Tomorrow (8/28) marks five years since I was ordained as an Episcopal priest. I’m posting this today because Friday is my day off, and I’ve gotten pretty protective about unplugging from church stuff on Fridays.

The road to the Episcopal Church was not very conventional. Actually. Are there any “conventional” paths in following Christ’s call?

When I started the process of becoming Episcopalian, I knew very little about how any of this worked. From 2019 to 2021, I paid close attention to what my Episcopal colleagues around the country were doing. I felt like most of them were academically lightyears ahead of me. This is me calling the majority of my colleagues NEERRRDS!
But I tried to learn everything by the book.
Chiefly because (I wanted to say “Priestly” but I don’t think that’s the word in this context) I was entering a tradition that wasn’t mine yet, and I wanted to respect it. But also, if you’re going to break a rule, you should probably know what the rule is first.

Then Mosaic launched in September 2021. And I learned pretty quickly that planting a church requires a lot of flexibility. (That’s putting it mildly, btw.) Because there is the church as it exists in books and canons and rubrics and clergy conferences.

And then there are actual people.
People who don’t know what a collect is. (COLL-ect: the prayer of the day, except we gave it a fancy name and a pronunciation you can get wrong.)

People who don’t care what a collect is. (Again, COLL-ect, not cuh-LECT. The Episcopal Church welcomes you but we may silently judge your pronunciation.)

People who have been hurt by churches.

People who haven’t been inside a church in twenty years.

People who are curious about Jesus but deeply suspicious of Christianity.

People who might be willing to walk through the door, but aren’t looking for another institution to join.

One of the tensions I’ve been wrestling with lately is sermon series.
I asked for permission to occasionally step outside the Revised Common Lectionary during certain parts of the year to preach a sermon series, specifically that Mosaic receive permission to do a sermon series during Lent, Advent, and stewardship. The rest would follow the lectionary.

I wanted to do Lent and Advent so that we can do an all-church study during those seasons. Down the road, when we have enough small groups, I think it could be helpful for the Bible studies, Sunday school lessons, small group sessions, and sermon to all cover the same material. Everyone attending Mosaic during Lent and Advent would be hearing and studying the same thing.

Then for stewardship, let’s spend 3-4 Sundays on why stewardship is important so that we don’t get the very lame and uninspiring pitch of: “We can’t make ends meet, so if you want the lights to stay on, up your pledge.”
I wrote more about that here.

I was told no. (Oh, btw, we have to seek permission to deviate from the lectionary.)
And, look, I hope you can hear (read) that I get it; I understand the reasoning. And I respect the bishop’s decision.
The lectionary connects us to the larger Church. On any given Sunday, Episcopalians all over the country, along with Christians from many other traditions, are hearing and wrestling with many of the same passages.
It also forces preachers to encounter texts we wouldn’t necessarily choose for ourselves. There is something healthy about not getting to choose every text you preach. But I also think it’s possible to plan a sermon series responsibly.

A sermon series doesn’t have to mean deciding what you want to say and then finding a Bible verse that agrees with you. That’s just lazy preaching. And let’s be real: lectionary preachers can be lazy preachers, too. How many of y’all recycle the same sermon every three years?
You can build a series around a theological or pastoral question and still allow Scripture to challenge your assumptions. You can choose texts that complicate the theme instead of simply proving it. So my struggle isn’t really with the lectionary.

It’s with invitation.

At one of our recent diocesan conventions, our diocesan bishop, the Bishop Andy Doyle, talked about the importance of evangelism.
I’m with him 100%. But I also think we 100% need to reclaim this word. Because when Bishop Doyle and I talk about evangelism, we don’t mean cornering somebody at your local coffee shop asking, “Haaaavee you met Jesus? Because if you haven’t, you’re going to hell.”
Or holding people hostage when they’re already held hostage on a plane by standing up and preaching to everyone.
Man, sit me next to the babbling drunkard and the shrieking baby so I don’t have to listen to that sh… tuff.

I mean the much less terrifying version:
Come and see.
Come experience this community.
Come ask your questions.
Come encounter Jesus with us.
But one of the things we didn’t talk about (or, uh, if I’m honest, there’s a very good chance that Bishop Doyle addressed this and I wasn’t paying attention) is:
What exactly are we inviting people to?

When we invite somebody somewhere, there’s usually a reason.
“Come try this restaurant with me. Their food is incredible.”
“Come over Friday. We’ll open some wine and figure this thing out.”
“Come see this band with us.”
There’s something on the other side of the invitation.

But when it comes to church, we often say:
“Come to church with me.”
Okay. For what?
That invitation may work for someone already interested in attending a church.
I’m increasingly unconvinced that it works for everyone else. Especially now. Trust in churches isn’t exactly at an all-time high. (Thanks, Obama. Is that joke still relevant?)

There are people who might be curious about Jesus while having absolutely no interest in “going to church.” And that’s where I look at some of my Methodist and other non-Episcopal colleagues and realize they have a leg up on me. Their church members have something specific to invite their friends and loved ones to.

At a friend’s church plant, they were doing a sermon series on anxiety and worry and what we do with it. A lot of their church members had an in. He told me that a few of his folks came up to him and said, “My friend/coworker/family member is struggling with this. This is a great time to invite them to church.”
Sure enough, that first Sunday, a lot of newcomers came because they wanted to know how to navigate anxiety and worry as Christians in the world we live in today.

Do you see how much easier that invite gets?
Because let’s face it: inviting people to church is awkward to begin with.
It’s even more awkward for the pastor because our invitation is literally this:
“Hey, come watch me work for an hour and meet a bunch of my friends while they all watch me work.”
Instead of saying, “You should come to church sometime,”
We can now say, “Hey, my church is talking about anxiety and worry this month. You were telling me the other day how hard things have been. Want to come with me Sunday?”
That’s a different invitation.
Or:
“We’re talking about forgiveness.”
“We’re doing a series about faith and politics.” (Actually, maybe not this one. Although in 2028, you can do a sermon series on something like Jesus for President and break down what it means to follow Jesus during election season or whatever.)
“We’re spending the next month asking what Christians actually mean when we talk about loving our enemies.”

Suddenly there is something to invite someone to.
I’m not saying our people will automatically invite more people, OR that people will accept the invitation, but we’ve at least given them something to work with.

One of the bishop’s suggestions to my request was that instead of using these topics for sermon series, we could explore them during Christian formation.
That’s a great suggestion. If we want to spend four weeks talking about something like anxiety, forgiveness, or whatever else, there’s nothing stopping us from creating a class or small group around it.

But that brings me back to the same question: Who are we trying to reach?
And yes, we absolutely can create Christian formation classes around those things.
We can create small groups.
We can create additional programs.
But I’m not convinced that’s always the answer either.|People don’t attend church with the regularity they once did. According to Barna, even people who do attend church average only 1.6 Sundays a month. So then why would I follow the good old church tradition of creating more programs that aren’t necessary?
I don’t think the solution to the tension I’m feeling is: Let’s create another thing for them to attend.

Besides, for someone who doesn’t know us at all, a small group can actually be a much bigger ask.
“Would you like to come sit with eight Christians you’ve never met and discuss your spiritual life?”
Would you go to something like this? More power to you if you would. As for me and my family (well, not really. Don’t wanna speak on behalf of my family. I just wanted to use Joshua’s quote): Yeah, no. Hard pass.

Corporate worship offers something a small group can’t.
You can come through the door and sit in the back.
You can sing or not sing.
You can receive Communion or stay in your seat.
You can believe everything we’re saying, believe none of it, or still be trying to figure out what you believe.
You can participate without immediately belonging.
There’s room to gauge whether this is a safe place for you before making any sort of commitment.
There’s room to be anonymous.
There’s room to be curious.
There’s room to leave.
That’s one reason I still believe corporate worship is one of our most important doorways into discipleship. And a sermon series can be an entry point to that doorway.

That’s the tension I’ve been sitting with.
We’re telling churches to evangelize.
We’re telling church plants to reach people who aren’t already part of churches.
We’re telling our people to invite their friends and neighbors.

Church planting (especially in the Christian nationalism era) is not easy work; it’s like climbing a steep mountain.
I just sometimes feel like I’m being asked to climb it wearing Crocs with no grip. And I’m speaking from experience. Not climbing a mountain (with or without Crocs. I ain’t no Mother Abbess or Maria. I ain’t climbing every mountain or any mountain, for that matter). I meant the slippery Crocs.

The day I was leaving for Ohio for a conference, I was picking up some plane snacks at my local grocery store. As I was crossing the parking lot to get to my car, my Crocs completely gave way on the freshly rained-on ground. I ate it. But I fell slowly. Like, I took a few steps in place while falling. It happened while I was passing by a car, and I hoped that car had a dash cam and that someone would post my fall on the interwebs. The way I fell, I think it would’ve gone viral.

Five years ago, I was trying desperately to learn how to be Episcopal.
I wanted to know the liturgy.
The polity.
The theology.
The rules. The reasons behind the rules.
And I still care about all of those things.
Probably more than I did five years ago.
I love the Episcopal Church.
I’ve come to love and deeply appreciate our liturgy.
I love the lectionary, even when it gives me a Gospel reading I would happily throw directly into the sun.
I love being connected to something bigger than whatever happens to be going on at Mosaic on a particular Sunday.

But five years of priesthood, and seven years of planting this church, have taught me that sometimes the rules and structures that make perfect sense for an established church don’t make the same sense for a church plant.
That doesn’t mean tradition doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean every church planter should get to do whatever the hell they want.
It just means I think we should be able to ask whether the tools we’ve inherited are always the right tools for the work we’re being asked to do.

Because there are actual people on the other side of all of this.
People we’re trying to reach.
People we’re trying to invite.
People we’re hoping might encounter Jesus.

Sermon series are just one tool. They won’t work everywhere, and they won’t reach everyone. But neither will small groups. Neither will Christian formation. Neither will any single thing we try. That’s why I think church planters need access to as many tools as possible as we try to figure out what helps us connect with people who aren’t already connected to a church.

Because ultimately, I don’t care if that connection happens through a sermon series, a small group, a friend, seeing my ugly mug pop up on their screen, or because somebody promised them free food. I just want us to keep finding ways to connect with people who have no reason to connect with us. Because maybe that connection becomes an invitation. Maybe that invitation becomes community. Maybe that community becomes a safe place to ask questions.

And maybe, somewhere along the way, they encounter Jesus.

One of my favorite Episcopalians (and I don’t know why) is this Korean guy that happens to share the same name with me.
He consistently reminds me how bad of an Episcopalian I am and, because of him, I want to be the worst Episcopalian he knows.

