' was this guy who learnt how important it was to take care of the small things. He liked spending time with the birds because it reminded him that even the little things were important. And I wear this chain because it reminds me that God wants me to take care of the little things, and especially the little people like you guys."
It is the second day of Lent.
As I sit here fiddling with the chain, I find myself willing myself to slow down and notice the little things.
I listen to the cicadas outside--their buzzing becoming a familiar soundtrack to my day.
The clock on the wall provides an accompanying rhythm as I listen to the seconds tick away.
Breathe.
And I remember this time last year.
In the middle of chaos, and crises and wilderness, I drove home one morning in tears.
Some of the little people in my life were in a complicated situation that I accidentally walked into, and I didn't know how to help them.
As I pulled into the driveway and sat in the car weeping, a sparrow appeared on my rear-view mirror and sang its song for a little while while I continued weeping.
And then the words came:
"His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me."
Because even in the little things, there is a Sovereign Being who holds it all.
And we are merely dust. And to dust we will return.
I sing because I'm free
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know he watches me"
- Civilla D. Martin and Charles H. Gabriel
As some may know, I wear Brother Frank on a chain around my neck.
Brother Frank (better known as St Francis of Assisi) was given to me by Momma H, Pops Fry and the 3Ts (better known as Heidi, Ed, Thad, Toby and Theo Freer-Fry) when I first left Anderson 2.5 years ago. He currently hangs out with Jesus (or at least, the cross anyway) on that chain. Pops and Momma gave that to me when I left Anderson last (northern hemisphere) summer.
In my previous role as children's pastor, I often get seven- and eight-year-olds asking who it is I'm wearing on the chain.
How do you explain that St Francis of Assisi is this great monk with deep theological insights (but no, he's not my boyfriend) to a seven-year-old, whose attention span (when asking this question anyway) is about ten-seconds long?
As I stumbled over my own words the first time, I found myself praying, "Crap. Jesus, please let me do justice to the sainthood of Brother Frank without sounding too dumbed-down or too smart to be irrelevant."
Then the words came.
"My friends gave me this chain when I left America a few years ago. St Francis of Assisi, or as my friends and I like to call him, 'Brother Frank,' was this guy who learnt how important it was to take care of the small things. He liked spending time with the birds because it reminded him that even the little things were important. And I wear this chain because it reminds me that God wants me to take care of the little things, and especially the little people like you guys."
It is the second day of Lent.
As I sit here fiddling with the chain, I find myself willing myself to slow down and notice the little things.
I listen to the cicadas outside--their buzzing becoming a familiar soundtrack to my day.
The clock on the wall provides an accompanying rhythm as I listen to the seconds tick away.
Breathe.
And I remember this time last year.
In the middle of chaos, and crises and wilderness, I drove home one morning in tears.
Some of the little people in my life were in a complicated situation that I accidentally walked into, and I didn't know how to help them.
As I pulled into the driveway and sat in the car weeping, a sparrow appeared on my rear-view mirror and sang its song for a little while while I continued weeping.
And then the words came:
"His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me."
Because even in the little things, there is a Sovereign Being who holds it all.
And we are merely dust. And to dust we will return.
My friend, Ed Breeden shared this on Facebook this morning,
which was a big part of the inspiration for today's post.
05 March 2014
2014 Lenten Meditation #1: The Scattered Community
"We've travelled through deserts, survived by His grace
We've kept souvenirs to commemorate
All the times that he washed the tears from our faces
Showed us new places to help renovate us"
- Renovatus
It is Ash Wednesday here in Auckland.
As we sat in St Patrick's Cathedral this morning reflecting on Ash Wednesday and this season of Lent, my mind drifted back to this time last year.
My scattered community were gathering for the first time, at least in a sense of spiritual togetherness, even if we weren't able to gather physically.
We were each travelling through our own seasons of wilderness.
But around that spiritual table, the seasons of wilderness became less lonely.
