Every year for the last ten years, the significance of Holy Week became more and more real to me.
Perhaps it was the AU/AUSOT community.
Perhaps it was Park Place Church.
Perhaps it was Doug Berky's Holy Week programme.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
I've played the role of the good church kid for a long time.
I've played the role of the dutiful minister for not as long, but long enough.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
Even through the years of worship wars
Even through the years of watching parishioners rip their ministers to shreds
Even through the years of watching religious teachers tear each other apart
Even through the years of rejection
Even through the years of endless meaningless debates with academic theologians
Even through the years of being of the wrong gender, age, nationality and personality type
Even through the years of ridiculous politics
I still came home to church
Even if more wounded and broken than before.
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
Don't get me wrong
I will still be at a church this weekend
(The good church kid and the dutiful minister still lives somewhere inside and need a sense of normality)
Don't get me wrong
I won't be there simply out of duty
(The good church kid and the dutiful minister misses all that is sacred of the rituals way too much)
Don't get me wrong
I'm not there because I haven't thought of leaving
(Even the good church kid and the dutiful minister gets tired of fighting for no real reason)
Don't get me wrong
I simply am searching for my own meaning of Church that isn't bound
By the trappings of the good church kid
Or the dutiful minister
Or the wounds and the brokenness of the years gone by
Or the false pride that the Church never did, and never would be able to hurt me
Perhaps that's why finding myself churchless on Holy Week this year feels so unsettling.
More importantly,
Jael needs to find Church again
Not Jael the good church kid
Or Jael the dutiful minister
Or Jael the wounded and broken
Or Jael the angry church-leaver
Just simply,
Jael
Perhaps that's why, just for a change, it's ok to be churchless on Holy Week this year.
Because sometimes, we all need to be a little unsettled.
(Just for the record:
In case you're concerned, Jesus and I are doing ok. But the church stuff... Yeah, that. I've managed to botch)
17 April 2014
16 April 2014
3 Weeks of Grace Part #3: Broken
I took a 19-day whirlwind adventure around a few parts of Asia recently. I can't say I was expecting a lot, but I was surprised by Grace... (As usual, I hear you say)
There's something about camps.
A few days of sharing breathing space with the same group of people and you find yourself at a place of vulnerability with this group.
It's why family camps are great for the church -- it was at my last family camp as a teenager that I first experienced a vague sense of call to ministry.
It's why I believe so strongly in the potential that exists in youth camps.
Or why retreats can be such a time of refreshment.
The primary purpose of my 19-day whirlwind adventure was to eventually land in Narita, Japan, for the Church of God Asia/Pacific Missionaries Retreat.
And what a time those 3-ish days were.
Simply sharing breathing space with my co-labourers in the region did more for my soul than I could have ever expected.
Somewhere between my return from Germany and that retreat, something broke inside.
Whatever that something was, it kept breaking over and over again that I wasn't sure there was anything left that I recognised anymore.
Perhaps it was a silly assumption that the move to Aotearoa New Zealand would be the season that would bring new life.
Because in the middle of the scramble to find new life, what was found instead, was a shell to hide under to pretend that nothing could hurt anymore.
And if nothing could hurt anymore, then nothing could break anymore, right?
But in that shared breathing space, it became safe for the shell to fall apart, knowing that whatever is left would be held by those who shared that same brokenness and that same breathing space.
And all the pretence that was began crumble as well.
For the first time since my three-month stint in Germany, I began to feel like myself again.
In the Grace that abound in that shared breathing space, there was freedom again.
"Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart . . . For we do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’ sake . . . But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us."- 2 Corinthians 4
There's something about camps.
A few days of sharing breathing space with the same group of people and you find yourself at a place of vulnerability with this group.
It's why family camps are great for the church -- it was at my last family camp as a teenager that I first experienced a vague sense of call to ministry.
It's why I believe so strongly in the potential that exists in youth camps.
Or why retreats can be such a time of refreshment.
The primary purpose of my 19-day whirlwind adventure was to eventually land in Narita, Japan, for the Church of God Asia/Pacific Missionaries Retreat.
And what a time those 3-ish days were.
