On Writing

Every once in a while, I need a reminder of why I write.

It was about ten years ago that I made my blogging debut as an angsty teenager. I was just beginning to understand the dynamics of this new world called cyber-space, and I wanted to be careful I didn't expose myself to unnecessary danger. I wrote some, but mostly ranted.

A couple years later, blogging became my way to stay in touch with friends when I moved halfway across the world. Then my mum found out through my cousins that I had started blogging. She graciously asked for permission to access my blog, and by then I realised I needed to blog even more carefully. The angsty rants lessened, and the life updates became more frequent.

Then one day, Mum subtly pointed out that my angsty posts weren't that great for Christian witness. I think it was then that I started forcing myself to infuse hope in my writing even when I didn't completely believe it past head knowledge.

These days, the angst is a whole lot less.
I write for closure more than for angst. It's become a challenge to find a way to string words together in a way that articulated hope more than hurt community life.
Or I write because my thoughts are all over the place and throwing them on the screen helps piece things together more coherently. I had Amber over for dinner earlier this week to help process some things, and and one point, I realised she was having trouble following my thoughts because she said, "You think like a girl... Like spaghetti, not waffles."
Or I write to grieve with community. Keren's death taught me it's easier to grieve together than alone.

So when I noticed the number of visitors doubling on the blog, I got scared. I didn't mean for my writing to get noticed. I don't know who's reading or how they're hearing what I'm saying, so I get insecure. I simply started writing because I was an angsty teenager. Most days, after I post a new blog, I want to go into hiding because I feel vulnerable having bared my heart.

I really didn't mean to get noticed, but since this blog is drawing more attention than I had ever expected, hello to each one of you.
I hope you've found this to be a place of solace and comfort.
A place where you find it's ok to stay in the darkness for a while because you have a friend here.
I hope you've found this to be a place where you can embrace the awkwardness of life and laugh along.
A place where you eventually find Light and Hope if they've felt distant for a while.

More importantly, I hope you find Love.

Table Talks: Behind the Camels

This week at Table Talks, we got to talking about Joseph. Somewhere between all those discussions and my conversation with Amber on Monday, I got to thinking about prevenient grace.

One of the questions the book we're using asked what kinds of tension there might be in our household. As we discussed the question, I looked around the room and realised that none of us lived in a traditionally-defined household of Mum, Dad, kids and pets. The skeptical self chuckled inside. Cookie-cutter programmes don't cater for non-cookie-cutter groups.

But that's when I realised that by the time Joseph had to confront the household tension again, he actually was at a pretty good place in life. Pharaoh loved him, and he probably had servants to take care of all his dishes so there was no need to fight over who loaded the dishwasher, or leaving toothpaste stains in the sink. Just like each one of us in the room who had moved away from the families of origin where the household tensions were the strongest.

No, the tension came from a long time ago when he was the arrogant little brat bragging about his dreams. At one point in our discussion, Sylvia asked, "When do you reckon it was that Joseph decided to forgive his brothers and make peace with them? Was it when he was walking behind the camels as a slave that that transformation happened?"

I guess I never really thought about it like that. I mean, I guess I always knew that Joseph would probably have to work through some forgiveness issues, but I had always imagined him to be a humble, long-suffering man. But for the arrogant little brat that bragged about his dreams to turn into a humble, forgiving man, I couldn't help thinking that "soul-searching" process must have been more drawn-out than I ever spent time thinking about.

Which reminded me of my favourite poem by my #1 Dead Man Crush, Deitrich Bonhoeffer. "Wer bin ich" or "Who am I?" was written while he was imprisoned for being a part of the conspiracy to assassinate Hitler. If you've read any of my previous theological rants, you would know by now that Bonhoeffer and Luther are the two theologians I have most respect for as far as spiritual formation and reformation is concerned, and no, it has nothing to do with them being German (although I won't deny that just gave me an extra reason to love all things Deutsch). Sure, they wrote impressive stuff, but that's just stuff. At the heart of what caused me to respect them this much was their struggle with their "self," or what Freud calls, the ego.

I remember watching the film on Luther's life in German class. The scene that stuck out to me most was the one of him prostrate on the ground crying out to God to deal with him. Something broke in him that day. And I'd hazard a guess that a similar process happened with Bonhoeffer. That process of wrestling with injustice had led them to a place where they realised aside from the Creator and prevenient grace, we were really a bunch of nothings.

An acquaintance made an observation that I looked like something happened some time ago that broke me. I don't know what it was he saw that warranted that observation, but I smiled, remembering all those times growing up that the grown-ups would say that God deals with us in our brokenness.