The deserts were still dry. Our souls were still parched.
But at least, we were together.
That's already better than wandering in the desert alone.
This year finds us in a different landscape.
Still together, but in a different way.
Yet around the ashes, all is the same.
We remember.
We remember the roads travelled.
We remember the dust.
We remember the struggle.
We've kept souvenirs to commemorate
All the times that he washed the tears from our faces
Showed us new places to help renovate us"
- Renovatus
It is Ash Wednesday here in Auckland.
As we sat in St Patrick's Cathedral this morning reflecting on Ash Wednesday and this season of Lent, my mind drifted back to this time last year.
My scattered community were gathering for the first time, at least in a sense of spiritual togetherness, even if we weren't able to gather physically.
We were each travelling through our own seasons of wilderness.
But around that spiritual table, the seasons of wilderness became less lonely.
The deserts were still dry. Our souls were still parched.
But at least, we were together.
That's already better than wandering in the desert alone.
This year finds us in a different landscape.
Still together, but in a different way.
Yet around the ashes, all is the same.
We remember.
We remember the roads travelled.
We remember the dust.
We remember the struggle.
We remember that we are from dust, and to dust we return.
27 February 2014
South Pacific News: A New Day is Dawning
A new day is dawning in the South Pacific.
The pastors and leaders of the Church of God in Australia and New Zealand have, for a long time, desired to connect as co-labourers of the Kingdom across the Tasman Sea. Thanks to the wonders of technology, Chad Davenport, Dwayne and Kara Goldman, Marissa Haskins, Dave Ravell, Dave and Greta Reames, Janice Spearritt, and Jael Tang, together with Regional Coordinators, Don and Caroline Armstrong, had the opportunity to convene on Skype for the first time this week.
Australia and New Zealand are geographically isolated from most other parts of the world, which has historically left ministers in this region feeling isolated in ministry as well. Ministers in this region have recognized the unhealthy of doing ministry isolated, and have been eager to bridge the distance across the Tasman Sea. Today, geography no longer stands as a barrier to building community. Participants in this week’s conversation are looking forward to making this a part of the regular ministry rhythm, convening once a month to share celebrations and struggles.
A new day is dawning in the South Pacific. We are better when we are together.
The pastors and leaders of the Church of God in Australia and New Zealand have, for a long time, desired to connect as co-labourers of the Kingdom across the Tasman Sea. Thanks to the wonders of technology, Chad Davenport, Dwayne and Kara Goldman, Marissa Haskins, Dave Ravell, Dave and Greta Reames, Janice Spearritt, and Jael Tang, together with Regional Coordinators, Don and Caroline Armstrong, had the opportunity to convene on Skype for the first time this week.
Australia and New Zealand are geographically isolated from most other parts of the world, which has historically left ministers in this region feeling isolated in ministry as well. Ministers in this region have recognized the unhealthy of doing ministry isolated, and have been eager to bridge the distance across the Tasman Sea. Today, geography no longer stands as a barrier to building community. Participants in this week’s conversation are looking forward to making this a part of the regular ministry rhythm, convening once a month to share celebrations and struggles.
A new day is dawning in the South Pacific. We are better when we are together.
24 February 2014
True Confession: I Hate Fundraising
I've been meaning to write this post for a long time, but for a variety of reasons never got around to it. So here goes.
True confession: I hate fundraising.
The more I'm in this fundraising process, the more I dislike it. I know it's a necessary evil for being in my current ministry role. And I know even in your dream job, there will always be stuff you dislike about it. And while I've learnt important lessons like not taking for granted anything you have because people have sacrificed so you can have your next meal, and the humility that comes with asking for partnerships, I still hate the process. And here's why:
1) I hate walking the fine line between celebrating what God is doing and making a splash with a "success story" to "win" support. I love stories, and I love telling stories, but I have often felt compelled to simply share "successful" statistics, or moving stories of major transformation. I see life change happening everyday in baby steps, but they don't make for fantastic success stories to tell. I want to celebrate the spectacular things God is doing, even if only in baby steps, but the pressure of the fundraising process often weighs so heavy that I feel obligated to only tell "success stories". And I hate that because it disrespects the life story for what it is--a journey in process, not a successful statistic.