He accuses me of having low sacramental theology. I think he thinks it’s an insult.
I don’t take it as an insult. It’s a badge of pride I wear in front of him now because I know how much it bothers him. Besides, why get offended over something that’s true?

God knows I’ll never win the Episcopalian of the Year — if such an award exists. And to be fair, the current and past holders of the title Episcopalian of the Year would most likely not want to do anything with me. Because I have an antagonizing personality and antagonizing Episcopal Priests have been fun.

As low of a sacramental theology I have (I didn’t even know you could have low sacramental theology until I was accused of having one), I cannot tell you how many times I have been deeply moved by the sacrament of the Eucharist.

In 2019, when I had to discern what do to next: do I get a secular job? do I take a year of absence? Or do I take this generous offer given to me by the Episcopal Church? I mean, re-reading this paragraph, it’s obvious what to do: Go with the guaranteed money!!
But during that time… I was really hesitant. I didn’t want to learn a new language of how to do church.
The UMC was the “devil” I knew. I didn’t want to learn how to play a whole new game.

Yet.

It was the only guaranteed job on the table. In the back and forth, my soon-to-be boss sent me a video and said, “watch this before you make any decision.”
And he sent me this of then Presiding Bishop Michael Curry:

I was watching this while walking around midnight. I was near my son’s elementary school when I finally clicked on the link. And I stopped moving. There may have been some tears sent.
That story of the Eucharist that Bishop Curry told moved me. I got a glimpse of what we can be working towards. I also had the option of starting this new community as a layperson if I didn’t want to go through another ordination process.

I really didn’t want to go through another ordination process. The UMC process had already put me through hell and back, and now I was being asked to start all over again. But, I knew that whatever I had the task of building had to be a sacramental community and that I should be the one administering the sacraments.
Then I attended my first ever Episcopal liturgy at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church in Pearland, our beloved sister church.
For thirty-nine years of my life, Welch’s Grape Juice — the unofficial sponsor of the United Methodist Church — was what was used.
Have you ever tasted something expecting one thing but then is blindsided by the actual taste?
39 years of Welch’s Grape Juice. Why would I expect anything else?

When I dipped my bread into the cup, and consumed the elements (Yes. There’s a mental barrier that prevents me from participating in the common cup), I was rocked by the wine. It came so unexpected. It sent shockwaves all throughout my body. I felt like it zapped me awake.
It was such a physical reaction that caught me off guard.
But that awakening feeling, it felt like a confirmation and an affirmation that I was walking towards the path God wanted me on.

I’m currently in Cincinnati, sitting at a coffee shop, not working on my sermon for Sunday.
On this past Sunday morning, I got to spend time with the Episcopalians. It was one of my first legit Episcopal liturgies. Lol. But Sunday evening, I got to spend time with Chapters, a worshipping community of Clifton UMC.
There’s something about Chapters that felt like home.
Their vibe was what Mosaic was like in the earlier days, something that we lost as we grew. And I’m not viewing this through the lens of: I wish I could go back to the time. It’s like looking at my 5’8”, 143 lbs son and wanting the days where I could carry him on my shoulders. Do I want to return to those days? Not really, because look at how beautiful my boy has grown, despite me.
It’s a nostalgic feeling where I look around and say, “I remember this phase. It was a fun phase. It was a nice phase. But look at how beautiful Mosaic has grown. Despite me.”

I had a message prepared, but I scrapped that and felt something pressing on my heart. And I think I made the absolute right choice of keeping my collar on and preaching my sermon. I think it carried more weight than me being Off the Collar (see what I did there?)

Then came time for communion.
Since July of 2019, it’s been nothing but wine in the cup. (Yes. I said cup. This is why I’ll never win the Episcopalian of the Year award.) Port Wine for us at Mosaic. That morning, I received communion twice with wine being in the communion cup.
I fully anticipated wine.
But instead, I got the familiar taste of Welch’s Grape Juice.
And that in of itself was jarring. But holy. And eye opening, once more reminding me of the presence of Christ amongst this group of people who could identify with the Canaanite Woman that not many could.

The funny thing is, both times, it was what I wasn’t expecting in the cup that got my attention. The wine wasn’t holy because it was wine. And the grape juice wasn’t somehow less holy because it wasn’t.
What made both moments holy was that somehow, through something as ordinary as bread and something poured into a cup, Christ got my attention.

In 2019, the wine welcomed me into something new. It felt like an invitation: There is room for you here.
Seven years later, the grape juice reminded me why I said yes in the first place.
Because there is room for you here.
And you.
And you too.

Maybe that’s why Rachel Held Evans’ description of the kingdom has stayed with me all these years: a bunch of outcasts and oddballs gathered around a table, not because they are rich or worthy or good, but because they are hungry, because they said yes.

And there’s always room for more.

I think that’s what my work, at least in this season, is really about.
Making sure people who have spent their lives wondering whether there’s a place for them know that there is.

There’s room at this table.
There’s room in this community.
There’s room in the kingdom of God.
There’s always room for more.

There was a lot of conversations and questions that’s not present here.
This was the manuscript to guide my part of the presentation.

Hi!
For those of you who are just joining us, my name is Joseph Yoo and I’m an Episcopal Priest that is also stubbornly Wesleyan.
And maybe much to the dismay of many of my colleagues, I think I’ll forever be stubborn Wesleyan, simply because I’ve been an Episcopalian for almost 7 years and a priest for 4. But, I was a Methodist for 39 years of my life.
Old habits - or rather old indoctrinations don’t die.

Read more

Here is the manuscript from this morning:

What does great faith look like?
In fact, in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus only describes someone’s faith as great twice.
the first is a Roman centurion.
The second is this woman.
And both are Gentiles; outsiders.
They are not disciples — they haven’t been following Jesus all this time.

Yet throughout Matthew, when Jesus talks about the faith of his own followers, he repeatedly calls it little faith.

Read more

Here’s a visual to go along with the opening story:

In October of 2015, I felt like I was at a crossroads.
Surprise, surprise, Joe is in trouble with the bishop, and the future seemed a bit shaky.

I felt stuck at my church.
It felt like I took them as far as I could go and I was getting restless.

In the meantime, I already got connected with the Texas Annual Conference, and they were ready and willing to accept our transfer. I didn’t know what to do.

Do I stay in CA?
Do we pack up our lives and travel to the foreign country, known as Texas?

During that time, we were doing a sermon series called Circle Maker based on the book of the same name — encouraging us to take risks; dream big; be history makers.

I had a crazy idea about dreaming big… and taking risks — taking a leap of faith.

Let’s go skydiving.

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It wasn’t until I was 27 years old that I learned what a stewardship campaign was.
I had just been appointed to my first non-Korean church as an associate pastor at a mid-sized congregation.

It’s been nearly twenty years since I’ve been part of a Korean church. I’m sure plenty has changed. At least... I hope plenty has changed. There was no such thing as a stewardship campaign in the Korean church. Korean pastors did not shy away from talking about money with parishioners. Sometimes, giving an offering was presented as the solution to whatever spiritual struggle you were facing.

On back of the bulletin, they would list the names of people who gave certain amounts.
You’d have the tier of folks who gave 1k-5k.
The next tier is those who gave over 5K.
The next tier is those who gave over 10k.
And so forth.

There’s a lot of respect and prestige that comes with being part of that top tier. And let’s be real, the Korean Immigrant church is as much of a social network as it is a worshipping community. Actually… can’t that be said about all faith communities?

So, there was no such thing as a stewardship campaign or a pledge card.
In fact, one of the closest things we had to a pledge card was coming to church on New Year’s Eve. As families received a personal blessing from the pastor, they would give a generous offering, all in hopes of starting the new year on the right foot. But it was cash in an envelope, not a pledge card.

I was intrigued. I’d never experienced a stewardship campaign before, so I figured I’d better learn quickly. After all, I had no plans of ever serving another Korean church. Seventeen years later, that’s still true. I honestly didn’t think I’d be away this long. But that’s another story.

At my first finance meeting, we talked about how we were about $55,000 short of the budget.
The funny thing?
My salary was $55,000.
So yea, I felt like this:

That Sunday morning, our finance chair kicked off the stewardship campaign with something like: “We’re about $60,000 short of our budget. If you want to help us keep the lights on and continue the ministries of this church, we invite you to prayerfully consider your pledge.”
I remember thinking, Is this how American churches try to raise money?
Who would be inspired by this?

Be honest.
How many of your churches approach stewardship this way?
Pastors, be even more honest.
How many of you have planned a stewardship campaign like this?
If you answered yes...
Why?

And I swear, if one of y’all comments “that’s the way we’ve always done it.” well… actually, I don’t know how I’d respond.

Here’s why:
Nobody wants to give to a dying organization.

“Hey, Joe. We never said we were dying.”
Maybe not. But when the first thing people hear is, “we’re short on money. Help us keep the lights on,” that’s exactly what many of them hear.

Churches in survival mode ask people to preserve the institution.
Churches on mission invite people to transform the world.
Proverbs says, “Where there is no vision, the people perish.”

The people most likely to respond to that appeal are the people who’ve been there forever. They’ve seen what the church has meant. They remember the good years. They already believe in it.
But imagine hearing that message on your third Sunday as a guest.

I get letters from Wesley Theological Seminary and University of Hawaii (my alma maters) for donations. Imagine opening the letter and reading,
Our institution is 5 million short of our operating budget.
Our enrollments been down and we are working really hard to make sure our doors stay open. So please give what you can.

Some people will give.
Most will not.

Universities understand something many churches seem to forget.
They don’t ask me to rescue the institution.
They invite me to invest in its future.
They tell me what students are accomplishing.
They tell me how lives are being changed.
They tell me where they’re headed over the next decade.
Then they ask me to help make that future possible.
That’s stewardship.

What is the vision of your church for the next 5 years?
If it’s “to keep our doors open”… well, that’s not a vision. That’s survival.
Churches aren’t called to survive. They’re called to bear fruit.
The tragedy is that many churches spend so much energy preserving what was that they have little energy left to imagine what could be. We keep doing the same things, hoping for different results.

The central story of the Christian faith is that resurrection comes after death, not instead of it.

We don’t worship preservation.
We worship resurrection.

Your congregation doesn’t need to know the line items.
That’s what the finance committee is for.
Instead,
Tell us what our generosity makes possible.
Tell us what we’re investing in.
Tell us where you believe God is leading this church.
Tell us how lives are being changed.
Tell us what we’ve accomplished together.
Tell us what could happen next.
Paint a vision and invite us into it.

Remember:
People don’t invest in budgets.
They invest in vision.

So don’t ask me to fund a budget.
Invite me to participate in what God is doing.