For a long time, I had assumed it was Keren's death that led me to my breaking point. But as we were talking about Joseph's experience behind the camels, it dawned on me Keren's death was only one of the markers of what I've come to call "All the Crazy".

I don't know that Luther would have been prostrate on the ground like that in real life as was portrayed in that movie, but I remembered carrying that image mentally to the streets of Berlin. I remembered carrying it with me to Neustart that day as I sat across from "Justin" (not his real name), listening to how he had ended up in Berlin after his parents sold him to feed their drug addiction. At 12, he was raised by druggies, and less than 10 years later, he witnessed his best friend getting shot in a drug deal gone sour. Sitting there, listening to his story and the stories of the other women who had, by the end of that very short summer, become good friends even though we barely spoke each other's language, I was struck with the realisation that if I had been born into the same home background as them, I don't know that I would have made different life choices than them.

I carried that same image the day I found out that "Justin" had decided to get cleaned up and committed to a relationship with Christ. In that same short conversation, I also found out that as a result of getting cleaned up, his medicals showed that he was HIV-positive. I think that was when I found myself prostrate on the ground. I didn't understand. He and I weren't too different, and it wasn't fair that he got dealt the cards he received, and I got mine. I could still walk away from there and go back to my clean-cut, sheltered life. It simply wasn't fair.

I don't know how long I laid prostrate, but when I eventually got up, there were only three truths I could cling on to.
1) God was, is, and will continue to be sovereign.
2) God loves. God loves me for my inability to understand.
3) Grace. Grace existed before me and will continue to exist with or without me. I only needed to jump on board with it.

When Joseph emerged from behind the camels to be sold as a slave, or whenever it might have been, the arrogance was stripped away. His dreams of greatness would have amounted to nothing if not for the hand of God on his life.

When I stood up again, when I came out from behind the camels again, I was more aware than ever that without the hand of God on my life, I was nothing. My vocation, my work, my writing, none of it would amount to anything without Grace and Agape love. I no longer needed to understand even though I knew I would continue to wrestle--simply because I'm human, and that's part of the human experience.

Who am I? In the words of Charles Naylor, "I am the Lord's, I know."

Wer bin ich? - Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir oft,
ich träte aus meiner Zelle
gelassen und heiter und fest
wie ein Gutsherr aus seinem Schloß

Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir oft,
ich spräche mit meinen Bewachern
frei und freundlich und klar,
als hätte ich zu gebieten.

Wer bin ich? Sie sagen mir auch,
ich trüge die Tage des Unglücks
gleichmütig, lächelnd und stolz,
wie einer, der Siegen gewohnt ist.
Bin ich das wirklich, was andere von mir sagen?
Oder bin ich nur das, was ich selbst von mir weiß?
Unruhig, sehnsüchtig, krank, wie ein Vogel im Käfig,
ringend nach Lebensatem, als würgte mir einer die Kehle,
hungernd nach Farben, nach Blumen, nach Vogelstimmen,
dürstend nach guten Worten, nach menschlicher Nähe,
zitternd vor Zorn über Willkür und kleinlichste Kränkung,
umgetrieben vom Warten auf große Dinge,
ohnmächtig bangend um Freunde in endloser Ferne,
müde und leer zum Beten, zum Denken, zum Schaffen,
matt und bereit, von allem Abschied zu nehmen?

Wer bin ich? Der oder jener?
Bin ich denn heute dieser und morgen ein andrer?
Bin ich beides zugleich? Vor Menschen ein Heuchler und vor mir selbst ein verächtlich wehleidiger Schwächling?
Oder gleicht, was in mir noch ist, dem geschlagenen Heer,
das in Unordnung weicht vor schon gewonnenem Sieg?

Wer bin ich? Einsames Fragen treibt mit mir Spott.
Wer ich auch bin, Du kennst mich, Dein bin ich, o Gott!

Who am I? - Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a Squire from his country house.

Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As thought it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equably, smilingly, proudly,
like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectations of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.

Who am I? This or the Other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptible woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!

Where We Come From: Holiness, Unity, Servanthood part #2

We recently started a new series, E100 (or the 100 essential places/readings to visit in the Bible). I'll be the first to admit I'm not a big fan of cookie-cutter programmes like these, especially Christiany programmes. I could come up with 101 theological reasons to disagree with the programme, but I forced myself to pack away the seminary cynicism and give it a chance. And I was glad I did.