2) I hate talking about myself or what I am doing, and the fundraising process often feels like we have to "market" ourselves. Amber and I had this discussion a little while ago that missionaries should fundraise in pairs because it's easier for us to talk each other up than for us to talk about ourselves and our ministries. Which leads me to the main point of today's blog post.
3) I hate that fundraising sometimes feels like a competition. Some of my favourite people whom I have journeyed with and have a great deal of respect for are stuck in the same fundraising rut that I am. I've been thinking about writing this post since my dear, dear friends Dan, Christy and Sofie Kihm, and Jenny, Bobby and Moore Mihsill were still in their fundraising process. These two families have finally finished their fundraising process, and the Kihms are now in the Netherlands and the Mihsills are at language school in France, preparing to move to Cote d'Ivore.
I wanted to tell you why you should support them financially and why you should believe in their ministry.
And I want to tell you why you should support Zach and Audrey Langford and their involvement in 3Worlds, particularly because of Audrey's role with missionary kids. Because I *get* why it's a challenge trying to raise support to go somewhere that is a part of the developed world when it's often easier to get folks to give compassionately to a mission in the developing world.
And I want to tell you why you should support Rebecca, Ryan and Ashton Hodges because I truly believe God has called them to Kenya--and not just because we should feel compassion for the poor, starving children of Africa.
And I want to tell you why you should support Emily Clark and the Place of Promise on Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. Because it's a ministry that is near and dear to my heart having been on the reservation myself seven years ago.
And I want to tell you why you should support Amber Livermore, and help her get back to Aotearoa New Zealand for another two years to build on all the good work she has started here. Because I love watching her interact with the youths across all the churches in the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand, and the way she's earned the respect of the local pastors here.
But in my completely selfish internal dialogue, I find myself thinking, "If I advocate for them, who's advocating for me? And will there be any funds left for me?"
And this is what I hate most about fundraising. I truly believe that God has called each one of us, and that there will be enough resources in the Kingdom so that all who are called will be taken care of. But through a few unfortunate conversations along the way, I've come to realise that if we're not careful about the way we view the process, we're going to feel like we're competing against one another when we're really all playing for the same team.
And I am completely aware that churches and missions committees sometimes have to make difficult decisions about which ministries to support because they are all worthy causes--to which I sincerely applaud you for taking the time to pray and discern. But all I'm asking is that in your process of prayer and discernment, please be gentle with us who are in this aggravating fundraising process when you tell us you've decided to go in a different direction. While I truly believe there is enough for everyone, the process of knocking on doors asking for support can be very discouraging. Help us to not have to feel like we're in a competition against people whom we love and respect dearly.
From the depths of my heart, thank you for giving sacrificially so that Kingdom work can keep happening all around the world.
I just... still hate fundraising.
True confession: I hate fundraising.
The more I'm in this fundraising process, the more I dislike it. I know it's a necessary evil for being in my current ministry role. And I know even in your dream job, there will always be stuff you dislike about it. And while I've learnt important lessons like not taking for granted anything you have because people have sacrificed so you can have your next meal, and the humility that comes with asking for partnerships, I still hate the process. And here's why:
1) I hate walking the fine line between celebrating what God is doing and making a splash with a "success story" to "win" support. I love stories, and I love telling stories, but I have often felt compelled to simply share "successful" statistics, or moving stories of major transformation. I see life change happening everyday in baby steps, but they don't make for fantastic success stories to tell. I want to celebrate the spectacular things God is doing, even if only in baby steps, but the pressure of the fundraising process often weighs so heavy that I feel obligated to only tell "success stories". And I hate that because it disrespects the life story for what it is--a journey in process, not a successful statistic.