Simply sharing breathing space with my co-labourers in the region did more for my soul than I could have ever expected.
Somewhere between my return from Germany and that retreat, something broke inside.
Whatever that something was, it kept breaking over and over again that I wasn't sure there was anything left that I recognised anymore.
Perhaps it was a silly assumption that the move to Aotearoa New Zealand would be the season that would bring new life.
Because in the middle of the scramble to find new life, what was found instead, was a shell to hide under to pretend that nothing could hurt anymore.
And if nothing could hurt anymore, then nothing could break anymore, right?
But in that shared breathing space, it became safe for the shell to fall apart, knowing that whatever is left would be held by those who shared that same brokenness and that same breathing space.
And all the pretence that was began crumble as well.
For the first time since my three-month stint in Germany, I began to feel like myself again.
In the Grace that abound in that shared breathing space, there was freedom again.
3 Weeks of Grace Part #2: Hands and Feet
I took a 19-day whirlwind adventure around a few parts of Asia recently. I can't say I was expecting a lot, but I was surprised by Grace... (As usual, I hear you say)
I've travelled a fair amount in my time. But travelling with a "pastor" title can be quite a different experience, as I come to learn.
Like the immigration officer that does a double take when he looks at your occupation title on your immigration form. You can't tell if he's sheepish because he thinks he needs to let you through without asking questions or if he suddenly thinks he needs to treat you with more respect simply because you have a religious title.
Or when you're in the home of another pastor and suddenly you're no longer the kid waiting patiently at the dining table for the pastor to say a blessing before we all eat. No, it's a little bit weird when you're the one who's asked to say the blessing.
I've heard heaps of stories of pastor friends who have spent time in a village in one of the African nations where they were treated like the guest of honour. The chicken that has been saved for the special occasion is caught and slaughtered. And I remember thinking whenever I heard those stories that I would feel so uncomfortable being in that place of being a "guest of honour".
And then your hosts have you feasting on one delicious meal after another, and these mangoes that are so sweet and juicy as they take you around their city and share with you about their ministry. And you suddenly realise your hosts have been treating you like that "guest of honour," and you suddenly feel really uncomfortable.
But when your hosts usher you into the guest room upstairs and beam with pride when they tell you that you're staying in the room that "Reverend Don and Caroline stayed in when they were here," you suddenly realise you're not a guest of honour because of anything you've done. No, it's because your hosts recognise that as you fumble around in your early years of ministry, you're merely trying to find your sense of balance as you stand on the shoulders of giants. And they simply want to be gracious hosts to you as you pass through along your journey.
At least, that was my experience in my less-than-24-hour stay in Manilla, Philippines with Brother Eddie, Sister Fely, Sister Marlene and Pastor Bob, and all the other good people at Grace Family Helper Project. And in all the correspondence that followed after that short less-than-24-hour stay, they constantly remind me that I'm not alone in my passion for student ministries.
This.
This is what it means to be the recipient of grace from those who are the hands and feet of the Living Christ.
And this is why we, at The Bridge, are looking forward to partnering with the church in the Philippines.
I've travelled a fair amount in my time. But travelling with a "pastor" title can be quite a different experience, as I come to learn.
Like the immigration officer that does a double take when he looks at your occupation title on your immigration form. You can't tell if he's sheepish because he thinks he needs to let you through without asking questions or if he suddenly thinks he needs to treat you with more respect simply because you have a religious title.
Or when you're in the home of another pastor and suddenly you're no longer the kid waiting patiently at the dining table for the pastor to say a blessing before we all eat. No, it's a little bit weird when you're the one who's asked to say the blessing.
I've heard heaps of stories of pastor friends who have spent time in a village in one of the African nations where they were treated like the guest of honour. The chicken that has been saved for the special occasion is caught and slaughtered. And I remember thinking whenever I heard those stories that I would feel so uncomfortable being in that place of being a "guest of honour".
And then your hosts have you feasting on one delicious meal after another, and these mangoes that are so sweet and juicy as they take you around their city and share with you about their ministry. And you suddenly realise your hosts have been treating you like that "guest of honour," and you suddenly feel really uncomfortable.
