I haven't had a lot of time to write as of late. It has been about 3 weeks since I had last written and 2 weeks since I've been meaning to write. 2 weeks ago, I went on a leaders retreat with my youth leaders, and it was probably the highlight of highlights so far during my time here. Sure, I've made some good, dependable friends, I've eaten some unique, mouth-watering, cultural foods, and I've even learned a great deal of lessons from both having a full time job and living on my own, but none have been more satisfying than watching my leaders as they gradually learn to pray.
My title at this church is the "Youth and College Pastor" and my responsibility is specifically to care for the 6th grade-college seniors as a whole. In addition, sometimes I get the opportunity to speak into some of the young adults at our church because I lead a bible study, established by the pastor who was before me, Jeremiah Lepasana. This bible study is called Table and consists of college students and young adults to the age of 30 -- though we're not putting a limit on that, it just seems that most people in the church are married by then and join some of the married-couple groups. Youth and college is structured around the friday youth club we hold, Manna. Most of the college students at our church serve as counselors in Manna, and the kids who come ranging from 6th grade to high school interact with these counselors more than they interact with me. It is structured in this way because community in this younger age is built through common interests and similar struggles. Above all, the role models that these teenagers would more naturally incline to would be those who are cool instead of a youngen who is transitioning into an old-y like me -- at least in their eyes. They look up to the college students, who are close to them in age, but much further along than they in spiritual maturity. Personal maturity? Well, we can talk about that another time. So, basically what I'm trying to say is, at Manna youth club, the college students run the show. My main priority is to pour into the college students what I can in teaching and discipleship and also, to pour into the kids what I can in teaching, while the college students pour into the students in discipleship. Thus far, it has been an effective system that is also basic. In no way do I feel like an expert, but I am constantly learning and prayerfully reflecting.
So that leads to 2 weeks ago. We cancelled friday night youth to leave on a weekend retreat from friday to sunday in Pocono, which is right across the border from New Jersey, in Pennsylvania. We were excited, probably all for different reasons. They were excited because coming out of high school, who doesn't want a retreat where they don't have to do all the work but only get poured into? I was excited because of all that I had written out on blueprint. The Lord had a plan to build unity, equip ministers, and inspire vision. The Lord had a plan to transform us. I told the leaders that this was a retreat for the purposes of feeding them, building the bond within our team as leaders, and casting vision for the year of ministry. And so we did those things. We had team initiatives where we interconnected hands in a circle, half-enthusiastically and half-frustratingly attempting to unravel what was convoluted. We had one that involved a pair of magic shoes and lots of heavy-lifting as the team made their best effort to traverse across a desert of hot, blistering sand. And we also had one that required a blindfolded leader to walk through a field entrenched with landmines while another leader guided by voice but without sight through the signals of one with sight but without voice. Learning to work together as a group to accomplish one task without leaving anyone behind proved itself to be difficult, but the process it took to get there, though was not one filled with elation and comfort, was worth the sacrifice. Sometimes we don't realize that the cost of following Jesus includes the cost of doing it with Jesus' disciples. I think that became more sobering during that weekend.
But even before all of that, my first priority, if nothing else happened at retreat, and if I was to teach nothing else for the rest of the year, was to give these leaders a resource where they could access the Lord Jesus themselves; for it is the Lord Jesus who speaks his revelation into my heart that makes the materialization of these plans and schedules possible. Right when we got to Pocono, we settled down, and gathered into a group to pray for each other. One by one each individual leader stepped forth and sat in the middle of the group to be prayed for as the Holy Spirit had led through a practice I usually refer to as prophetic prayer. Without any request, the person praying for the individual in the middle would speak out the words given to them by the Holy Spirit. Each leader was blessed by the words prayed over them and the words affirming them of their work and the character seen in their lives. There was no holding back. We prayed for 2 hours and the leaders had no intention to stop. They wanted more. They wanted to hear more of the Holy Spirit. They wanted to speak more in the words of the Holy Spirit. They wanted the affirmation of the Holy Spirit. They wanted the guidance of the Holy Spirit. They wanted the Holy Spirit. And that night we worshipped the Holy Spirit and the power and presence therein. That power and presence went forth with us through that retreat and out of that retreat into youth. When the Holy Spirit blows into the caverns of our soul, the spirit of prayer that hungers and thirsts for the presence and power of God becomes not occasional but routine. It becomes not a rarity, but a common day-to-day habit. It becomes like a meal; like a necessity; that if we have not eaten, we are not satisfied. The spirit of prayer, I pray will continue to gradually invade the hearts of these leaders.