2) I hate talking about myself or what I am doing, and the fundraising process often feels like we have to "market" ourselves. Amber and I had this discussion a little while ago that missionaries should fundraise in pairs because it's easier for us to talk each other up than for us to talk about ourselves and our ministries. Which leads me to the main point of today's blog post.
3) I hate that fundraising sometimes feels like a competition. Some of my favourite people whom I have journeyed with and have a great deal of respect for are stuck in the same fundraising rut that I am. I've been thinking about writing this post since my dear, dear friends Dan, Christy and Sofie Kihm, and Jenny, Bobby and Moore Mihsill were still in their fundraising process. These two families have finally finished their fundraising process, and the Kihms are now in the Netherlands and the Mihsills are at language school in France, preparing to move to Cote d'Ivore.
I wanted to tell you why you should support them financially and why you should believe in their ministry.
And I want to tell you why you should support Zach and Audrey Langford and their involvement in 3Worlds, particularly because of Audrey's role with missionary kids. Because I *get* why it's a challenge trying to raise support to go somewhere that is a part of the developed world when it's often easier to get folks to give compassionately to a mission in the developing world.
And I want to tell you why you should support Rebecca, Ryan and Ashton Hodges because I truly believe God has called them to Kenya--and not just because we should feel compassion for the poor, starving children of Africa.
And I want to tell you why you should support Emily Clark and the Place of Promise on Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. Because it's a ministry that is near and dear to my heart having been on the reservation myself seven years ago.
And I want to tell you why you should support Amber Livermore, and help her get back to Aotearoa New Zealand for another two years to build on all the good work she has started here. Because I love watching her interact with the youths across all the churches in the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand, and the way she's earned the respect of the local pastors here.
But in my completely selfish internal dialogue, I find myself thinking, "If I advocate for them, who's advocating for me? And will there be any funds left for me?"
And this is what I hate most about fundraising. I truly believe that God has called each one of us, and that there will be enough resources in the Kingdom so that all who are called will be taken care of. But through a few unfortunate conversations along the way, I've come to realise that if we're not careful about the way we view the process, we're going to feel like we're competing against one another when we're really all playing for the same team.
And I am completely aware that churches and missions committees sometimes have to make difficult decisions about which ministries to support because they are all worthy causes--to which I sincerely applaud you for taking the time to pray and discern. But all I'm asking is that in your process of prayer and discernment, please be gentle with us who are in this aggravating fundraising process when you tell us you've decided to go in a different direction. While I truly believe there is enough for everyone, the process of knocking on doors asking for support can be very discouraging. Help us to not have to feel like we're in a competition against people whom we love and respect dearly.
From the depths of my heart, thank you for giving sacrificially so that Kingdom work can keep happening all around the world.
I just... still hate fundraising.
17 January 2014
IGNITE 2014 #2: Highlights
I'm finally beginning to process some of my thoughts from the three nights I spent in Ngaruawahia at IGNITE 2014, the national youth camp of the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand (WMCNZ). This might take a few blog posts because my attention span is completely shot, so bear with me.
As I continue reflecting on the weekend away at camp, two vivid images come to mind continually.
The first is of the first full day of team challenges. My team, the Blue Smurfs, was pit against the Orange Tigers. There were several formidable opponents in the Orange Tigers, but the one that I remember best is probably a young man by the name of Mikaele. We had several one-on-one run-ins during game time. I knew there was no way my old, achy body would out-run his buff Island warrior build, but I had to give it my best shot anyway.
But it was later on during the camp when I saw him on stage with his youth group in their Fijian traditional dresses that really left a distinct impression. How many other young men do I know who will get their game on as hard core as Mikaele did on the field as they are on a stage singing a worship song, complete with dance moves, looking like they actually want to be on stage getting into worship? Not that many.