But when your hosts usher you into the guest room upstairs and beam with pride when they tell you that you're staying in the room that "Reverend Don and Caroline stayed in when they were here," you suddenly realise you're not a guest of honour because of anything you've done. No, it's because your hosts recognise that as you fumble around in your early years of ministry, you're merely trying to find your sense of balance as you stand on the shoulders of giants. And they simply want to be gracious hosts to you as you pass through along your journey.
At least, that was my experience in my less-than-24-hour stay in Manilla, Philippines with Brother Eddie, Sister Fely, Sister Marlene and Pastor Bob, and all the other good people at Grace Family Helper Project. And in all the correspondence that followed after that short less-than-24-hour stay, they constantly remind me that I'm not alone in my passion for student ministries.
This.
This is what it means to be the recipient of grace from those who are the hands and feet of the Living Christ.
And this is why we, at The Bridge, are looking forward to partnering with the church in the Philippines.
11 April 2014
"Remember Your Baptism"
11 April 2004
I remembered being immersed in that water, and coming out feeling nothing different. The rational part of me knew that was normal, but a part of me wanted to feel different.
But that was the beginning of everything.
For years before then, I had been thinking about the blessing that came when God changed a person's name in the Bible.
Abram to Abraham.
Sarai to Sarah.
Jacob to Israel.
And I had wanted that blessing, but I felt like there had to be a reason or occasion for that blessing.
Easter Sunday was rolling around that year. My brother and I had decided we wanted to be baptised that Easter Sunday. And I had brought up the name thing, so my mum got involved with the process of looking for a new name.
We wanted names that started with the letter J to keep with our legal names. For some reason, my mum didn't want me to pick the name Jezebel (I wonder why). And so we kept searching.
Then one day she said she stumbled upon the name Jael and told me to look up what it meant. Everything that Google found said it meant "mountain goat" or something along those lines.
So we took it to my pastor, and in his best attempt to parse the Hebrew name, we came up with "Ja" sounding like Yahweh or Jehovah, and "El" sounding like El Shaddai -- something along the lines of calling out to God.
And then I read the story of Jael in Judges 4. I was impressed by the strength that woman possessed to be a part of Kingdom work, so mountain goat or not, Jael was the name to be. It was short and simple, and I grew to like it more and more.
But... Well, back to that time of immersion in water baptism.
I came out of the water feeling nothing different. What I didn't realise was that that was the beginning of what I now affectionately call "all that crazy".
At the time, I thought it was a momentous occasion because... well, there was that name change thing. And the guy I thought I was going to marry at the time (all grown-up at 18-years-old) was there as well.
More importantly, my BFF was there. She wasn't a church-goer and we didn't share the same faith, but she was there because she knew it was important to me. And to this day, even though she still wouldn't say we share the same faith, she reminds me constantly of that water baptism. That commitment I made, that even if she didn't completely understand, to surrender my life and call to my belief and my faith. Juan, you really are the best.
But even more importantly, that was the beginning of "all that crazy".
You see, I didn't know it at the time, but later that year, I would move to Anderson, Indiana for college.
And Anderson, Indiana was the beginning of "all that crazy".
Good crazy, I should probably add.
And there was no turning back.
10 years, a whirlwind of life experience and a whole collection of passport stamps later, here I am in Auckland, New Zealand, remembering that baptism.
There was nothing special about that water.
And I didn't come out feeling any different.
But things were becoming different.
Remember your baptism
I remembered being immersed in that water, and coming out feeling nothing different. The rational part of me knew that was normal, but a part of me wanted to feel different.
But that was the beginning of everything.
For years before then, I had been thinking about the blessing that came when God changed a person's name in the Bible.
Abram to Abraham.
Sarai to Sarah.
Jacob to Israel.
And I had wanted that blessing, but I felt like there had to be a reason or occasion for that blessing.
Easter Sunday was rolling around that year. My brother and I had decided we wanted to be baptised that Easter Sunday. And I had brought up the name thing, so my mum got involved with the process of looking for a new name.
We wanted names that started with the letter J to keep with our legal names. For some reason, my mum didn't want me to pick the name Jezebel (I wonder why). And so we kept searching.