We also had some time to cast vision together. We sat for 2 and a half hours, under the incandescent light of a single lamp in the living room, discussing one phrase that would pack together what we want to accomplish for the rest of that year in Manna youth club. Bright ideas were thrown from the left and the right of what we felt were some of the deepest struggles of our youth. I heard passionate voices of individuals who weren't only speaking out empty phrases, but ones who believed in the youth and their susceptibility to the power of the gospel through a saving relationship with Jesus Christ. I even heard fiery passions from individuals convicted that the gospel can transform the youth; speaking only from hearts that had been taken captive for the gospel of Christ when they once were standing on sinking sand. Now, on the solid rock of Christ, they stand. The spirit of prayer led to the voices of passion. The voices of passion grew into hearts of vision. And these hearts of vision, as we continue forth prayerfully, will lead to the hands and feet of Christ. It will lead to praxis that fulfills that vision.
We capped off the weekend with a sermon spoken in the middle of the woods, where leaves of every color were scattered across the damp soil from the morning dew. We sat on a tree trunk that had been blown down, uprooted, and dead while surrounded by leafless trees that scraped the skies like the monumental structures I remembered from my home town. The nature was gorgeous, the sun was out, and the Word of God was spoken. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
What an appropriate ending.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Monday, October 14, 2013
Chameleon-ship
I've been in New Jersey for a little more than a month now, and it has been absolutely wonderful; but moving to a new environment never comes without its difficulties.
Where did I come from? A city. A large city jam-packed with a diverse demographic, a myriad of foods, a large selection of attractions, a pride of not being so liberal, laid-backed, young-wild-and-free like the west coast but also not so busy-bodied, fast-paced, politically correct like the east coast. A place that was as flat as could be. You wouldn't be able to see a mountain even if you were at the highest elevation under the clouds because the closest one had to be at least 800 miles away. A place so architecturally incredible that people from all around the world would come for a glimpse, not of history, but of landscape and structural design. There is a large bean, where anyone of all shapes and sizes are welcomed to take mirrored reflection photographs, making the cheesiest, silliest expressions imagined. There is in place one of the tallest structures, scraping the sky since 1974; recently renamed, contrary to the common local's liking. This city is a place with fake beaches to outsiders coming from bigger cities; but hey, for us, that is as good as a beach gets. I come from a place with seasons. Long winters and decently long summers, but just a week of spring (showers) and a week of fall. I come from one of the most highly segregated cities in the U.S., not necessarily because of hostility -- though that most definitely exists -- but for the sake of solidarity and community. This is a beautiful urban jungle. Chicago. In addition, I resided in a humble, Chinese community, who minded their own business at all costs. Proper, stoic, harmonious, passive, and honor-oriented was the etiquette. No one cared about visual aesthetics. Money was highly valued; which was just a step down from the collective, familial priority that defined life itself. Food and cooking was our acquiesced pride and joy, though never boasted upon. Chinatown and Bridgeport. I come from a place that I call home; a place I am ready to return almost every day I am alive. Good thing the Lord has given me a sojourning spirit [and to that I'm indescribably grateful].
The Lord had written a story for me there, and he had continued to write a story for me in the western suburbs of Chicago. Culture-shock is what I would describe my initial experience. It was my first time entering into an environment completely new. Upon meeting anyone, I had no clue where they came from. Are my interests, their interests? Were the conversation topics going on at my home going to be transferred into these conversations? Would I fit in? Would I be included? I definitely looked differently from everyone here. White was most of what I saw; and it was indubitable that that was not my own colored-identity. A city-boy walking into a suburban majority campus. The only thing that we all really had in commonality was that we were all Christian, we all had a story to tell, and we all have yet to see the unwritten stories we would have there on the campus of Wheaton College. We were all starting anew. A blank slate. We were all open and ready to discover what was ahead. We would go on to create some of the most intimate friendships that we could ever imagine -- staying up because of 3am theological debates; dreaming with hefty visions that seemed far too remote to be realistic, but far closer than we had realized; talking about potential girls or guys we would ask on a date; and getting unacceptably unhealthy late-night snacks that our mind almost always said no to, but our body almost always said yes. Integrating into a majority white, Christian community was not as bad as I thought. The Lord made me culturally exposed, and in result, he made my world bigger and kept me living on the tip of my toes.