The other is of the final rally on the last day of camp. The camp speakers, Rob Reynolds and Frank Ritchie, from TEAR fund gave an "altar call" of sorts. Instead of the usual "Come to Jesus" altar calls, the youth were invited to respond to playing their part in the missio Dei (again, theologically profound--but that will be for a later post). As they walked up to the front, they were greeted by their youth pastors/leaders who would pray with them individually.
During that time of response, I had the privilege of standing beside the youth leader of some of the girls I've had significant conversations with over the weekend of camp. And as each one of them came up, tears overwhelmed as I remembered again why I was a part of this kingdom work--something I thought had been buried deep in the memory boxes of yesteryear.
God is still at work, even as I struggle with my sense of call. And for that, I'm thankful.
Malo Sisu
As I continue reflecting on the weekend away at camp, two vivid images come to mind continually.
The first is of the first full day of team challenges. My team, the Blue Smurfs, was pit against the Orange Tigers. There were several formidable opponents in the Orange Tigers, but the one that I remember best is probably a young man by the name of Mikaele. We had several one-on-one run-ins during game time. I knew there was no way my old, achy body would out-run his buff Island warrior build, but I had to give it my best shot anyway.
But it was later on during the camp when I saw him on stage with his youth group in their Fijian traditional dresses that really left a distinct impression. How many other young men do I know who will get their game on as hard core as Mikaele did on the field as they are on a stage singing a worship song, complete with dance moves, looking like they actually want to be on stage getting into worship? Not that many.
The other is of the final rally on the last day of camp. The camp speakers, Rob Reynolds and Frank Ritchie, from TEAR fund gave an "altar call" of sorts. Instead of the usual "Come to Jesus" altar calls, the youth were invited to respond to playing their part in the missio Dei (again, theologically profound--but that will be for a later post). As they walked up to the front, they were greeted by their youth pastors/leaders who would pray with them individually.
During that time of response, I had the privilege of standing beside the youth leader of some of the girls I've had significant conversations with over the weekend of camp. And as each one of them came up, tears overwhelmed as I remembered again why I was a part of this kingdom work--something I thought had been buried deep in the memory boxes of yesteryear.
God is still at work, even as I struggle with my sense of call. And for that, I'm thankful.
Malo Sisu
16 January 2014
IGNITE 2014 #1: First Impressions
I'm finally beginning to process some of my thoughts from the three nights I spent in Ngaruawahia at IGNITE 2014, the national youth camp of the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand (WMCNZ). This might take a few blog posts because my attention span is completely shot, so bear with me.
I came away from IGNITE 2014 on a high. And I was surprised, because it wasn't the "camp fever" type of spiritual highs that I was used to from all my years of being a good church girl.
No, it was a very refreshing high. It was a high that would have more longevity than the other camps--particularly youth camps--I've been involved with in one way or another.
Every component of the camp struck me as well thought through with intentionality and theologically reflection. Perhaps the biggest thing that impressed me was that there was a lot of thought put into connecting the students back to their home church environment so that there can be as much follow up as possible by their youth pastors/leaders and home church.
Hats off to Rev. Joanne McKinnell, Rev. Amber Livermore and their leadership team. I've been in on some of the struggles they've had and continue to have moving forward from here, and they would say it's not quite where they want it to be yet. But to borrow the words from dear sage and mentor, Ann Smith, "Focus not on how far you have to go, but how far you've come." With only eight short years of an event history and the amount of personnel they had pulling off all the various pieces, this camp has already surpassed the level of excellence that can be achieved at this stage in the history of WMCNZ.
On a more personal note, what amount of respect I already had for both Jo and Amber have just been majorly upped because they don't simply talk good theological reflection--they also put good theological reflection into bite-sized, age-appropriate portions.
To borrow a Tongan phrase, "Malo Sisu" (Thank you Jesus)
I came away from IGNITE 2014 on a high. And I was surprised, because it wasn't the "camp fever" type of spiritual highs that I was used to from all my years of being a good church girl.