Then one day she said she stumbled upon the name Jael and told me to look up what it meant. Everything that Google found said it meant "mountain goat" or something along those lines.
So we took it to my pastor, and in his best attempt to parse the Hebrew name, we came up with "Ja" sounding like Yahweh or Jehovah, and "El" sounding like El Shaddai -- something along the lines of calling out to God.
And then I read the story of Jael in Judges 4. I was impressed by the strength that woman possessed to be a part of Kingdom work, so mountain goat or not, Jael was the name to be. It was short and simple, and I grew to like it more and more.
But... Well, back to that time of immersion in water baptism.
I came out of the water feeling nothing different. What I didn't realise was that that was the beginning of what I now affectionately call "all that crazy".
At the time, I thought it was a momentous occasion because... well, there was that name change thing. And the guy I thought I was going to marry at the time (all grown-up at 18-years-old) was there as well.
More importantly, my BFF was there. She wasn't a church-goer and we didn't share the same faith, but she was there because she knew it was important to me. And to this day, even though she still wouldn't say we share the same faith, she reminds me constantly of that water baptism. That commitment I made, that even if she didn't completely understand, to surrender my life and call to my belief and my faith. Juan, you really are the best.
But even more importantly, that was the beginning of "all that crazy".
You see, I didn't know it at the time, but later that year, I would move to Anderson, Indiana for college.
And Anderson, Indiana was the beginning of "all that crazy".
Good crazy, I should probably add.
And there was no turning back.
10 years, a whirlwind of life experience and a whole collection of passport stamps later, here I am in Auckland, New Zealand, remembering that baptism.
There was nothing special about that water.
And I didn't come out feeling any different.
But things were becoming different.
Remember your baptism
04 April 2014
3 Weeks of Grace Part #1: The Good Soil
I took a 19-day whirlwind adventure around a few parts of Asia recently. I can't say I was expecting a lot, but I was surprised by Grace... (As usual, I hear you say).
It would be ten years this August since I last lived in Singapore. And of course, it's only taken me the last ten years of being gone to realise I was lucky to have landed in good soil. And no, I don't mean blessed. I mean lucky.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a family that rallies around in times of need.
Luck would have it that the winds blew and the storms came, but somehow we are still standing and holding each other in gestures that may not quite suggest intimacy as much as simply the need to ensure each other's survival.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a circle of girls that still stick around, twelve years after our school days.
Luck would have it that we all landed in a school, way back in the beginning, that would churn us out ok--successful perhaps not by the world's standards, but by the abundance of health, laughter and the ties that bind us together through the years--and that the dramas of our lives pale drastically in comparison with so many of our contemporaries.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a "youth group" (which really isn't a "youth group" if you look at our ages, but we just don't know what other category we fit into) that had managed to somehow still stick together through the tumultuous years of church politics.
Luck would have it that each time I return, the landscape of that "youth group" changes drastically, yet somehow, the few remain faithful and committed to each other's ridiculousness as much as we were in the years that passed.
Don't get me wrong, I truly believe also, that I'm blessed. I'm just not convinced that landing in good soil was one of those blessings, as much as what often feels like random selection (luck, perhaps) because I did nothing to deserve better soil than my neighbour.
But Grace.
Grace, both in spite of, and because of, my unworthiness.
Grace that landed me in good soil.
Grace, from random selection
Now that, I might just be brave enough to receive.
It would be ten years this August since I last lived in Singapore. And of course, it's only taken me the last ten years of being gone to realise I was lucky to have landed in good soil. And no, I don't mean blessed. I mean lucky.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a family that rallies around in times of need.
Luck would have it that the winds blew and the storms came, but somehow we are still standing and holding each other in gestures that may not quite suggest intimacy as much as simply the need to ensure each other's survival.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a circle of girls that still stick around, twelve years after our school days.
Luck would have it that we all landed in a school, way back in the beginning, that would churn us out ok--successful perhaps not by the world's standards, but by the abundance of health, laughter and the ties that bind us together through the years--and that the dramas of our lives pale drastically in comparison with so many of our contemporaries.