As a result of this new series, I've been tremendously blessed by Table Talks, the adult small group I've been facilitating for the last couple of months. Granted, there's only the three of us that meet regularly, but that's the thing. We meet. And regularly. And of course, we go through the study questions and stuff.

But that's just the stuff that gave us a reason to start meeting together. The stuff that's really blown me away as getting to do life with these women who have become my church mums. Nina's taught me more about how to work in a western kitchen than anything Google can offer. Likewise with Sylvia's resourcefulness with children's ministry crafts and doing stuff on a low-budget.

And the questions they're asking. Nina and her four pages of loose-leaf notes complete with family trees of all the crazies in Genesis. Wrestling with God and evil questions. Stuff that make me wrestle with my own theology all over again, and coming to terms all over again with the fact that life isn't simply black or white. More than anything else, I was thankful that my seminary education managed to find a place in life outside the walls of Tallen Hall.

Then this week, Sylvia blew me away even more. Somewhere between asking questions about grace and redemption and the difference between the soul and spirit and the essentials of our faith, she said, "I want to know what our church tradition says about this."

I don't remember how I reacted outwardly, but inside, I was doing a happy dance. My gut reaction was, "Oh great, now I'm going to have to seriously review CHOG/Wesleyan Holiness theology so I can articulate it in non-nerdy language." But when I got over myself, I wanted to scream, "You're so Wesleyan, whether you realise it or not."

But this is why I appreciate these women.
Not because I have well-crafted seminary answers to throw at them, but because they challenge me to think about life.
And because they are so gracious with me and my inexperience with their children and grandchildren.
And because they don't simply write me off as a young whippersnapper, but embrace me as their nerd and their pastor.


So I've been thinking a lot about my Church of God/Wesleyan Holiness roots lately. At Table Talks, we've been discussing a lot about law and grace and what those all mean according to our church tradition and understanding of scripture. I'll admit that I've taken the community of fellow Wesleyan Holiness nerds for granted in never really having to explain where we're coming from concerning our understanding of holiness and unity. But the more I dig into those roots, the more I'm thankful for a tradition whose concern for holiness and unity is rooted in grace. Not in law for the sake of law, but law for the sake of relationship.

And I've been thinking about my church mothers. The Nora Hunters, the Ann Smiths, and the MaryAnn Hawkins. The women who have gone before me, and the communities that have celebrated their wisdom and leadership. And I wonder if they had days when they had to deal with a self-esteem so low from being told over and over again (sometimes even not with words) that they were young, or inexperienced, or simply were not the right gender for proper leadership.

And then I think of my other church mothers and the Dumbledores. My own mother who has been quietly supportive and encouraging in her own way. The Ninas and the Sylvias who have affirmed me as their pastor, even in my whippersnapper-ness. And the Arthur Kellys and Jim Hawkins and Patrick Nachtigalls, who have never tried to pack my out-of-the-box-ness into neat packages.

And then I think of the people that Emily calls my "cloud of witnesses". The people whose paths I crossed while in Anderson who believe in me. The ones that hooded me not because I wrote good papers (I really didn't), but because we're all in this footwashing business together. The ones that talk about Kingdom Come more than the number of degrees we hold or the titles we wear.


On the days that I struggle with my place in the world, this is what I come back to.
Not the current job title or the job description. Those things are temporary.
No, this is where we come from.

These are the stories of holiness and unity.
These are the stories of the footwashers.
These are the stories of my Church of God/Wesleyan Holiness roots.

Where We Come From: Homesick

The year was 2007, and it must have been either June or July. Holly, Keren and I had, on this random night, decided we were going to "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's for ice-cream, as college students spontaneously do. I don't remember what else was on the playlist that night, except for two of Keren's favourites at the time. The windows were down, and we were singing at the top of our lungs, "Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your girlfriend!" and "Oh, **** it, I'm gonna have a party!"

I don't know what it was like for the Holly and Keren. But six years have passed, and I look back at that "roadtrip" now and think of it as a coming of age marker for me. Only a couple months ago, I had walked across the platform in Kardatzke Wellness Center as a celebration of the culmination of three ridiculous years' work towards a bachelor's degree. Anderson University had by then become a place where I had struggled long and hard with my self-identity, and just like that, those three years were over. Keren and I had by then had several long discussions about our dreams about the future, and she was just beginning to find her place while I was still looking for mine.

You see, Keren was a Third-Culture kid. Born in El Salvador, she eventually moved to Romania when her parents took a missionary assignment with a church there. She, and my other TCK friends, talked often about how they could never simply check one box when it came down to filling out forms about where they came from. She was at a conference for international students once, and when it came time for breakout sessions, attendees were asked to split into groups based on the region she came from. Was she to go to the one for Latin America or the one for Europe? There was never one single box to check.