I live with a free spirit, being blown wherever the spirit might gently send me. The Lord is laying down his pen and further writing this story. From there, I moved to Budd Lake, New Jersey. Yet again, the Lord has brought me to the suburbs. The beautiful ever-changing leaves are upon me in the magical, wonderful, and breathtaking ubiquity of the woods here. The trees stand tall and enamor this place with a refreshing sense of solitude. I am away from the hustle and bustle of the densely packed streets. I am away from the cacophonous honks of the myriads of vehicles; the destination-set eyes of each person roaming the city-streets, not willing to stop for anything because of their cluttered schedules; the smell of coffee on almost every street corner; and the thousands of homeless persons fighting for the next meal only to be judged by the onlookers. 8 minutes to the closest grocery store. 20 minutes to the closest shopping center. Still have not found a coffeeshop. Buses do not exist. Hanging out means making an hour-long drive. There are more trees than there are people. Quiet. Even so, God has blessed me with church community which is the reason I have such an affection so dear to my heart for this place. People make places. And right now, I would not trade the world for where the Lord has guided me to in this present time.
When I arrived here, I had one unfortunate assumption. I thought I was ready because this kind of change was not unlike a change I had gone through before.
I am going into a place with a new community. Done that.
I am going to have a culture-shock because of the majority filipinos. Done that.
I am entering the suburbs. Done that.
I am entering into a new church community. Done that.
What could surprise me? Well. This place was a new community. But it was a new community of whom did not have unwritten stories. We did not share that commonality. I had an unwritten story here at Bible Church International, but many of the stories God has written in this community, have been going for pages and pages and pages. I was in a place where I had to integrate myself into a story already being written in that community. It wasn't like wheaton; a place with either unwritten stories, or stories only in the first or second chapter. This was my challenge. There were affinities between friends that I could not even comprehend. There were contentions between friends that were so deep in the hole that I could not speak into. There were memories shared between people that I had no business interfering with. There was so much history that I felt I was an outcast trying to fit in; and when I was included, it was like a favor an individual in the community would bestow upon me.
I've been sojourning for quite a bit of time, and I became so naive to think that I had gotten the whole formula mastered. It is not easy being a chameleon. Adjustment is not easy, because it isn't just about culture, and it isn't just about language, and it isn't just about present issues. Adjustment comes with it the entire drama; the entire narrative. It was not just because they were filipino or that they spoke tagalog or that they greeted each other with warmth and affection. It was that when they saw each other, they saw each other with the layers and layers of connotations. The dating histories. The histories of hurts and pains. The histories of forgiveness and redemption. The histories of bitterness and records of wrongs kept. The histories of mistakes and obduracy from the advice of another. The histories that make friendships what they have become, that make people into who they are, and that make communities into its intricate tapestry. Integrating is difficult; and being a chameleon can be gut-wrenching from moment to moment. And it really is not in my power to continue adjusting. I no longer feel so naive, or hopefully ever will, to think that I've mastered the formula of chameleonship.
I'm thankful that the Lord has included me into his divine narrative. I'm thankful that he has written for me my own narrative and have included me into the narrative of certain communities momentarily. And now, I am thankful to be included in the narrative of this place called Bible Church International, and this state called New Jersey. I am excited for his work, and I know that I can't force my way in aggressively if I am to affect change in this community, but I know that the Lord has a plan to gently include me into his craft of redemption in such a beautiful but broken place. Lord, teach me how to become a chameleon for Christ and his Church.
Where did I come from? A city. A large city jam-packed with a diverse demographic, a myriad of foods, a large selection of attractions, a pride of not being so liberal, laid-backed, young-wild-and-free like the west coast but also not so busy-bodied, fast-paced, politically correct like the east coast. A place that was as flat as could be. You wouldn't be able to see a mountain even if you were at the highest elevation under the clouds because the closest one had to be at least 800 miles away. A place so architecturally incredible that people from all around the world would come for a glimpse, not of history, but of landscape and structural design. There is a large bean, where anyone of all shapes and sizes are welcomed to take mirrored reflection photographs, making the cheesiest, silliest expressions imagined. There is in place one of the tallest structures, scraping the sky since 1974; recently renamed, contrary to the common local's liking. This city is a place with fake beaches to outsiders coming from bigger cities; but hey, for us, that is as good as a beach gets. I come from a place with seasons. Long winters and decently long summers, but just a week of spring (showers) and a week of fall. I come from one of the most highly segregated cities in the U.S., not necessarily because of hostility -- though that most definitely exists -- but for the sake of solidarity and community. This is a beautiful urban jungle. Chicago. In addition, I resided in a humble, Chinese community, who minded their own business at all costs. Proper, stoic, harmonious, passive, and honor-oriented was the etiquette. No one cared about visual aesthetics. Money was highly valued; which was just a step down from the collective, familial priority that defined life itself. Food and cooking was our acquiesced pride and joy, though never boasted upon. Chinatown and Bridgeport. I come from a place that I call home; a place I am ready to return almost every day I am alive. Good thing the Lord has given me a sojourning spirit [and to that I'm indescribably grateful].