Luck would have it that I landed in the good soil of a "youth group" (which really isn't a "youth group" if you look at our ages, but we just don't know what other category we fit into) that had managed to somehow still stick together through the tumultuous years of church politics.
Luck would have it that each time I return, the landscape of that "youth group" changes drastically, yet somehow, the few remain faithful and committed to each other's ridiculousness as much as we were in the years that passed.
Don't get me wrong, I truly believe also, that I'm blessed. I'm just not convinced that landing in good soil was one of those blessings, as much as what often feels like random selection (luck, perhaps) because I did nothing to deserve better soil than my neighbour.
But Grace.
Grace, both in spite of, and because of, my unworthiness.
Grace that landed me in good soil.
Grace, from random selection
Now that, I might just be brave enough to receive.
07 March 2014
06 March 2014
2014 Lenten Meditation #2: Brother Frank and the Bird Song
"I sing because I'm happy
I sing because I'm free
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know he watches me"
- Civilla D. Martin and Charles H. Gabriel
As some may know, I wear Brother Frank on a chain around my neck.
Brother Frank (better known as St Francis of Assisi) was given to me by Momma H, Pops Fry and the 3Ts (better known as Heidi, Ed, Thad, Toby and Theo Freer-Fry) when I first left Anderson 2.5 years ago. He currently hangs out with Jesus (or at least, the cross anyway) on that chain. Pops and Momma gave that to me when I left Anderson last (northern hemisphere) summer.
In my previous role as children's pastor, I often get seven- and eight-year-olds asking who it is I'm wearing on the chain.
How do you explain that St Francis of Assisi is this great monk with deep theological insights (but no, he's not my boyfriend) to a seven-year-old, whose attention span (when asking this question anyway) is about ten-seconds long?
As I stumbled over my own words the first time, I found myself praying, "Crap. Jesus, please let me do justice to the sainthood of Brother Frank without sounding too dumbed-down or too smart to be irrelevant."
Then the words came.
"My friends gave me this chain when I left America a few years ago. St Francis of Assisi, or as my friends and I like to call him, 'Brother Frank,' was this guy who learnt how important it was to take care of the small things. He liked spending time with the birds because it reminded him that even the little things were important. And I wear this chain because it reminds me that God wants me to take care of the little things, and especially the little people like you guys."
It is the second day of Lent.
As I sit here fiddling with the chain, I find myself willing myself to slow down and notice the little things.
I listen to the cicadas outside--their buzzing becoming a familiar soundtrack to my day.
The clock on the wall provides an accompanying rhythm as I listen to the seconds tick away.
Breathe.
And I remember this time last year.
In the middle of chaos, and crises and wilderness, I drove home one morning in tears.
Some of the little people in my life were in a complicated situation that I accidentally walked into, and I didn't know how to help them.
As I pulled into the driveway and sat in the car weeping, a sparrow appeared on my rear-view mirror and sang its song for a little while while I continued weeping.
And then the words came:
"His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me."
Because even in the little things, there is a Sovereign Being who holds it all.
And we are merely dust. And to dust we will return.
I sing because I'm free
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know he watches me"
- Civilla D. Martin and Charles H. Gabriel
As some may know, I wear Brother Frank on a chain around my neck.
Brother Frank (better known as St Francis of Assisi) was given to me by Momma H, Pops Fry and the 3Ts (better known as Heidi, Ed, Thad, Toby and Theo Freer-Fry) when I first left Anderson 2.5 years ago. He currently hangs out with Jesus (or at least, the cross anyway) on that chain. Pops and Momma gave that to me when I left Anderson last (northern hemisphere) summer.
In my previous role as children's pastor, I often get seven- and eight-year-olds asking who it is I'm wearing on the chain.
How do you explain that St Francis of Assisi is this great monk with deep theological insights (but no, he's not my boyfriend) to a seven-year-old, whose attention span (when asking this question anyway) is about ten-seconds long?
As I stumbled over my own words the first time, I found myself praying, "Crap. Jesus, please let me do justice to the sainthood of Brother Frank without sounding too dumbed-down or too smart to be irrelevant."
Then the words came.