That’s stewardship.

You know, originally, Scripture didn’t have chapters and verses. You couldn’t say, “Turn to John 3:16.” And obviously there weren’t bold headings that said, Jesus Feeds the Five Thousand. Those were added centuries later.

The problem is, once we have chapters and verses, it’s easy to read one story by itself and miss the larger picture. Because we can simply turn to “The Feeding of the Five Thousand,” we can miss what Matthew is doing.
Matthew probably expected his Gospel to be read from beginning to end. One scene flowing naturally into the next, the way we’d watch a movie.

This story doesn’t begin with the breads and fish; but with a dinner party. begins Matthew places two tables side by side.
Two meals.
Two kingdoms.

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(I’m afraid only a handful of people will appreciate the title of this post. VIPs would, for sure.)

I’ve been thinking a lot about bread lately.
Mostly because last Sunday’s Gospel compared the Kingdom of God to yeast.

This Sunday’s Gospel is about bread again.
Five loaves this time.
While preparing my sermon, I realized I had two completely different ideas fighting for the same passage.
A coin decided which one got preached. This is the one that lost.

At the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, the Spirit drives him into the wilderness for 40 days. At the end of the 40 days, Jesus gets a visit from a little being that we’ll call Satan. …No biggie. (Matthew 4).
He’s hungry.
One of the first temptations Jesus faced was turning stone into bread.
And we know the outcome.

Not today, Satan! (Quite literally….)
Man does not live on bread alone. 

Now, 10 chapters later (Matthew 14 — and, no, I don’t know how many years have passed. I bet if I were a good student, I’d remember what I learned in seminary.) bread shows up again.

Only this time, Jesus isn’t the hungry one.
The crowd is.
Jesus doesn’t tell people that man does not live on bread alone.
By the way, I can’t help but think about how funny that scene would’ve been if the disciples were like, “Heeeeyyy Jesus. Sooooo yea… all the people here… we think all 5000 of them… huh? What? Oh… we were supposed to count the women and children? But why… anyway, at a minimum 5,000 of folks are on the verge of being hangry. So… what should we do?”
“Hah. You know what I told Satan himself? ‘Man does not live on bread alone!’”
Obviously, that’s not how Jesus responds (like, ever).

Maybe “bread” was never the issue.
Jesus’ ability was never brought into question.
The temptation wasn’t about whether Jesus could turn stones into bread. It was about why. 

Satan wasn’t simply inviting Jesus to eat.
He was inviting Jesus to become the kind of Messiah who would use God’s power primarily for himself.
Feed yourself.
Protect yourself.
Prove yourself.
And Jesus refuses.

But with the crowd, he blesses, breaks, and feeds.
Again. This isn’t really about “bread.”
It’s about how we use God’s gifts.
Do we use for self preservation or self-giving?

Throughout Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus consistently refuses to use his power for himself.
When Satan tells him to throw himself from the temple to prove God’s protection, he refuses.
When religious leaders demand miraculous signs to prove his authority, he refuses.
When people mock him at the cross and tell him to come down if he is truly God’s Son, he refuses.
Jesus never uses power to protect his reputation, make his life easier, or prove his identity.

Instead, he uses that same power to heal strangers.
To restore outcasts.
To calm frightened disciples.
To feed hungry crowds.
His power always flows outward.
That’s because Jesus already knows who he is.
He doesn’t need miracles to establish his identity.

Satan wanted Jesus to use miracles to prove he was the Son of God.
Jesus used miracles because he was the Son of God.

Now, most of us don’t have the power to multiply bread… or fish.
You know, if a genie were to grant me some wishes, one of the wishes I’d make is to have a $20 bill appear every time I snap my fingers.
Knowing me, I’d probably forget I made this wish while attending a poetry slam.
Let’s just say, drinks on me at the end of the night.

While we may not have superpowers, all of us have some sort of power at our command.
Time.
Money.
Knowledge.
Influence.
Citizenship.
Education.
A platform.
Experience.
A voice.

The question isn’t whether we have power.
The question is what our power is for.
Do we use it primarily to protect ourselves?
To accumulate more?
To prove something?

Or do we use it the way Jesus did?
To serve.
To lift others.
To feed the hungry in whatever form that hunger takes.

One of the things that wasn’t talked about enough growing up was that feeding the 5,000 wasn’t the only miracle.
Part of the miracle was to reveal what power looks like when it is surrendered to love. The kingdoms of this world often teach us that power exists to preserve itself.
Jesus teaches that power finds its highest purpose when it is poured out for someone else.

Perhaps that’s why the miracle begins the way it does.
Before Jesus breaks the bread, Matthew tells us that he looks toward heaven.
He doesn’t simply exercise power.
He receives before he gives.
He depends before he provides.
Even the Son of God refuses to live independently of the Father.
Perhaps that’s what makes Jesus unlike every ruler this world has ever known.
The powerful usually use power to secure themselves.
Jesus used power to give himself away.

Below is my sermon manuscript — as is (what I see on Sunday morning).
As you can see, I write everything out. Thankfully, my religion professor once criticized me saying, “you write the way you speak and the way you speak is incorrect.” I wrote about that here.

Anyway, there’s no real reason or purpose in sharing these.
Maybe you can use it 3 years from now, or if you don’t use the lectionary, use it for a future sermon. Or something you can use on how NOT to do something.
For me, I always loved people’s processes and the way they work and stuff.
This is the type of stuff I’d love to read and look into….

As always, thank you for your support.

Ads rarely sell item.
Shoe = motivation, Nike.
sell greatness.
Mosaic:

which is why, first church appointment - stewardship campaign.
electricity is not inspiring.
No one wants to give to a dying organization.

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Summer of 2002.
Junior at the University of Hawaii-Manoa.
Quarterfinals of the World Cup.
The games were on at odd hours but you bet we woke up to cheer on the team.
Spain vs. Korea (co-host nation).
Full 120 minutes played, score is 0-0. Penalty kicks (PKs).
Korea goes first.
Both Korea and Spain make their first 3 PKs.
Ahn Jung Hwan makes the 4th.
Joaquin of Spain walks up to take their 4th PK. Except this time, Lee Woon Jae blocks it. 4-3. If Korea makes it, they move on to the semifinals.
Hong Myung Bo, the team captain, walks up and nails the PK.

Korea becomes the first Asian team to make it to the semifinals in the World Cup.
Team Captain Hong was awarded the Bronze Ball of the 2002 World Cup which signified he was the 3rd best player of the entire tournament.
He’s the only Asian to this day ever to finish in the top 3 World Cup’s Golden Ball voting.
We lost to Germany 1-0 in the semifinals and ended up losing to Turkey to finish 4th overall in the 2002 World Cup.

That’s when I really started taking interest in soccer.
This was a great source of pride for us Koreans.
In fact, 3 to 4 years later, when I meet my father in-law for the first time, one of the first things he’ll say to me is, “You do know that our country finished 4th in the World Cup, right?”
I mean, obviously. Are you really a Korean if you don’t??? And no, I didn’t respond like that to my future father in-law.

But, I do wonder if it heavily hampered the growth of Korean football.
Instead of developing talent and growth, we’ve been chasing the high of 2002.
And it crashed spectacularly in this year’s World Cup.
So much so that the tournament ended with both KFA (Korean Football Association) president Chung Mong-gyu and Hong Myung-bo resigning.

My wife has asked me enough times what Hong was doing to pique my curiosity and do a mini dive into Korean football. Along with the people asking “Why is the Korean government getting involved in Korean soccer?”
And, the level of corruption can be described in only one word: Korean.

One of the successes of the 2002 squad was that they hired a non-Korean to coach the team, Guus Hiddink.
Guus had the autonomy to select his own players; drop established veterans; ignore politics — basically build the team to fit his tactical vision.
And right now you’re thinking, is that what a manager should do to begin with? Select the best players available?

Well, you see, KFA (and I’ll just focus on the KFA for this piece and not other organizations run by Koreans) operates like a good old boys club. The Korean manager would select the best players from the schools he went to/affiliated with. Not the best players available in the country, but the best players available that are within his affiliation. Okay, to be fair, there’s no public evidence to support this claim, but things have happened for this perception to have existed for decades.

For many Korean fans, that’s only the final chapter of a story that has been building for years. The frustration is directed less at one coach and more at the KFA.
The accusations are generally not of criminal corruption, but of cronyism, favoritism, lack of transparency, and resistance to outside voices.

Hong’s first tenure was in 2014.
Why not hire Hong, one of Korea’s greatest players?
But his first World Cup ended disastrously. Korea finished last in its group and Hong resigned afterward. But instead of moving on from KFA, he remained in senior roles.

Then, in 2022, the KFA hired the German Klinsmann, which was also a controversial hire because many questioned his commitment to living in Korea and developing the national program.
Results were disappointing.
Klinsmann was fired.

The KFA launched a worldwide search for the next skipper of the Korean National Football Team.

Jesse Marsch was one of the leading candidates. He ended up leading Canada to the Round of 16. He might’ve been a great fit for Korea but we’ll never know.

Hong did not participate in the interview process. Instead, the KFA Technical Director allegedly met Hong privately near his home to persuade him to accept the job.

Former national team player Park Joo-ho, who served on the coaching selection committee, later publicly criticized the process and suggested committee members were largely bypassed.

You know how in the NFL they have the “Rooney Rule,” where NFL teams must interview candidates of color during its hiring process of their head coach? Except, teams already know who they’re gonna hire and they’ll just interview a minority candidate whom they have no intentions of hiring to play the game. Well, it kinda seems like this was what happened. KFA had no plans to hire anyone else but Hong. So, already, this year’s World Cup had a rocky start because Hong’s last World Cup stint ended in last place.

But.
BUT.
This year’s squad is the best team on paper in our history.
You have Son Heung-Min, the GOAT Asian Footballer. Yes, he’s nearing the end of his prime, but he still can ball.

Then you have Kim Min-Jae of Bayern Munich, a solid defender that can defend with the best in Europe.

We have Lee Kang-In of Paris Saint-Germain — a Champions League winner, albeit spent most of the run on the bench. But being on that squad is a vote of confidence for his skills.

Then there’s Hwang Hee-Chan, of the Wolverhampton Wanderers, an established attacker in the Premier League.

This team had 20 of its 26 players playing abroad, the highest percentage of overseas-based players on the national team.

So, as always, there’s hope.
Would we go deep in the Cup? Mmmmm… maybe.
But with Mexico, Czechia, and South Africa as our group, the hope of advancing out of the group play was high. Expected, even. Mexico was really the sole big threat of this group.