I remembered one of our conversations being about the things we were passionate about. She said she was slightly jealous of friends who had found their niche in their passion for social justice, or art, or something of the sort, because she hadn't found her own. I remembered thinking the same thing. I loved music, but having studied it at the college level with an over-emphasis on performance (which I hated) killed it.

Then one day, she had just gotten back from a weekend in Chicago where she had been a part of a conference called, "Displace Me". It was a movement about creating awareness of displaced people. After all the time spent trying to figure out which box to check, she finally found it. Her passion. Working with displaced people because she herself was displaced.

That had all just fallen into place weeks before that summer. Then before that summer was over, her life was taken.

It was years before I started really processing everything that happened that summer. You see, I had forgotten about the phonecall I received that night on the "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's. In our laughter and singing, we missed the ramp for the motorway twice, and ended up halfway to Columbus, Ohio. We had gotten so frustrated that we eventually decided to simply head home, but ended up missing the off-ramp for the Anderson exit as well. Somewhere in the midst of all the chaos, Dad had rung up to chat and was asking about how things were progressing with my job search. By the time I hung up, I was even more frustrated from trying to explain to Dad the cultural differences in the job search process.

Holly and Keren calmly listened to my ranting for a while before Keren finally said, "You know, our parents haven't lived here themselves. They may have some ideals about what life is like here, but they are not the reality that we live in. And it isn't anybody's fault, we just have to learn to adapt to this new reality that we live in different worlds now."

It wasn't until years later when I began processing that I realised I had become displaced too. I had spent significant amount of time with my Missionary Kid/Third-Culture Kids friends while in college to know the traits of a TCK, and to begin to understand the way they think. But I had never saw myself as a TCK until then.

For a few years after that, I struggled to navigate the waters of this new revelation that a new chapter had begun in the pages of my self-identity. It was hardest around November because I would be celebrating American Thanksgiving with Danielle's family, thinking about the right time to call or e-mail Dad on his birthday. Then right after that, the countdown towards the time I left wintry Anderson for sunny Singapore would begin and I would get particularly homesick thinking of time with the cousins, the BFFs, the church family and all the yummy food. The night before I boarded the plane would usually be the worst. I always love going, but I hate leaving. It's in that in-between time that I feel most displaced.

Nine years later, this displacement hasn't gone away. I've moved yet again, and the understanding of homesickness has re-shaped itself as well. It doesn't help that even with all the diversity in Auckland, folks here still take one look at me, hear me speak and automatically ask the dreaded, "Where are you from?" Yes, I know I'm yellow on the outside, sound like white America, and have the black, red and gold of Germany hanging in the Snuggery where I live, but the truth is, I have too many other colours on the inside. I would happily don the black, red and green of my Kenyan sister, Emily, the vibrant flowers of my Island whanau, while wearing the intricately beaded headpieces of the Lakotas, a people near and dear to my heart.

And the in-between times... Gosh, the in-between times are the worst. Nina who has become one of my Auckland church mums came up to me at church yesterday, gave me a big hug and said, "You've been a bit homesick, haven't you?" The tears came really close, but I wasn't sure if it was because someone noticed, or if it was because I hadn't even noticed it myself until she pointed it out. There's so much here that I love and wouldn't be ready to leave, even if just for a month. But there's a part of me that's already in Portland having bubble tea with Arthur and a massive pow-wow with Cassie. Another part of me has already tasted the corn and cherry tomatoes from Heidi's garden, and solved all the problems of the world with the semiNerdian friends. And still another part of me has already snuggled with Hannah and thrown fries at Amanda.

And maybe that's why I love airports so much. Because I feel less alone in the in-between-ness, even if no one else in the waiting lounge is as crazy/displaced enough to be processing these thoughts.

I was scrolling through old photos on Facebook earlier and found this one, taken in front Brandenburger Tor in Berlin. It was one of the first days we were there and there were various exhibits that we could take photos with. Some were historical; others political; still others, simply funny. This little guy here though, reminded me too much of myself. By the time I got to Germany, I had come to the realisation that no matter what part of the world I move to or how many times I move, wherever I sleep that night would be home, but I would also still be homesick for at least one of the other homes.

That is the new normal now. And it will be ok.