No, it was a very refreshing high. It was a high that would have more longevity than the other camps--particularly youth camps--I've been involved with in one way or another.
Every component of the camp struck me as well thought through with intentionality and theologically reflection. Perhaps the biggest thing that impressed me was that there was a lot of thought put into connecting the students back to their home church environment so that there can be as much follow up as possible by their youth pastors/leaders and home church.
Hats off to Rev. Joanne McKinnell, Rev. Amber Livermore and their leadership team. I've been in on some of the struggles they've had and continue to have moving forward from here, and they would say it's not quite where they want it to be yet. But to borrow the words from dear sage and mentor, Ann Smith, "Focus not on how far you have to go, but how far you've come." With only eight short years of an event history and the amount of personnel they had pulling off all the various pieces, this camp has already surpassed the level of excellence that can be achieved at this stage in the history of WMCNZ.
On a more personal note, what amount of respect I already had for both Jo and Amber have just been majorly upped because they don't simply talk good theological reflection--they also put good theological reflection into bite-sized, age-appropriate portions.
To borrow a Tongan phrase, "Malo Sisu" (Thank you Jesus)
That's What Makes You Beautiful
I had the privilege of attending the funeral of the brother of one of the ministers of WMCNZ last night. I didn't know him, or even anyone in the family. But many of the family members would have been a part of IGNITE camp over the weekend (more on that in posts to come) if not for the untimely passing, and so a few of the leaders involved in the camp showed up to lend our support.
When I heard the service was going to be about four hours long, I got a bit nervous. I was barely recovered from camp and was afraid I would fall asleep during a four hour long service, and in a language I didn't understand either.
But there was something beautifully spiritual about a Tongan funeral service. Maybe it was the beautiful harmonies of all the songs that interspersed the speaking. (You just HAVE to experience a Pasifika sing-fest. The beauty of that experience is beyond words) Maybe it was the beautiful flowers that decorated the funeral home.
Maybe it was that I was swept back to the church service in "The Blue Church" in Berlin. That spiritual things transcend language and culture. That maybe when we don't understand everything that's going on except for the fact that we're simply sharing the same breathing space and ... I don't know the right word for it ... more than just worshipping, but also basking in the presence of, the same Creator God...
That. That is what makes it beautiful.
When I heard the service was going to be about four hours long, I got a bit nervous. I was barely recovered from camp and was afraid I would fall asleep during a four hour long service, and in a language I didn't understand either.
But there was something beautifully spiritual about a Tongan funeral service. Maybe it was the beautiful harmonies of all the songs that interspersed the speaking. (You just HAVE to experience a Pasifika sing-fest. The beauty of that experience is beyond words) Maybe it was the beautiful flowers that decorated the funeral home.
Maybe it was that I was swept back to the church service in "The Blue Church" in Berlin. That spiritual things transcend language and culture. That maybe when we don't understand everything that's going on except for the fact that we're simply sharing the same breathing space and ... I don't know the right word for it ... more than just worshipping, but also basking in the presence of, the same Creator God...
That. That is what makes it beautiful.
06 January 2014
28: The Year Of Expectancy
A few days ago, I met Soana, a Tongan lady at a training session for Ignite, the youth camp by WMCNZ that I'm going to be a part of this weekend (assuming I'm still in New Zealand). At the beginning of the session, we were divided into groups, and asked to go around sharing stories of how we came to a relationship with Jesus, and what it is that's keeping that relationship going today.
Soana and I were going to be cabin leaders together, so as the training session was ending with a prayer time together, we had some time to visit and get to know each other better. At one point, she asked, "So, you're Chinese?" And I explained that I was, but I was born in Singapore. Then she said this: "You're so lucky that you can be a Christian. In Tonga, we're all raised as Christians, and we all have to go to church--it is a part of our culture. But when I moved to Auckland two years ago, I started to see that so many of the Tongans here don't follow the ways we were brought up in anymore. They read the Bible, but it's kept separate from their lives, and they don't even go to church anymore. You're lucky you can be a Christian, and still choose to be a Christian."