But Hong didn’t use this team to the best of its abilities.
He committed to a 3-4-3 formation. There’s nothing inherently wrong with a 3-4-3. In fact, when you have the right personnel, it can be devastating.
The problem was that Korea didn’t.
That system depends heavily on attacking wingbacks, players who can defend one minute, bomb down the sidelines the next, and still have enough energy to track back. They’re arguably the most important players in the formation.

Korea’s squad wasn’t built that way.

Our wingbacks were natural fullbacks. Solid defenders, but not the type of players who thrive in those advanced roles.
The result was predictable. Korea struggled to create width, the midfield became isolated, and possession often turned into long stretches of passing with very little threat. We usually finished with more of the ball. Which sounds impressive until you remember that possession isn’t the objective. Goals are.

The system also put tremendous pressure on central midfielders Hwang In-beom and Baek Seung-ho, asking them to cover enormous amounts of ground while trying to connect the defense and attack. Too often, they were outnumbered, and Korea lost control of the middle of the pitch.

Even Son Heung-min never looked quite like himself.
When your tactics force your best players to play outside their strengths, the problem usually isn’t the players.
It’s the tactics.

Son Heung-min wasn’t used properly.
Sonny is one of the most dangerous players in the world when he’s running into space. Give him room to attack a back line and he’ll punish you. That’s been his game for nearly a decade in the Premier League.

But Korea rarely played that way. We dominated possession, slowly worked the ball around packed defenses, and asked Son to create magic against ten defenders already behind the ball. That’s simply not where he’s at his best.

When your greatest player suddenly looks ordinary, maybe the problem isn’t the player.

And then came the benching of Son in the first half of a must-win game vs South Africa. Remember, at this point Korea was fully in control of their destiny. They had to win to get in. And South Africa was a beatable team.

Hong later said that he was hoping that Son would be fresh while the defense would have tired legs in the second half.
It’s easy (well, easier, if you’re a rational, sane sports fan) to excuse mistakes, as boneheaded as they may be, during the game.
You know, like how JR Smith ruined the best game LeBron James ever played. All he had to do was call a timeout but he thought they were in the lead (they were not, the game was tied) and let the clock run out. The game went to overtime, where Cleveland lost and would go on to lose the championship to the Warriors.

This generation of NBA fans saw their version of the JR Smith boneheaded mistake when De’Aaron Fox tried to go for a lay up with the lead and less than 20 seconds to play. All he had to do was hold on to the ball. He would’ve been fouled and more time would have run off the clock. IInstead, he tried to be the hero, went for a layup, got blocked, and it led to the go-ahead bucket for the Knicks and the Spurs would eventually concede the championship to the New York Knickerbockers.

Just today (at the time of writing this), I witnessed Norway basically give away the game because someone else wanted to be Haaland.
You have one of the most elite strikers in the world on your squad.
He’s just a physical specimen. a Viking if you will.
He’s in the race for the most goals this World Cup.
So the question is:
How the hell do you not f#!%ing pass the ball to Haaland?

Anyway, I make bigger boneheaded mistakes with less on the line, you know?
But this wasn’t a middle-of-the-game decision.
This was a strategy. And a horrible one at that.

If I’m a coach and I have a player like Sonny on my team — a once-in-a-generation player for Korea — I’m going to ride him until he has no legs. Fair? To Sonny, absolutely not.
But you play to win the game.
And players like Sonny would rather be run to the ground than sit on the bench.

After the defeat, Hong admitted that if he had known the result, he would have made a different decision. (in the words of my 8th grade self, no shit Sherlock.)

But also, head scratching-ly… in the second half, Hong subbed out Kim Min-Jae.
Sonny might be the heart of the team and the captain.
Kim is the heart of the defense and he carries the team when Sonny’s not on the pitch. Taking Kim out made as much sense as leaving Sonny on the bench in the first half. But, we should’ve seen this coming, no?
Korea lost to Austria and Ivory Coast leading up to the Games, games Korea should’ve won, easily. (they lost 0-4 to Ivory Coast).

This was absolutely a failure for the coaching staff and the governing body of KFA. The tactics didn’t fit the players.
He didn’t utilize the best players to the best of their abilities.
With the most talented squad to date, he created a system that neutralized them.

Where do we even begin to talk about the shortcoming of the KFA?
I ain’t got the time nor the patience. But, Hong isn’t the whole story.
The bigger question is why he was there in the first place. If Hong had gone through a transparent hiring process and simply failed, that would be one thing.
Coaches fail. It’s the nature of the game.
Even the best managers in the world get tactics wrong.
But that’s not why so many Korean fans are angry. They’re angry because they watched the KFA announce a worldwide search.
They watched qualified candidates emerge. Only to be bypassed.
Then they watched the job go to someone who was already part of the establishment — someone who was not successful in his first stint as the coach.

Guus Hiddink can be an example of what Korean football could look like when managers and players are chosen out of merit instead of relationships.
When tactics came before politics.
When the goal is simply to build the best team possible.
But this kinda shortcoming isn’t just reserved for national football teams.

It happens in the local church.
The local church: where creativity and innovation go to die (unless you do them the way we’ve always done them).

One of the most innovative seasons of the Church in my lifetime was the pandemic shut down. We all had to scramble. There was no longer a box of: “we’ve never done it that way before” because everyone was on the same playing field: we were all forced into a situation none of us had been in before. We had no idea how to react (or act… and I don’t think we Americans really recovered).
So churches innovated.
Churches that treated modern technology like the Devil’s tools now had to embrace Satan’s screens, powerpoint, cameras, microphones.
We all became influencers of sorts, except most of us didn’t end our liturgy with “smash the like button and don’t forget to subscribe.”
But once the shutdown was lifted, most of the churches that were innovative for the first time in decades reverted to their pre-COVID selves really quick.
Almost like, “Oh thank God this is over. We can go back to how everything used to be.” Which… for many churches was picking up right where we left off in our decline.

That’s the dirty, not-so-well-kept secret of institutions: Institutions exist to keep themselves alive.
Not intentionally. Not maliciously. But over time, the mission slowly gets replaced by maintenance.

When we stop asking, “Why do we exist?” and start asking, “How do we preserve what we already have?” That’s when creativity becomes risky.
Innovation becomes threatening.
Familiarity becomes a virtue.
Outside voices become problems to solve (or ignore) instead of people to hear.
And eventually, protecting the institution becomes more important than fulfilling the purpose for which it was created.

I think we’ve all belonged to institutions like that.
Which is why questions matter. Especially uncomfortable ones.
“Why do we do this?”
“Why do we do it this way?”
“Is this still helping us accomplish our mission?”

Institutions rarely die all at once.
They die one “We’ve always done it this way” at a time.

Maybe the healthiest institutions aren’t the ones with all the answers.
They’re the ones that never stop asking why.

Note: This is the direct manuscript from the sermon this morning:

Every time we read this parable, the question becomes:
“Which soil are you?”
The hard soil represents the person whose heart has become closed off to God.
The rocky soil is the one whose faith springs up quickly but disappears just as fast when life gets difficult.
The thorny soil is the person whose faith gets choked out by worry, wealth, success, or simply the busyness of life.
And the good soil...
Well, that’s who we’re all supposed to be.
The problem is, most of us don’t feel like we’re the good soil.
So this parable often leaves us feeling less hopeful and more guilty.
Less encouraged than anxious.

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Good leadership is disappointing people at a rate they can handle.
I’ve joked about this quote many times. And I fully believe it’s true.
To think that no one will ever be disappointed by me requires an ego and a confidence that even I don’t have.
There have only been a handful of times that I’ve been disappointed at a rate I couldn’t handle. The kind of disappointment you never quite bounce back from.

Once, my church and I were in hot water with the Mothership.
It was just months of back and forth.
We were getting frustrated because the things we needed, like needed to continue functioning, were taking forever. Even by church standards.
From our perspective, those documents should’ve been an “attach file to email and send” kind of task.
But, for whatever reason, we kept getting the runaround.
Which was rich.
Because had the roles been reversed, meaning if we took as long as they did to follow through on their requests, I would’ve been sent straight to the principal’s office.
But that’s the dynamic of power, no?

One of the most frustrating parts of that season was how slow they were to respond to our emails. They’d keep handing us off to someone else.
“Oh, this department will have your documents.”
“Oh, this other person in this department will have the answers.”
Once, the person we were handed off to replied to our initial email and said they’d get right back to us.
They didn’t.
Four weeks went by.
By the fourth week, I was emailing every other day because, remember, we needed these documents and information to continue functioning.
Finally, someone else responded.
“They’re on vacation.”

Friends.
This isn’t a local parish where sweet, gentle, 75-year-old Barb is running the front desk. Even then, it’d still be unprofessional. Sweet Gentle Barb would never.
Have you ever encountered the retired ladies who run the front desk?
They’re sweet... but you still don’t want to mess with them, you know?

Well, this fight culminated with a leaked email, of sorts.
Someone from the Mothership forwarded an email to me and my lay leader regarding the situation from one of the higher-ups whom we’ll call the Mission Commander, or MC for short.
In the very last line of that forwarded email, the MC took a cheap shot at my lay leader.
The person forwarding the email, whether intentionally or unintentionally, forwarded us the entire thread.
I mean, the least they could’ve done was delete that last unprofessional jab at a lay person.
I’ve never felt my blood rise as fast as it did.
But before I could react, my lay leader called me.
I could feel the heat coming through the phone.
Who could blame them?
All they were doing was helping make sure our local parish had all our ducks in a row so we could continue operating.
And in return, they got insulted by the Mission Commander.
An ordained member of the clergy.

About two years from now, I might be in a better place to share more openly about this particular season of my life and ministry. (I give myself a self-imposed moratorium before writing about painful church experiences. It helps me write with perspective instead of reaction.)

As you could imagine, navigating those waters wasn’t much fun. The storm eventually passed. And like all storms, there was a lot to clean up afterward.
But the worst of this storm was over.

Ironically, before all of this went down, the MC was already scheduled to come worship with us.
I first checked with my lay leader and asked how they felt about the upcoming Sunday.
I told them they didn’t need to come that week.
Or, if they’d rather still be there, we could reschedule the MC’s visit or cancel it altogether. They assured me none of that would be necessary.

So then I checked with the MC and gave them the same out.
They insisted everything would be fine.

So the appointed Sunday rolled around.

Now, the next part... I understand it’s a bit unfair because I’m assessing, hell, let’s call it what it is, I’m judging, based on what I’d do in this situation.