Emily sent me this photo via Whatsapp today. I hadn't expected it because it wasn't a significant date. But it was the reminder I needed that I wasn't alone in this warped in-between place. A few months after Keren died, they planted a tree on campus in remembrance of her. When I still lived in Anderson, I would visit on her birth and death anniversary with the yellow flowers she wanted on her last birthday. It became a place of solitude in the summer months as well. Months before I moved, I told Emily that I wasn't sure what I would do anymore on her birth and death anniversary. She offered to simply bring flowers to visit whenever she was able. Emi, thank you.

This. This is where we come from.

Where We Come From: Holiness, Unity, Servanthood part #1

"Holiness, Unity, Servanthood"

Ours wasn't a family that went to church our whole lives, and I still remember the days when Mum would take my brother and I church-hunting. But as long as I remember going to church, I remember those words to be inscribed on the walls of the building that we went to.

As a child, I remember staring at those words, thinking, "I know those words exist in the Bible. And if they are also appear on the walls of this building, and on the front page of those papers they hand out when we walk in to church, they must be pretty important. But they sound so grown up and fancy, and I'll never understand, much less achieve, what they mean."

Fast forward about twenty years, and I'm sitting in my bedroom here in Auckland, pondering those same words. Except now, they've been inscribed in my DNA as a follower of Jesus. Lots have happened between then and now, and a lot more is about to happen.

My mind flashes back to the silver letters on the front wall of the sanctuary in the new building of the church I grew up in.

"Holiness. Unity. Servanthood."

These are stories of Where We Come From--
This is the small part of my Christian heritage
The movement I claim roots in
The Church of God that I love dearly.

Where We Come From: A Bit of Shameless Self-Promotion

I don't usually do this, but here's a bit of shameless self-promotion of a couple pieces of writing that have gone to print recently.

"Sacred Spaces in the City" (see page 5) is a piece on urban ministry that I was asked to write for Communion, the main publication of the Church of God in North America.

And my friend and teacher, Kimberly Majeski just tweeted that the book, "Called to Minister, Empowered to Serve," a collaborative publication that I had the privilege to be a part of, is now available for purchase. Kimberly writes,

"Edited by Dr. Mary Ann Hawkins this book is a collaboration of love by women clergy and scholars in the the Church of God Movement."

MaryAnn and Jim have been mentors and "church parents" to me through my seminary years. When MaryAnn asked if I would contribute a piece for this collaboration about my call to ministry, I couldn't say no. Besides, it was also a reminder that I was a part of a bigger chorus of voices that share the same struggles in ministry, and especially with other women who face the daily struggle with their call in a vocation that is more often male-dominated.

The publishing process usually takes enough time for me to forget that I've written a piece that's gone to print. It's not usually till a friend says something about it that I remember someone actually believed I had something to contribute to the bigger global conversation--enough to "pester" me to make my voice heard.

These are the stories of Where We Come From--and a reminder that it's never been about me in the first place.

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.

Holy Week Treasure Trove

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I stared at him blankly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

"Rhythmus" Part 1

The first time it happened, we were in Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche. Or what became affectionately known as "The Blue Church". It was my first week in Berlin. Never mind that I had had a year of university level German by then; if not for the undergraduate class where four of our assignments involved studying and creating a liturgical order of worship, I would not have had a clue about what was going on.

That was, until we got to "Das Vater unser Gebet". I still only understood about 5% of what was going on, but I gathered something about Father and praying. And then the chorus of German voices saying the words together. Something stirred in my heart as I simply read the text from the pages along with the other voices. I didn't know word for word what I was saying, but I knew in English I was saying, "Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name..."

It occurred to me for the first time that even before I was challenged to memorise the words of the Lord's Prayer as a primary school kid, people all around the world had been reciting the same words together. I was merely one of the voices joining in this familiar rhythm.

And then it happened again this weekend. The Pasifika festival, a celebration of Pacific Island nations, was on this weekend, and for the first time this year, there was also a unity worship service on Sunday morning. Naturally, I was there.

Never mind that we're in the middle of a draught and it was sweltering hot in the park that morning. I'm usually pretty skeptical about unity services because they can be very well-intentioned but not always well-planned. It was one of the most beautiful services I've been to in a while.

And then it happened, right in the middle of a congregational prayer in Samoan. The voice invited the Church to join in with The Lord's Prayer in our mother tongues. The chorus of voices in all the different Island languages, and I in my lame English (I know, I know... It's been on my bucket list to learn it in at least Mandarin and German, but I haven't gotten there yet), saying together, "Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name..."

Except this time, it was even more meaningful for me. I heard my own voice join in the chorus of Island tongues, with friends in Berlin, and the friends in the States who have been journeying with me through this wilderness season of Lent.

To be continued...