I've been mulling over that conversation over the last few days. In our Wesleyan-Arminian tradition, we talk a lot about free will. But the danger of only talking about free will is that we can drift off into an unbalanced dialogue that doesn't give consideration that God does ordain some things. That I was born into the land, family and place in society I was born into was definitely God-ordained. There can be no explanation than that (bearing in mind I'm writing this solely through the lenses of a relationship with Christ). But what I choose to do with the circumstances I was born into--that's free will.
In my short stint at WCF, I got to know several youths whom society would not pay any attention to. They weren't achieving enough to get positive attention, but they also weren't quite destructive enough to get just enough negative attention for it to go wrong. As I began to spend more time with these kids, I began to realise more and more that there really aren't "bad" kids, just kids who don't often make the best decisions from time to time. And with many of our kids, they didn't have the privilege of being born into the safe, sheltered circumstances I had. Sure, they had the free-will to make better choices and leave those circumstances behind, but for so many of them, they've not had the adults in their lives to support and encourage their making better choices.
Over the last few months, I've been at the district court a number of times. What breaks my heart most isn't just the number of youths who are summoned to court, but the reality that they are often there alone, represented only by a lawyer that was allocated to them by the district authorities. They often don't have a rapport with the lawyer, and coming from backgrounds of abandonment and trust issues, they have difficult trusting that the lawyers actually do want the best for them.
And then I marvel again, at how privileged I am. Yes, Soana, I am lucky, or blessed, or whatever word you want to use, to have been born into a family where starting and keeping a relationship with Christ was easy. I'm lucky to have been born into a family where it was easy to be a good kid. I'm lucky that even if I didn't have a picture perfect relationship with my birth family, they are at least supportive and encouraging of what I do--especially when it breaks the mold of success defined by finances that Asian societies value so deeply.
It is 6 January today. In exactly a month, I will be turning 28. Last year, as I was turning 27, I wrote that 27 was the year I joined the circus. In case you missed it, I discovered there was a free community circus in town, and I wanted to at least give it a shot. If nothing else, I can check off the bucket list that I was crazy enough to join a community circus for a few weeks. I didn't last in the circus for a variety of reasons; the main one being I hate performing. In uni, my piano professor told me I should switch majors if I hated performing (It only made sense when Chad--who also graduated from AU with a music degree--explained that universities in the States place most of their emphasis on performance, and I felt completely out of place because I loved theory and composition--and choir, but only because of a fantastic choir director). I was really disappointed with myself that I didn't last longer in the circus since I had hyped it up so much for my 27th birthday. But I eventually had to come to terms with simply being ok with who I am, and not placing the expectations on myself to be someone I'm not, and to pretend to love things that I don't.
Greta reminded me last night of something our dear Ann Smith talks about often: the difference between expectation and expectancy. #27 was a year of great expectations, and finding myself miserable when I couldn't keep up with my expectations of myself. As I head into #28, my only expectation of myself is to learn to live with expectancy of whatever it might be that God is going to do this year. As I continue the waiting game for my visa, I'm reminded again that, right from the beginning, New Zealand has been my Isaac. So I'm choosing again to surrender my Isaac at the altar in expectancy of whatever God is going to do with it.
And even though I had been crazy enough last year to set some things in place to publish and get ordained in 2014 (and am currently sitting here with the slightest anxiety over the realisation that 2014 isn't "next year" anymore), there is no expectation to see those things as achievements anymore.
I am enough because I choose to make the best of what I find myself in.
And I am enough because I choose to believe God thinks I'm enough.