“Titles are just opportunities to serve.”
I can’t remember who said that, but it’s been stuck with me ever since.
I think it resonated with me because of how Koreans often defer reverence and respect simply because of someone’s title.
Unfortunately, I’ve got too much American in me.
I’ll play the game.
I’ll be respectful.
I’ll be cordial.
But I’m not going to defer simply because you’re my elder, especially when you’re in the wrong.
And yes, I think there’s a difference between being respectful and respecting someone. I just don’t possess the words to explain that difference yet.

I have higher expectations of how I carry myself than I do of a lay member.
I know if I messed up, I’d apologize.
Granted, maybe not right away. Ego? I don’t know.
Sometimes it takes a few minutes for it to settle in that... oops. That was my bad.

I had a falling out with a superior near the end of seminary.
You’ll have to take my word for it. I pissed him off for good reasons.
Then he proceeded to gaslight me by saying I flipped him off as I was leaving.

Which puzzled me.
If I were angry enough to flip someone off, I’d make sure they knew they were being flipped off.

But after I moved back to Hawaii, it kept eating at me. Because I didn’t like how things ended. So I sent him a long letter apologizing for my part in the fallout. I never heard back. I never expected to.

There’s a fixer inside of me.
My first instinct is to fix things.
Sometimes that means I’ve offered two apologies.
The first was rushed and instinctive, hoping to smooth things over.
The second came after I’d had time to process everything. That was the apology they deserved.

Now, if I were in the role of, say, a District Superintendent, someone who worked within the Mothership, and I unprofessionally insulted a lay member of a church within my jurisdiction...
I know, and I’m not saying this just for the sake of saying it...
I know myself. I’d walk over to that person. I’d apologize for my unprofessional behavior. I’d assure them something like that would never happen again.
So that’s what I was expecting the MC to do. And perhaps that’s not fair.
Perhaps it’s unfair to expect someone else to do what I would do.

The MC came a bit early and we caught up.
The folks serving that morning started to trickle in.
The MC was in conversation with one of our staff members when my lay leader walked into the room.

Hey, listen. I know I’m an instigator. It’s a defect in my factory settings.
To be fair, I was greeting everyone by name as they walked in, so I wasn’t doing anything I wasn’t already doing.
But when my lay leader walked in, I was definitely louder than I had been with everyone else.
“HEY LAY PERSON! SO GOOD TO SEE YOU THIS MORNING!”
At least that way, the MC knew they were there and could act accordingly.
Instead, the MC walked in the complete opposite direction.

Service ended.
To me, it seemed obvious the MC was avoiding my lay leader.
Wherever my lay leader was, you could bet your last dollar the MC would be somewhere else.

Before leaving, my lay leader came over to me.
I asked if they were okay.
They said they were doing great.
Then they smiled and said, “Pray for me, Pastor. I’m going over to talk to my ‘enemy.’ Air quotes included.

I quietly drifted a little closer. I had no idea what was about to happen. And just in case something started brewing, I was at least close enough to attempt to squash it.

But my lay leader walked over to the MC.
My lay leader apologized first for their outburst.
The MC nodded graciously and simply replied,
“Thank you. And I’m sorry, too.”
That was it.

And that disappointment was too fast for me to handle.

I’ve had enough distance now to question my own reaction.
Was I expecting too much?
Maybe.
I know enough about life now to know that I don’t know what I don’t know.
I don’t know what conversations happened before or after that Sunday.
I don’t know what pressures the MC was under.
I don’t know what they regretted or didn’t regret.
And I’d rather leave those questions unanswered than invent answers that happen to support my side of the story.

Still...
There are some things I do know.
I know what I witnessed.
I watched a lay person model the kind of leadership I had hoped to see that day.

Maybe there were reasons things unfolded the way they did.
Maybe there weren’t.
I honestly don’t know.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that leadership should have looked different in that moment.

It got me wondering if I’ve misunderstood that old leadership quote all these years.“Good leadership is disappointing people at a rate they can handle.”

Maybe that’s only half true.
Because disappointment, by itself, isn’t usually what breaks relationships.
People can survive disappointment.
They can survive bad decisions.
Miscommunication.
Missed expectations.
Even failure.

Every leader disappoints people eventually.
Every single one.
The longer you’re entrusted with leading people, the more inevitable it becomes.

Maybe what people can’t handle isn’t the disappointment itself.
Maybe it’s disappointment without repair.
Maybe what becomes unbearable is the silence afterward.
The distance.
The sense that saving face became more important than preserving a relationship.

Perhaps that’s why apologies matter so much.
Because they acknowledge that harm was done.
Because they create the possibility of repair.
Because they communicate something every leader should want the people they lead to know: You matter more to me than my pride.

I’ve come to believe that’s one of the quiet responsibilities of leadership.
Not avoiding every mistake. That’s impossible.
But when the opportunity for repair presents itself, having the courage to take the first step.

And maybe that’s why that Sunday has stayed with me for so long. Because it made me wonder whether the true test of leadership isn’t how we disappoint people.
Maybe it’s whether we’re willing to walk toward the people we’ve disappointed.

(This was my presentation at the Episcopal Church’s Korean Convocation 2026. Also, Second Generation is a catch-all phrase for anyone who’s not First Generation.)

First, thank you for inviting me to be with you tonight.
When Joseph (note: Not me. Just wanted to clarify that I didn’t start talking in 3rd person for no apparent reason) asked me to share about growing up Korean American, my first reaction was honestly, “Why me?”
There are people who speak Korean better than I do.
There are people who know Korean history better than I do.
There are people who have spent far more time thinking and writing about Korean American identity.
But maybe that’s precisely why I’m here.
Because my entire life has been shaped by feeling like I never quite fit anywhere.

I was born in Korea and immigrated to the United States when I was six years old.
I don’t remember much about Korea itself.
So I don’t really know where home is. Who are my people?
Because I was
Too Korean for many Americans.
Too American for many Koreans.
Was definitely living in the hyphen of Korean-American

For a long time I thought that hyphen was a problem I needed to solve.
Now I’m beginning to think it may have been one of God’s greatest gifts.

Before I continue, though, I want to begin with gratitude.
Everything I have is because of the first generation.
Because of people like my parents.
Like many of you.
You crossed an ocean.
You left family. Friends. Language. Careers. Familiar streets. Familiar food.
You left a country because you believed your children could have opportunities you never had.

I will never fully understand what that cost you.
I don’t think my generation can.
Thank you.
Truly.

I stand here because you sacrificed.

But every gift comes with its own burden.
My parents crossed an ocean.
My generation crossed a culture.
Those aren’t the same journey, but they both involve loss.

Many of us grew up learning English faster than our parents.
Sometimes we translated at doctor’s appointments. (Some of us, like me, still do.)
Sometimes we filled out paperwork.
Sometimes we explained America to our parents.
Sometimes we tried to explain our parents to America.
And sometimes...
we weren’t entirely sure who was explaining us.
We were told to succeed in America.
But don’t become too American.
Hold on to Korean culture.
But fit into American culture.
Honor your parents.
But also learn to think independently.
Speak English well.
Don’t lose your Korean.

Sometimes it felt like we were being asked to stand with one foot in each world.
That often lead to days where it felt like we didn’t belong to either world.

I think many second-generation Korean Americans carry a quiet grief — the grief due to loving two cultures that always didn’t know what to do with each other; cultures whose values often clashed with each other.
As I reluctantly heeded my call to ministry, I thought maybe working in Korean churches would solve some of that tension.

Instead… I discovered the hyphen followed me there too.
During my years in the Methodist Church, I wasn’t progressive enough for some people.
I also wasn’t conservative enough for others.
I’ve been an Episcopalian for 6 years, and a priest for 5.
And I know I’m not Episcopalian enough for many. (And I hope it stays that way, haha)

So I’ve just accepted that disappointing everyone equally might actually be a spiritual gift. And really, good leadership is disappointing people at a rate they can handle.

It wasn’t until well into my 30’s, I eventually realized something.
Maybe my calling was never to fit neatly into one tribe.
Maybe my calling was to build bridges between tribes.

In the Korean United Methodist Church, there’s a Korean-American convocation, which is now called Nexus but before it was called the Transgenerational Korean Convocation (TG) — which is based out of Wesley Theological Seminary in DC.

One of the reasons of its existence was to address the massive exodus of Second Gen (and beyond) Korean American pastors leaving the first-gen korean churches.
The Korean Church had this huge gap where the children of the first gen church members had no one to shepherd them.
They couldn’t bring a Korean JUNDOSANIM because they’d be far too korean for the kids.
Many resist hiring a non-Korean because… well, there are many reasons why.

So, the TG started gathering donations to offer scholarships to second gen Koreans who are wanting to be pastors,
They gave us full rides to seminary.
It was a generous commitment to invest in the next generation.
I do not question the sincerity and generosity behind their vision.
I think people genuinely loved the Korean church and wanted to preserve something precious.
However, I always wondered if they’re trying to answer the wrong question.
Because the stipulation that came with the full ride was that you have to serve in a Korean church for 3 years after graduation.

That answered the question of: “how do we keep second-generation pastors?” by saying ‘give them money in exchange for service.’

But that’s a surface level question; that’s a question that offers a band-aid to a severed arm.
The question that was ignored was and is: WHY is the next generation leaving?
Which to me… seems very on brand.
Instead of asking why so many second-generation pastors felt unheard...
Instead of asking what kind of ministry culture was pushing people away...
Instead of having those difficult conversations...… the first gen threw money at us, figuring that would be enough.

They often saw us as becoming too American. What they didn't always realize was that they had faithfully preserved the Korea they left. Korea itself had continued changing. We weren't simply drifting apart. We were being shaped by different histories.

But instead of addressing the issues; instead of taking ownership of the fault that they carry also; they swept all that under the rug and hoped that giving us a full ride would be enough.

I’m grateful for my scholarship and that I don’t have any seminary debt.
But I never fulfilled my 3 years of the scholarship.
In fact, TG kinda expects you to be the typical korean-american and drag your feet through ordination because, once you get ordained, you don’t really have a choice of where to serve as a Methodist. I got ordained quicker than my peers, and therefore my obligation was to my bishop. Which… you know… either they didn’t think it through, or they have a low thought of us in our pursuit of ordination.

This is criticism, yes.
But it’s also grief.
I love my people.
I love how my people worship — when they’re not in an episcopal church.
The Korean church taught me to pray.
It taught me Scripture.
It gave me opportunities to preach.
It introduced me to Jesus.
I wouldn’t be standing here without it.

Love tells the truth. And one truth is that many of my generation quietly disappeared.
They never stopped loving Jesus.
Many didn’t know how to stay without becoming someone they weren’t.