The Lord had written a story for me there, and he had continued to write a story for me in the western suburbs of Chicago. Culture-shock is what I would describe my initial experience. It was my first time entering into an environment completely new. Upon meeting anyone, I had no clue where they came from. Are my interests, their interests? Were the conversation topics going on at my home going to be transferred into these conversations? Would I fit in? Would I be included? I definitely looked differently from everyone here. White was most of what I saw; and it was indubitable that that was not my own colored-identity. A city-boy walking into a suburban majority campus. The only thing that we all really had in commonality was that we were all Christian, we all had a story to tell, and we all have yet to see the unwritten stories we would have there on the campus of Wheaton College. We were all starting anew. A blank slate. We were all open and ready to discover what was ahead. We would go on to create some of the most intimate friendships that we could ever imagine -- staying up because of 3am theological debates; dreaming with hefty visions that seemed far too remote to be realistic, but far closer than we had realized; talking about potential girls or guys we would ask on a date; and getting unacceptably unhealthy late-night snacks that our mind almost always said no to, but our body almost always said yes. Integrating into a majority white, Christian community was not as bad as I thought. The Lord made me culturally exposed, and in result, he made my world bigger and kept me living on the tip of my toes.
I live with a free spirit, being blown wherever the spirit might gently send me. The Lord is laying down his pen and further writing this story. From there, I moved to Budd Lake, New Jersey. Yet again, the Lord has brought me to the suburbs. The beautiful ever-changing leaves are upon me in the magical, wonderful, and breathtaking ubiquity of the woods here. The trees stand tall and enamor this place with a refreshing sense of solitude. I am away from the hustle and bustle of the densely packed streets. I am away from the cacophonous honks of the myriads of vehicles; the destination-set eyes of each person roaming the city-streets, not willing to stop for anything because of their cluttered schedules; the smell of coffee on almost every street corner; and the thousands of homeless persons fighting for the next meal only to be judged by the onlookers. 8 minutes to the closest grocery store. 20 minutes to the closest shopping center. Still have not found a coffeeshop. Buses do not exist. Hanging out means making an hour-long drive. There are more trees than there are people. Quiet. Even so, God has blessed me with church community which is the reason I have such an affection so dear to my heart for this place. People make places. And right now, I would not trade the world for where the Lord has guided me to in this present time.
When I arrived here, I had one unfortunate assumption. I thought I was ready because this kind of change was not unlike a change I had gone through before.
I am going into a place with a new community. Done that.
I am going to have a culture-shock because of the majority filipinos. Done that.
I am entering the suburbs. Done that.
I am entering into a new church community. Done that.
What could surprise me? Well. This place was a new community. But it was a new community of whom did not have unwritten stories. We did not share that commonality. I had an unwritten story here at Bible Church International, but many of the stories God has written in this community, have been going for pages and pages and pages. I was in a place where I had to integrate myself into a story already being written in that community. It wasn't like wheaton; a place with either unwritten stories, or stories only in the first or second chapter. This was my challenge. There were affinities between friends that I could not even comprehend. There were contentions between friends that were so deep in the hole that I could not speak into. There were memories shared between people that I had no business interfering with. There was so much history that I felt I was an outcast trying to fit in; and when I was included, it was like a favor an individual in the community would bestow upon me.
I've been sojourning for quite a bit of time, and I became so naive to think that I had gotten the whole formula mastered. It is not easy being a chameleon. Adjustment is not easy, because it isn't just about culture, and it isn't just about language, and it isn't just about present issues. Adjustment comes with it the entire drama; the entire narrative. It was not just because they were filipino or that they spoke tagalog or that they greeted each other with warmth and affection. It was that when they saw each other, they saw each other with the layers and layers of connotations. The dating histories. The histories of hurts and pains. The histories of forgiveness and redemption. The histories of bitterness and records of wrongs kept. The histories of mistakes and obduracy from the advice of another. The histories that make friendships what they have become, that make people into who they are, and that make communities into its intricate tapestry. Integrating is difficult; and being a chameleon can be gut-wrenching from moment to moment. And it really is not in my power to continue adjusting. I no longer feel so naive, or hopefully ever will, to think that I've mastered the formula of chameleonship.
I'm thankful that the Lord has included me into his divine narrative. I'm thankful that he has written for me my own narrative and have included me into the narrative of certain communities momentarily. And now, I am thankful to be included in the narrative of this place called Bible Church International, and this state called New Jersey. I am excited for his work, and I know that I can't force my way in aggressively if I am to affect change in this community, but I know that the Lord has a plan to gently include me into his craft of redemption in such a beautiful but broken place. Lord, teach me how to become a chameleon for Christ and his Church.
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