"My friends gave me this chain when I left America a few years ago. St Francis of Assisi, or as my friends and I like to call him, 'Brother Frank,' was this guy who learnt how important it was to take care of the small things. He liked spending time with the birds because it reminded him that even the little things were important. And I wear this chain because it reminds me that God wants me to take care of the little things, and especially the little people like you guys."
It is the second day of Lent.
As I sit here fiddling with the chain, I find myself willing myself to slow down and notice the little things.
I listen to the cicadas outside--their buzzing becoming a familiar soundtrack to my day.
The clock on the wall provides an accompanying rhythm as I listen to the seconds tick away.
Breathe.
And I remember this time last year.
In the middle of chaos, and crises and wilderness, I drove home one morning in tears.
Some of the little people in my life were in a complicated situation that I accidentally walked into, and I didn't know how to help them.
As I pulled into the driveway and sat in the car weeping, a sparrow appeared on my rear-view mirror and sang its song for a little while while I continued weeping.
And then the words came:
"His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me."
Because even in the little things, there is a Sovereign Being who holds it all.
And we are merely dust. And to dust we will return.
My friend, Ed Breeden shared this on Facebook this morning,
which was a big part of the inspiration for today's post.
05 March 2014
2014 Lenten Meditation #1: The Scattered Community
"We've travelled through deserts, survived by His grace
We've kept souvenirs to commemorate
All the times that he washed the tears from our faces
Showed us new places to help renovate us"
- Renovatus
It is Ash Wednesday here in Auckland.
As we sat in St Patrick's Cathedral this morning reflecting on Ash Wednesday and this season of Lent, my mind drifted back to this time last year.
My scattered community were gathering for the first time, at least in a sense of spiritual togetherness, even if we weren't able to gather physically.
We were each travelling through our own seasons of wilderness.
But around that spiritual table, the seasons of wilderness became less lonely.
The deserts were still dry. Our souls were still parched.
But at least, we were together.
That's already better than wandering in the desert alone.
This year finds us in a different landscape.
Still together, but in a different way.
Yet around the ashes, all is the same.
We remember.
We remember the roads travelled.
We remember the dust.
We remember the struggle.
We've kept souvenirs to commemorate
All the times that he washed the tears from our faces
Showed us new places to help renovate us"
- Renovatus
It is Ash Wednesday here in Auckland.
As we sat in St Patrick's Cathedral this morning reflecting on Ash Wednesday and this season of Lent, my mind drifted back to this time last year.
My scattered community were gathering for the first time, at least in a sense of spiritual togetherness, even if we weren't able to gather physically.
We were each travelling through our own seasons of wilderness.
But around that spiritual table, the seasons of wilderness became less lonely.
The deserts were still dry. Our souls were still parched.
But at least, we were together.
That's already better than wandering in the desert alone.
This year finds us in a different landscape.
Still together, but in a different way.
Yet around the ashes, all is the same.
We remember.
We remember the roads travelled.
We remember the dust.
We remember the struggle.
We remember that we are from dust, and to dust we return.
27 February 2014
South Pacific News: A New Day is Dawning
A new day is dawning in the South Pacific.
The pastors and leaders of the Church of God in Australia and New Zealand have, for a long time, desired to connect as co-labourers of the Kingdom across the Tasman Sea. Thanks to the wonders of technology, Chad Davenport, Dwayne and Kara Goldman, Marissa Haskins, Dave Ravell, Dave and Greta Reames, Janice Spearritt, and Jael Tang, together with Regional Coordinators, Don and Caroline Armstrong, had the opportunity to convene on Skype for the first time this week.
Australia and New Zealand are geographically isolated from most other parts of the world, which has historically left ministers in this region feeling isolated in ministry as well. Ministers in this region have recognized the unhealthy of doing ministry isolated, and have been eager to bridge the distance across the Tasman Sea. Today, geography no longer stands as a barrier to building community. Participants in this week’s conversation are looking forward to making this a part of the regular ministry rhythm, convening once a month to share celebrations and struggles.
A new day is dawning in the South Pacific. We are better when we are together.