But. The older I get, the less interested I am in deciding whose fault all of this was.
I’m much more interested in understanding why. Because I don’t think anyone set out trying to push the next generation away.
I think the first generation was trying to preserve something beautiful.
Our way of life; our language; our culture; our community; the faith that had carried them across an ocean.
Those are good things.
The problem wasn’t that we wanted different things.
The problem was that we were asking different questions.

Perhaps, the first generation was asking,
“How do we preserve what we’ve been given?”
And perhaps, the second generation was asking, “How do we become who God is calling us to be?”
Those aren’t opposing questions. But they are different questions.
And sometimes we answered one while never hearing the other.

At my age now, I’ve started understanding my parents in ways I couldn’t when I was younger.
When I was younger, I kept asking, “Why don’t they understand me?”
Now I find myself asking,
“How lonely must immigration have been?”
To leave everything familiar. To struggle with a new language. To work jobs beneath your education. To wonder if your children will someday forget where they came from.

My parents crossed an ocean.
My generation crossed a culture.
My son will probably cross something else.

Every generation crosses something.
Every generation loses something.
Every generation has something to teach the next.

For years I wanted to get rid of the hyphen.
I wanted to choose.
Korean or American.
Traditional or contemporary.
Methodist or Episcopalian.
Conservative or progressive.

I wanted to belong completely somewhere. But maybe I was asking the wrong question.
Maybe the goal was never to get rid of the hyphen.
Maybe the hyphen has always been holy ground.

After all...
our faith begins with a family leaving home.
It continues with a people wandering in the wilderness.
It tells the story of exiles longing for home.
It reaches its climax in a Savior who had nowhere to lay his head.
And it describes the Church as pilgrims and strangers.

Maybe our faith has always belonged to people who live in-between.

So my hope for the Korean church isn’t simply that the first generation understands the second. Or that the second understands the first.
My hope is that together we become the kind of church where no one feels like they have to stop being who God created them to be in order to belong.

Because that’s what the gospel has always done.
It doesn’t erase our stories. It redeems them.
Maybe that’s what I’ve been searching for all these years.

Not a life without the hyphen.
But a church that knows how to live faithfully within it.

Thank you.

I finished my first semester of seminary and the first season of my first church job where my dad wasn’t the pastor.
The semester and 2003 ended on a fairly sour note.
I had gotten myself into a bit of trouble at church.
It was mainly out of my naivety that I found myself in hot water.
Basically, ministry isn’t a one-size-fits-all.
While on paper it may seem like a good idea to treat everyone the same way, in reality, people receive things differently. What may be okay for one person might be offensive to another. And vice versa.

That cloud was hanging over me all break.

The respite that was supposed to be refreshing was instead a heavy season of sunshine and beaches. (I lived in Hawaii. It was a nice break leaving DC’s winter to come home to Hawaii’s “winter.”)
I wanted to go back and I didn’t want to go back.
I wanted to go back to make things right.
I didn’t want to go back because I didn’t want to confront this.
How one can desire two opposite things is a factory default in us humans.
Regardless of how I felt, I had to go back.
I had five more semesters to go. Duty called.
Weather is relative because I most likely left the blaring highs of Hawaii’s upper 70s for the actual winter of the East Coast.

When I checked in at church, the EM pastor greeted me and introduced me to their new children’s pastor, who was also starting her first semester of seminary.
We exchanged hellos and names, and then she started asking questions like she was interviewing me.
“What do you plan to do after seminary?”
“Do you have a 5-year plan? A 10-year plan?”
And so forth.
I don’t think she even gave me enough time to answer a question before moving on to the next one.
After being drilled about future plans I didn’t have, I went to see what work I needed to catch up on.
But I do remember thinking she was pretty. A bit crazy, maybe. But definitely pretty.

The next few weeks, we’d spend a lot of time together.
We had the same schedule, both school- and work-wise. We’d often commute to church together since we had to be there at the same time.
We’d often go out for dinner together. Sometimes just the two of us. Sometimes with a group of friends because, you see, the last call for dinner in the cafeteria was 5:30 p.m. FIVE. THIRTY. PEE. EM.

While the seminary was heavily recruiting students straight out of undergrad, they didn’t do much to reflect the habits of 20-somethings on their campus.
Dinner at 5:30? C’mon.
Hopefully, since the 20 years since we graduated, they’ve done more to cater to the students living on campus. 5:30 p.m. Psh.

She was the person I spent most of my time with since the new semester started.
And one day, I decided to shoot my shot.
I asked her to dinner and a movie, the movie being 50 First Dates.
She said, “Let’s go.”
Great, I thought. Our first date.
We showed up to the restaurant, only to find our mutual friend, “Dave,” waiting for us.

Oh.
Not a first date.

Way later in the future, she’d argue that it wasn’t a date because I never said the word “date.”
I’d respond, “Dinner and a movie implies that it’s a date.”
She’d counter, “We went to dinners and movies all the time. How was I supposed to know this was any different?”
We’ll just always agree to disagree.

About a year or so in, I knew this one should go the distance.
I’d never shopped for a ring before. I didn’t know how this worked or where to even go. And because I’m an advertiser’s dream, I went to Jared’s because all I could think of was “he went to Jared’s.” Only, I was in there for 10 minutes and no one came to help me.

I said, screw this, and left. Probably some kind of divine providence.
Instead, I found a well-rated local jewelry store and purchased the ring.
And yes, it did cost me three months of my measly part-time salary at a Korean church.
Part-time church salary is already a code word for: underpaid. Add “Korean” to it and it means: indentured servant.

Now there was only one problem.

I had no idea where to hide the ring.
You see, the seminary was still figuring out how to adjust to students living on campus 24/7. Seminary was usually set up for commuters because most folks were second-career folks.
So the school lumped the five of us into what used to be the president’s house. (Of the seminary, not of the nation. That’d be the White House.)
I shared a room with an international student.
Then we had another male student who had his own room. He was always emo.
And then the primary room was taken by my then-girlfriend and her roommate.
There was one extra room downstairs that no one used. So I took it, giving my roommate his own room.
The only downside was that I didn’t have my own shower. So I’d have to “sneak” (because he was already sleeping) into his (our) room to take a shower.
All this to say, we were always hanging out.

Oh. Forgot to mention this key part.
Her car had gotten rear-ended and it was considered a total loss. But because we were always together, she didn’t need her car. We were always commuting together, and when she needed to be somewhere, she could take my car.

Okay.
So, I have the ring.
I need to hide the evidence. Hiding the ring was easy. Pocket. Dresser. A drawer somewhere in my room. However, I knew that she was going to be downstairs waiting for me... sooooo...
I couldn’t take the bag and paperwork with me.
It was too obvious if I hid it on my person.
If only I had brought my backpack with me then.

See, my ultimate plan was to propose during the summer.
My brother was going to visit and we had made plans to go to Ocean City, and my goal was to propose to her on the boardwalk with my brother’s help.
I didn’t have the specifics yet, but that was the general plan.

Anyhoo, I put the paperwork (receipts and such) in the glove compartment.
I stuffed the bag with the name of the jewelry store underneath the driver’s seat from the back.
Problem solved, right?
W.R.O.N.G.

Well.

She was borrowing my car one day and had to make a sudden stop or something and spilled her Diet Coke all over the car. She always kept napkins in the glove compartment (and still does). I never kept anything in the glove compartment except the things the car came with.
Naturally, she reached for the glove compartment to retrieve some napkins to clean up the mess when she saw a yellow paper that had some revealing information.
Then she had to clean parts of the back of the car only to find a bag with the name of a jewelry store.

Listen.
Hindsight and all...
Yes, I realize that hiding stuff in the car that we shared was not the brightest of moves.
HOWEVER.
However.

If this were to happen to me... if I had accidentally stumbled upon something that looked like it’d be a surprise... I would’ve kept my mouth shut and seen how this all played out.

But noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo...

That’s not how she rolls.
As soon as she got back, she said to me, “I think I saw something in your car that I wasn’t supposed to see.”
It’d been a few weeks since I bought the ring, so I had no idea what she was referring to.
“There’s nothing in the car that’s... like something you can’t see.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well, I spilled Diet Coke in your car and went to grab some napkins in the glove compartment...”
Shit.
Now I remembered what I left in the car.
“...and I saw a glimpse of this receipt that had the words ring and...”
I started to panic. I can’t tell her that I’m training to be a UFC fighter and was making myself an octagon ring. (C’mon. Friends, anyone?)
“cut, clarity, and karat....”
Oh.
Even if I said I was training to be in the UFC, cut, clarity, and karat were something I couldn’t lie about.
“And then when I was cleaning the back of the car, I found this bag...”
Good Lord, Ms. Nosy.

“Oh... uh... that’s a youth’s ring that I’m hiding because he has a surprise for his girlfriend.”
What a horrible lie.
But that youth’s parents owned a jewelry store... And just now... in the year of our Lord 2026, I wonder why I never went to their store to get a ring...

It was such a weak lie.
She knew it.
I knew it.
Everyone I told this story to later knew how weak of a lie it was.
But we left it at that for now.

Some time later, my brother was in town.
We were going to Ocean City in a week or so, and I still hadn’t planned out exactly how I was going to propose.

Well, on a Saturday night, there was a heavy storm that swept through DC.
It knocked the power out. This was before people used their cell phones as alarm clocks. Good God, I’m old...
I woke up and it was 8:55 a.m. All the electronic clocks were blinking. Everybody in the house was still sleeping. Only problem was, her service started at 9 a.m. Our youth service started at 10 a.m., so while this wasn’t ideal, I was still going to make it to church.
Just as I was about to knock on her door to wake her up, she came out into the hallway and said, “What time is it??”
I told her that by the time we got to church, it would be 9:30, maybe 9:45, and the Sunday school stuff would be nearly over.
So I told her to call her pastor, apologize, and just stay in and try to get more rest.
When my brother and I got back home from church, I found her in my room, curled up in my bed.

My brother set his stuff down and started playing Madden 06.
“I feel so awful. What kind of children’s pastor misses worship?”
She was being so hard on herself.
Finally, I asked, “Hey, what can I do to help you feel better?”

After a moment’s pause, she said, “Well... there is one thing...”
Me, completely oblivious: “Sure, what?”
“I want to see it.”
I knew exactly what she was referring to.
“Uh... well... that’s kind of tricky.”
“I mean, it’s in your room somewhere, right? So, I just want to see it.”
“Well... I mean... I don’t know...”
“Please?”
“Here’s the thing. I don’t think I can just show you the ring and then call it a day. I think if you see the ring, the question has to follow.”
There was a moment of contemplation, and she said, “I wanna see it!”
“You know what that means, right?”
“I don’t care. I want to see the ring.”
So I got up and got the ring.
I came back to where she was sitting, and I’m fixing to get on one knee when she said,
“You are not going to propose to me while your brother is in the room playing video games!”
Oh yeah...
I had completely forgotten my brother was in the room.
Later, at the wedding reception, during his best man’s speech, he’d recall this being one of the most awkward moments of his life.