Soana and I were going to be cabin leaders together, so as the training session was ending with a prayer time together, we had some time to visit and get to know each other better. At one point, she asked, "So, you're Chinese?" And I explained that I was, but I was born in Singapore. Then she said this: "You're so lucky that you can be a Christian. In Tonga, we're all raised as Christians, and we all have to go to church--it is a part of our culture. But when I moved to Auckland two years ago, I started to see that so many of the Tongans here don't follow the ways we were brought up in anymore. They read the Bible, but it's kept separate from their lives, and they don't even go to church anymore. You're lucky you can be a Christian, and still choose to be a Christian."
I've been mulling over that conversation over the last few days. In our Wesleyan-Arminian tradition, we talk a lot about free will. But the danger of only talking about free will is that we can drift off into an unbalanced dialogue that doesn't give consideration that God does ordain some things. That I was born into the land, family and place in society I was born into was definitely God-ordained. There can be no explanation than that (bearing in mind I'm writing this solely through the lenses of a relationship with Christ). But what I choose to do with the circumstances I was born into--that's free will.
In my short stint at WCF, I got to know several youths whom society would not pay any attention to. They weren't achieving enough to get positive attention, but they also weren't quite destructive enough to get just enough negative attention for it to go wrong. As I began to spend more time with these kids, I began to realise more and more that there really aren't "bad" kids, just kids who don't often make the best decisions from time to time. And with many of our kids, they didn't have the privilege of being born into the safe, sheltered circumstances I had. Sure, they had the free-will to make better choices and leave those circumstances behind, but for so many of them, they've not had the adults in their lives to support and encourage their making better choices.
Over the last few months, I've been at the district court a number of times. What breaks my heart most isn't just the number of youths who are summoned to court, but the reality that they are often there alone, represented only by a lawyer that was allocated to them by the district authorities. They often don't have a rapport with the lawyer, and coming from backgrounds of abandonment and trust issues, they have difficult trusting that the lawyers actually do want the best for them.
And then I marvel again, at how privileged I am. Yes, Soana, I am lucky, or blessed, or whatever word you want to use, to have been born into a family where starting and keeping a relationship with Christ was easy. I'm lucky to have been born into a family where it was easy to be a good kid. I'm lucky that even if I didn't have a picture perfect relationship with my birth family, they are at least supportive and encouraging of what I do--especially when it breaks the mold of success defined by finances that Asian societies value so deeply.
It is 6 January today. In exactly a month, I will be turning 28. Last year, as I was turning 27, I wrote that 27 was the year I joined the circus. In case you missed it, I discovered there was a free community circus in town, and I wanted to at least give it a shot. If nothing else, I can check off the bucket list that I was crazy enough to join a community circus for a few weeks. I didn't last in the circus for a variety of reasons; the main one being I hate performing. In uni, my piano professor told me I should switch majors if I hated performing (It only made sense when Chad--who also graduated from AU with a music degree--explained that universities in the States place most of their emphasis on performance, and I felt completely out of place because I loved theory and composition--and choir, but only because of a fantastic choir director). I was really disappointed with myself that I didn't last longer in the circus since I had hyped it up so much for my 27th birthday. But I eventually had to come to terms with simply being ok with who I am, and not placing the expectations on myself to be someone I'm not, and to pretend to love things that I don't.
Greta reminded me last night of something our dear Ann Smith talks about often: the difference between expectation and expectancy. #27 was a year of great expectations, and finding myself miserable when I couldn't keep up with my expectations of myself. As I head into #28, my only expectation of myself is to learn to live with expectancy of whatever it might be that God is going to do this year. As I continue the waiting game for my visa, I'm reminded again that, right from the beginning, New Zealand has been my Isaac. So I'm choosing again to surrender my Isaac at the altar in expectancy of whatever God is going to do with it.
And even though I had been crazy enough last year to set some things in place to publish and get ordained in 2014 (and am currently sitting here with the slightest anxiety over the realisation that 2014 isn't "next year" anymore), there is no expectation to see those things as achievements anymore.
I am enough because I choose to make the best of what I find myself in.
And I am enough because I choose to believe God thinks I'm enough.
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