The pastors and leaders of the Church of God in Australia and New Zealand have, for a long time, desired to connect as co-labourers of the Kingdom across the Tasman Sea. Thanks to the wonders of technology, Chad Davenport, Dwayne and Kara Goldman, Marissa Haskins, Dave Ravell, Dave and Greta Reames, Janice Spearritt, and Jael Tang, together with Regional Coordinators, Don and Caroline Armstrong, had the opportunity to convene on Skype for the first time this week.
Australia and New Zealand are geographically isolated from most other parts of the world, which has historically left ministers in this region feeling isolated in ministry as well. Ministers in this region have recognized the unhealthy of doing ministry isolated, and have been eager to bridge the distance across the Tasman Sea. Today, geography no longer stands as a barrier to building community. Participants in this week’s conversation are looking forward to making this a part of the regular ministry rhythm, convening once a month to share celebrations and struggles.
A new day is dawning in the South Pacific. We are better when we are together.
24 February 2014
True Confession: I Hate Fundraising
I've been meaning to write this post for a long time, but for a variety of reasons never got around to it. So here goes.
True confession: I hate fundraising.
The more I'm in this fundraising process, the more I dislike it. I know it's a necessary evil for being in my current ministry role. And I know even in your dream job, there will always be stuff you dislike about it. And while I've learnt important lessons like not taking for granted anything you have because people have sacrificed so you can have your next meal, and the humility that comes with asking for partnerships, I still hate the process. And here's why:
1) I hate walking the fine line between celebrating what God is doing and making a splash with a "success story" to "win" support. I love stories, and I love telling stories, but I have often felt compelled to simply share "successful" statistics, or moving stories of major transformation. I see life change happening everyday in baby steps, but they don't make for fantastic success stories to tell. I want to celebrate the spectacular things God is doing, even if only in baby steps, but the pressure of the fundraising process often weighs so heavy that I feel obligated to only tell "success stories". And I hate that because it disrespects the life story for what it is--a journey in process, not a successful statistic.
2) I hate talking about myself or what I am doing, and the fundraising process often feels like we have to "market" ourselves. Amber and I had this discussion a little while ago that missionaries should fundraise in pairs because it's easier for us to talk each other up than for us to talk about ourselves and our ministries. Which leads me to the main point of today's blog post.
3) I hate that fundraising sometimes feels like a competition. Some of my favourite people whom I have journeyed with and have a great deal of respect for are stuck in the same fundraising rut that I am. I've been thinking about writing this post since my dear, dear friends Dan, Christy and Sofie Kihm, and Jenny, Bobby and Moore Mihsill were still in their fundraising process. These two families have finally finished their fundraising process, and the Kihms are now in the Netherlands and the Mihsills are at language school in France, preparing to move to Cote d'Ivore.
I wanted to tell you why you should support them financially and why you should believe in their ministry.
And I want to tell you why you should support Zach and Audrey Langford and their involvement in 3Worlds, particularly because of Audrey's role with missionary kids. Because I *get* why it's a challenge trying to raise support to go somewhere that is a part of the developed world when it's often easier to get folks to give compassionately to a mission in the developing world.
And I want to tell you why you should support Rebecca, Ryan and Ashton Hodges because I truly believe God has called them to Kenya--and not just because we should feel compassion for the poor, starving children of Africa.
And I want to tell you why you should support Emily Clark and the Place of Promise on Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. Because it's a ministry that is near and dear to my heart having been on the reservation myself seven years ago.
And I want to tell you why you should support Amber Livermore, and help her get back to Aotearoa New Zealand for another two years to build on all the good work she has started here. Because I love watching her interact with the youths across all the churches in the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand, and the way she's earned the respect of the local pastors here.
But in my completely selfish internal dialogue, I find myself thinking, "If I advocate for them, who's advocating for me? And will there be any funds left for me?"
And this is what I hate most about fundraising. I truly believe that God has called each one of us, and that there will be enough resources in the Kingdom so that all who are called will be taken care of. But through a few unfortunate conversations along the way, I've come to realise that if we're not careful about the way we view the process, we're going to feel like we're competing against one another when we're really all playing for the same team.