So, we got up, I took her to the closet that wasn’t being utilized, and I asked her to marry me. Obviously she said “yes.”
Yes, everybody. I proposed to my wife in a closet.

During that best man’s speech, my brother ended it with something like, “Your proposal was a one out of ten. But I hope your lives together will be an 11.”

Today, we celebrate 20 years.
I can’t believe two decades have passed this fast.
But as they say, time flies when you’re having fun.

Here’s to you for putting up with me for the past 22 years.
Despite all my bungling and fumbling throughout the years, you’re still here.

And here’s to us.
May love and laughter and grace continue to be the hallmarks of the life we’ve built together.

I’m so grateful for a partner like you.
You’ve only gotten prettier as the years have passed. Still a little crazy, for sure. But I don’t know how much of that is my fault by now.

I love you with all that I am and with all that I have.
Twenty-one years ago, I asked you a question in a seminary closet.
I’m grateful every day that you said yes.

Here’s to many more years together!

I landed at the airport at 11p.
I think in my earlier days, I actually liked flying.
Nowadays, I understand why John Madden took his bus everywhere.

I saw that my hotel was about an hour away from the airport.
I assumed that obtaining my rental car would take about 30 minutes or so.
I get to the rental car line and it’s already 7 people deep and there’s only one employee on shift.
By the looks of the 7 people already in line, my 30 minutes or so was a pipe dream.

As the minutes turned into an hour, I could feel the heat rising from the depths of my bowels.
Why is this taking so long?

I remember the few times when I worked at Foot Locker and was left on the floor by myself when a rush just happened to happen. It’s stressful. It’s beyond your control. You have to touch base with people as they come in. Get the shoes they want to try on. Just move move move; sweat sweat sweat. And you hope to God that your coworkers get back ASAP.

This wasn’t the employee’s fault.
From what I could see, he was trying his hardest to keep things moving.
He was more stressed out than we were frustrated.

So I started asking myself: what is the point of getting upset?
Getting upset isn’t going to do anything.
In fact, getting upset is going to slow the whole process down, not just for me, but for everyone else.

This lady started to get agitated and was about to say something to the employee, but the people in line stopped her and said, “What’s he gonna do?”
I think we were all aware that if someone complained, it would slow everything down even more.

He did mention that the other terminal had two or three staff members working and would probably move faster. But by the time he offered that suggestion, there were only two customers in front of me. Besides, I was pot-committed.

Well, about an hour and change later, it was finally my turn.
I walked up to the employee, gave him my license and credit card, and told him where my reservation was.
“Uh, sorry. We can’t take that reservation here. You have to go to the other terminal for that.”
“What do you mean you can’t take that reservation here? I stood in this line because I was instructed by an airport employee that this was it. And the sign for the company I rented from is right behind you.”

“I know. But I don’t have access to that information on this computer. I’m really sorry.”

It’s almost 1am.
And I’m exhausted.
I can feel my grip on sanity loosening.
But all of a sudden, I’m reminded once again:
What’s getting angry really going to do? What am I going to accomplish by taking my frustration out on this man?

It would accomplish nothing. Nothing that would solve the problem faster, anyway.

So I (probably fake) smiled and said, “Alright.” And I walked over to the other counter.

After a good fifteen-minute walk, I arrived.
Only one person in front of me. Not bad.
When it was my turn, I found out there were no cars in the parking lot. After confirming my reservation, I’d have to take a shuttle to another terminal to get my car. It also looked like the people waiting for that shuttle had already been waiting a while.

“But,” he said, “I have two electric cars. A Tesla and a Bolt. None of these people wanted an electric car, but if you do, you can leave right now.”
I opted for the Bolt.
I got to my room a little after 2am and crashed. Without washing off all the airplane germs covering me.

The next morning, as I gathered my bearings at a nearby coffee shop, I was scrolling TikTok and came across this video (video if you’re interested: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8sf2AN7/)
But here’s the transcript of the video:

If every small inconvenience ruins your mood, the problem isn’t the world. It’s your mind.
Emotionally secure people don’t react to small things.
Wrong coffee order, they shrug.
Flight delay, they read.
Long wait, they wait.
No drama. No outrage. No unnecessary argument.
Here’s why:
When you’re in survival mode, your tolerance window shrinks. Stress is already high. Pressure is already high.
So a wrong order feels like disrespect.
A delay feels like an attack.
A line feels like injustice.
The situation is small, the reaction is enormous.
Because emotion is currency. Spend it on everything and you go bankrupt.
Emotionally wealthy people don’t fight every battle.
They choose where their energy goes.
One simple rule: if it’s in your control, fix it. If it’s not, let it go.
Real wealth isn’t your bank balance.
Real wealth is how many small things you can walk past without flinching.

Now, I have no idea what qualifications this creator may or may not have. And most things from social media should be viewed with discerning eyes, hearts, minds, and souls.

But he raises some good points.

I started thinking about leadership. Especially because of how he said, “Emotion is currency.”

Years ago, I read a book called Killing Cockroaches.
The basic idea is that if every tiny problem in an organization gets treated like an emergency, eventually the entire culture becomes emotionally reactive. Which echoes Vibe Samurai’s video.

Years ago, I was sent to pastor a local church during my UMC days.
I was immediately handed credibility I never earned. My predecessor had burned through so much goodwill that merely showing up, answering emails, returning phone calls, and generally acting like a functioning adult felt revolutionary.
Everything about the church was falling apart. Physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Even though my first day was July 1, by September it was evident that we needed a capital campaign. That is absolutely not recommended. Normally, you need years to build enough trust to ask people for something that significant. But I was benefiting from the fact that people were relieved things were no longer on fire. And because of that, the congregation was willing to move. We raised the money we needed for desperately needed improvements.

Every community has a kind of emotional economy.
Every leader does too.
Some people make careful deposits.

Others make constant withdrawals:
Every issue is a crisis.
Every inconvenience is an injustice.
Every disagreement is a battle.
Every hill is the hill to die on.

Eventually people stop listening. Not because the concerns aren’t real. It’s just that nobody can live at DEFCON 1 forever.

There was a classmate in seminary.
Now seminary was small, which meant we took many of the same classes together for three years.
He seemed incapable of letting a lecture pass without a challenge.
Every objection began the same way:
“But pruh-fess-uh…”

It didn’t take long to realize that he seemed more interested in hearing himself talk than in learning anything.
Every class.
Every lecture.
At least one “But pruh-fess-uh.”

After a while, whenever those words left his mouth, you could practically feel the collective eye-roll move across the room like a wave in a stadium.

I’m not saying questions are bad. The opposite, in fact.
We should question things.
And I’m certainly not saying you should never disagree with your professor.
But this felt different.
It felt like he enjoyed arguing simply for the sake of arguing.
His interruptions never added anything.
They never enhanced the learning process.
Every point became a debate.
Every lecture became a detour.
Every class became a stage.

There was another classmate who rarely spoke.
But whenever he did, people listened.
Maybe his comments really were more insightful.
Or maybe he had simply learned not to spend his words on everything.

That’s the danger of constantly cashing in your emotional currency.
Eventually people stop paying attention.
You become the person who complains about everything.
You become the person who causes collective eye-rolls simply by showing up.
After a while, whether you’re right or wrong almost becomes irrelevant.
People have learned what to expect:
Another complaint.
Another argument.
Another crisis.
And because we are flawed creatures, people eventually stop asking whether the alarm is justified. They simply stop listening.
Which is, of course, the entire point of The Boy Who Cried Wolf.
The tragedy of that story isn’t that the boy lied.
The tragedy is that one day he was telling the truth.
One day there really was a wolf.
One day the danger was real. And by then, nobody came.

Good leadership requires learning the difference between a wolf and a cockroach.
Not every irritation is a wolf.
Not every inconvenience is a crisis.
Not every disagreement deserves a battle.
Because if you spend all your time chasing cockroaches, eventually nobody believes you when you’ve actually found a wolf.

If you move through your community like everything is on fire, eventually people stop listening. Nobody can sustain that level of alarm forever.
And while everyone else is tuning you out, something else is happening.
Your soul never gets to rest.
Because you’ve spent all your energy chasing cockroaches.

Inner peace is not becoming passive.
It’s not pretending hard things do not matter.
It’s learning discernment.

Some things deserve your energy.
Some things deserve your attention.
Some things deserve action.
And some things are just cockroaches.

The goal isn’t to stop caring.
The goal is to care proportionately.
Because there are wolves in this world.
There are things worth fighting for.
Things worth grieving.
Things worth confronting.
Things worth getting angry about.
But if every inconvenience becomes a wolf, eventually we lose the ability to recognize one when it finally appears.
And if every irritation receives our full emotional attention, eventually there’s nothing left for the things that actually deserve it.

Because emotion is currency.
Spend it on everything and eventually you’ll have nothing left when the wolf finally appears.
The older I get, the less wisdom seems to be about adding things.
It seems to be about letting things go.
Most of us already know what matters.
The harder task is learning what doesn’t.

My wife had left us two boys behind to go galavanting around NYC with our niece, which meant my son and I were left to sneak in as much junk food as we could before she got back. (Not really. Not at this age…)

For our first dinner, my son wanted steaks. Solid suggestion, if I don’t say so myself. The last time we had steaks, I’d gone to a local butcher and picked up 3 sirloins from them.
This time, since it was just me and him, figured that the regular ole HEB sirloin in the meat section would suffice and it’s on sale. My son won’t know the difference, and really neither would I. I figured, if I hadn’t bought it myself, I would’ve never known.
Except that when I bit into the steak, I noticed the difference between the pre-packaged sirloin and the sirloin from the butcher. The quality was noticeably different. And I sat with that for a minute because I didn’t like the fact that I could discern the quality of the meat by just biting into it.

My wife and I will once in a while try to one-up each other on who grew up poorer. Ultimately, she grew up in a household of- 6 while I grew up in a household of 4. Their dollar had to stretch more than ours, so on that account — and that alone — I shall concede that she grew up a poorer immigrant than I.

In 2012, I was appointed to a small church in Santa Barbara called St. Mark UMC.