And I am completely aware that churches and missions committees sometimes have to make difficult decisions about which ministries to support because they are all worthy causes--to which I sincerely applaud you for taking the time to pray and discern. But all I'm asking is that in your process of prayer and discernment, please be gentle with us who are in this aggravating fundraising process when you tell us you've decided to go in a different direction. While I truly believe there is enough for everyone, the process of knocking on doors asking for support can be very discouraging. Help us to not have to feel like we're in a competition against people whom we love and respect dearly.
From the depths of my heart, thank you for giving sacrificially so that Kingdom work can keep happening all around the world.
I just... still hate fundraising.
True confession: I hate fundraising.
The more I'm in this fundraising process, the more I dislike it. I know it's a necessary evil for being in my current ministry role. And I know even in your dream job, there will always be stuff you dislike about it. And while I've learnt important lessons like not taking for granted anything you have because people have sacrificed so you can have your next meal, and the humility that comes with asking for partnerships, I still hate the process. And here's why:
1) I hate walking the fine line between celebrating what God is doing and making a splash with a "success story" to "win" support. I love stories, and I love telling stories, but I have often felt compelled to simply share "successful" statistics, or moving stories of major transformation. I see life change happening everyday in baby steps, but they don't make for fantastic success stories to tell. I want to celebrate the spectacular things God is doing, even if only in baby steps, but the pressure of the fundraising process often weighs so heavy that I feel obligated to only tell "success stories". And I hate that because it disrespects the life story for what it is--a journey in process, not a successful statistic.
2) I hate talking about myself or what I am doing, and the fundraising process often feels like we have to "market" ourselves. Amber and I had this discussion a little while ago that missionaries should fundraise in pairs because it's easier for us to talk each other up than for us to talk about ourselves and our ministries. Which leads me to the main point of today's blog post.
3) I hate that fundraising sometimes feels like a competition. Some of my favourite people whom I have journeyed with and have a great deal of respect for are stuck in the same fundraising rut that I am. I've been thinking about writing this post since my dear, dear friends Dan, Christy and Sofie Kihm, and Jenny, Bobby and Moore Mihsill were still in their fundraising process. These two families have finally finished their fundraising process, and the Kihms are now in the Netherlands and the Mihsills are at language school in France, preparing to move to Cote d'Ivore.
I wanted to tell you why you should support them financially and why you should believe in their ministry.
And I want to tell you why you should support Zach and Audrey Langford and their involvement in 3Worlds, particularly because of Audrey's role with missionary kids. Because I *get* why it's a challenge trying to raise support to go somewhere that is a part of the developed world when it's often easier to get folks to give compassionately to a mission in the developing world.
And I want to tell you why you should support Rebecca, Ryan and Ashton Hodges because I truly believe God has called them to Kenya--and not just because we should feel compassion for the poor, starving children of Africa.
And I want to tell you why you should support Emily Clark and the Place of Promise on Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. Because it's a ministry that is near and dear to my heart having been on the reservation myself seven years ago.
And I want to tell you why you should support Amber Livermore, and help her get back to Aotearoa New Zealand for another two years to build on all the good work she has started here. Because I love watching her interact with the youths across all the churches in the Wesleyan Methodist Church of New Zealand, and the way she's earned the respect of the local pastors here.
But in my completely selfish internal dialogue, I find myself thinking, "If I advocate for them, who's advocating for me? And will there be any funds left for me?"
And this is what I hate most about fundraising. I truly believe that God has called each one of us, and that there will be enough resources in the Kingdom so that all who are called will be taken care of. But through a few unfortunate conversations along the way, I've come to realise that if we're not careful about the way we view the process, we're going to feel like we're competing against one another when we're really all playing for the same team.
And I am completely aware that churches and missions committees sometimes have to make difficult decisions about which ministries to support because they are all worthy causes--to which I sincerely applaud you for taking the time to pray and discern. But all I'm asking is that in your process of prayer and discernment, please be gentle with us who are in this aggravating fundraising process when you tell us you've decided to go in a different direction. While I truly believe there is enough for everyone, the process of knocking on doors asking for support can be very discouraging. Help us to not have to feel like we're in a competition against people whom we love and respect dearly.
From the depths of my heart, thank you for giving sacrificially so that Kingdom work can keep happening all around the world.
I just... still hate fundraising.
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