St. Mark and I (well, the Yoo family) had a long history together. My dad planted a church, later known as Santa Barbara Korean UMC, on the campus of St. Mark in 1994-ish, and I got to participate in the youth group of St. Mark UMC.
Nearly 20 years later, I was now being sent as the pastor of the church where we did Egg Olympics in the fellowship hall; where we rode in a van with no seat belts and begged the youth director to do brake checks.
Youth ministry in the ‘90s was the Wild West. So many safeguarding (Safe Sanctuary) policy violations.
Seriously, I’m very fortunate not to have gotten seriously injured as a youth and fortunate enough not to have had any serious injuries or lawsuits as a youth pastor. (The aughts weren’t as wild as the ‘90s... but we all have horror stories.)

When we lived there from ‘92-’96, I didn’t realize just how difficult things were for my parents. But I don’t think they really got to enjoy Santa Barbara because of all the hardships they had to endure.

We were broke.

I don’t know how my parents survived those years in Santa Barbara, raising two boys on... well, no steady income, really.

The thing about the first generation is that their function was survival.
Survive this new country and new culture and new customs, and try your best to make a living here. They fought for survival so that their sacrifice would be worth it for their kids.
I am thriving because my parents survived the move to a new country.

When I returned to Santa Barbara in my 30s, I spent the first few months reminiscing about the early ‘90s. Stopping by some of the old places that were still there. Discovering that new places had replaced the stores we frequented in the ‘90s.

The Sizzler was still there.
The Sizzler that was always saved for a special occasion.
Good news? Sizzler.
Celebration? Sizzler.
Church guests? Sizzler.

I grew up thinking that Sizzler was a fancy place, what with their steaks and all-you-can-eat salad bar.

Funnily enough, we never went to a Sizzler in Hawaii (where we moved in ‘96). In fact, I thought there wasn’t a Sizzler in Hawaii, but a quick Google search let me know otherwise. So my only memory of Sizzler was this fancy dining place reserved for special occasions.

I was free for lunch, and while it wasn’t a celebratory occasion, I still went to Sizzler for old times’ sake. Because I knew that we were in a better financial situation than my parents ever were in their 30s.
I ordered my sirloin with a baked potato and added on the salad bar. I mean, why wouldn’t I?

Oh. Side note: if you’re a relatively typical adult... fairly healthy, no dietary restrictions, yada yada yada... can I just say that “well done” should only be reserved for what we hear God tell us when we’re standing before God in heaven?
Well done is not meant for steak.
I said what I said.

The whole vibe felt off.
It was exactly as I remembered it... but smaller. Apparently, everything was bigger than it really was when we were kids.
And, well, I couldn’t help but laugh at the silliness of thinking that Sizzler was a fancy establishment. It was a simple step above TGI Fridays (which, back then, I loved. So that’s not shade toward TGI Fridays or Sizzler

I felt so fricking sad eating my lunch by myself. I was trying my hardest not to cry because, I mean, what could possibly be happening in someone’s life that they go to Sizzler (by themselves) and cry while eating their steak and salad bar?
The sadness had to do with just how much my parents had to endure and probably how unhelpful I must’ve been when we first lived there.

I remember taking my parents to better restaurants when they visited, and they were like, “We never knew this part of town existed,” and all that. Which, you know, further cemented just how much my parents struggled during our time there

I always grew up wishing for wealth.
Not just any kind of wealth. I wished for the “Fuck You” kinda wealth where you have disposable income to say “F U” to people who get in your way... which is probably why God never gave me the opportunity to be rich. I mean, I still pray every once in a while, “God, let me prove to you just how generous I can be! Help me win the mega jackpot lottery!”

But wealth is... relative.
If you want to see where you rank globally: https://www.givingwhatwecan.org

Oh. Wait.
My dad, when he planted Santa Barbara KUMC (then called St. Mark KUMC because they met at... St. Mark...), had no salary. My parents firmly believed that a pastor’s salary and livelihood should only come from what the church provided. So my mom never worked. And because they spent most of their time in Korean churches, speaking Korean all the time, they never had a chance to flex their English muscles on a regular basis.

All this to say, we were a family of four with no steady income.
So what does my dad do?
He decided the only thing to do was pray.
Not just pray. But fast and pray.
Not just a regular fast... but a Forty Day Fast.

I think in my lifetime, my dad’s done 4-5 forty-day fasts.
He’s crazy, yea.
But crazy for God, I suppose.

This would’ve been his second time doing a forty-day fast.
The first time was when I was 6 and we had just moved to the States.

My dad stayed at a gidowon (usually a prayer retreat place somewhere up in the mountains). By the time my dad was done with the fast, his calves were skinnier than my arms. And I had, have, skinny arms.
No food. Just water. For 40 days.

But here’s the craziest shit that I can’t logically reconcile.
That very first time my dad went on the 40-day fast?
It was because we had just moved to the States, and there were no jobs for him.

We spent a year in the West Covina area being supported by my grandfather (his father-in-law), and there was just no way in hell that was going to be a normal thing.

So he went on that fast to pray that a job would open up for him.

Another fun fact: when we held our little family worship service for him ending his fasts, he cried. That’s the first time I saw my dad cry. I’ll always remember that. Also, it was really nice because it was just the three of us. My dumb brother hadn’t been born yet.

But I mean, pretty much after he finished his fast, he got a call from someone in Columbia, SC, saying that there’s a church opening and they’d like him to be the pastor.

So we moved to Columbia in, like, ‘87.

Now, again, pretty much after my dad finished this 40-day fast, he got a call from a dentist he had never met. The dentist attended a church pastored by my dad’s friend. My dad once preached at their church for a revival, and the dentist had been in attendance and apparently had been deeply moved by my dad’s sermons.

Anyway, this dentist calls and basically says, “I can’t shake this feeling that I’m supposed to help you. So I’m calling to ask if I can support you for 2 years with $2,000 a month.”

And all of a sudden, we had a steady income.

Part of my vocation sorta really eliminates the idea of ‘coincidence’ and replaces it with providence.
Yes. All of this does seem coincidental and I won’t correct you if that’s what you walk away with.
But I lived through this.
I experienced this.

Hell, one day in South Carolina, our car was fixing to die. And I’m assuming we had no money to buy a new car...
I must’ve been in the 3rd or 4th grade when this happened.
My dad put a car ad from a magazine on the front door, instructing us to ask God for a new car every time we saw that picture.

Then.

One day, this white dude knocks on our door (which was rare because only Koreans came to visit us), and he asked for my dad.
I had to translate to my dad that this man was from the local Ford dealership and that someone had bought a car and had it delivered to our house.
A Ford Tempo. I remember that. A gray Ford Tempo.

Some people have asked how come I haven’t deconstructed all the way... implying why I’m still holding onto mystery. Well, I don’t know how else to explain some of the crazy things I’ve witnessed in my life.
And life gets very boring, very fast if we eliminate mystery.
If that makes me a mystic, so be it.

Anyways, where were we?
Ah. Wealth being relative.
I never felt that we were lacking.
I knew we couldn’t afford many things... but my parents never made us feel like we were lacking.

It always felt like we had enough.
And that’s when wealth becomes more of a liability than an asset in Kin(g)dom Economics: when the desire for more starts eating away at, and eventually consuming, contentedness.

I’m really, really (really) trying to learn to be content and grateful for what I have.
Because what I have is more than plenty.
I have more than my “daily bread.”
But that disease of more is always lurking, not even in the shadows.

I feel tremendously blessed by the life that we’ve made so far.
I don’t like speaking on behalf of my wife, but I think it’s more than safe to say that we are far better off in our 40s than both of our parents ever were in their 40s.
And that’s all thanks to them: their faithfulness, their tenacity, their courage, their strength, and their pride in their children.

My parents wanted nothing more than for me to be in ministry.
And because that’s what I ended up doing, there was no way I could support them the way I’d want to if I had become, say, a lawyer. Or a doctor. Or a professor. Or a salesperson.
The funniest misconception I’ve discovered is that many people on social media think all pastors are paid like Joel Osteen and Steven Furtick and Matt Chandler and Kenneth Copeland.

The truth is, the average size of a church in the US is about 60 people on a Sunday.
That’s the norm. Osteens and mega churches are the exception.

So yea, most of the pastors you know are living off humble salaries.
Ergo, we couldn’t support our sets of parents financially the way we wanted.

I mean, emotionally and whatnot... my parents won the jackpot. They got me as the eldest son. Who wouldn’t want a son like me?
And to keep my parents humbled and grounded for having such a great son, God gave them my brother.

When we were moving into our new house, my wife mentioned that something about this felt off. Maybe we should’ve helped our parents find a permanent home before we did. She had — and has — a point. But my in-laws are living in Korea, and my parents are still renters now in Katy.
I wonder if our parents felt a similar... sting... of wanting to provide something but simply being unable to.

When I signed my book deal, I did receive an advance.
I wrote the biggest check of my life to my parents. (It wasn’t much. I’ve just never had to write a check that big.) It’s not even enough for a down payment on a house... but it’s quite literally the least I could do.

A part of me thought, I should just give them the whole advance.
But I earned that money lol. (Annnnnnnnd this is probably why God hasn’t given me the winning lotto ticket numbers yet.)

Oh. I remember when we were living in Valencia, CA. We were living paycheck to paycheck. I remember there were times I simply didn’t want to look at the account balance because it was too anxiety-inducing (and of course, it caused more stress when we accidentally overdrew our account because I didn’t want to look at our balance).

My brother called me during that season, asking if he could borrow money that was equivalent to, like, a month’s rent on an apartment.
We simply couldn’t.
I didn’t even offer a lesser amount, although looking back, I should’ve offered something.
It ate at me so much back then.

I wrote it off, telling myself my brother’s cult (he was part of a church that I will call a cult until my dying day... and by now, I think he agrees with me) would take care of him.
But still.
It bothered me that the one time my younger (idiot of a) brother asked for help, I couldn’t do anything.

Over a decade later, that was still in the back corner of a drawer in my mind.
So I asked him, “Remember when you asked to borrow money and I couldn’t help you out?” He didn’t remember.
Which irked me because I’d been sitting with this guilt for over a decade, and he couldn’t even do me the favor of remembering the awkward position he placed me in. But, like Pepperidge Farm, I remembered.
So I gave him the amount with interest added on. I gave him more than he asked for in, like, 2011. He could do the math on how much interest I gave him. He’s always been better at math. And music.
While it annoys me that he’s so talented in music (who the hell cares about math?!?), I take solace in knowing that I’m better than him at everything else.

And yes, I still tithe.
I gave you a bit of insight into growing up as a PK with a pastor like my dad.
One of the things he ingrained in us is that everything we receive comes from God first.
So he made us tithe when we were kids.
I remember our treasurer once asking me, “Why do you give to the church? You’re basically giving back what we gave you?”
Well, that kind of ate at me because it meant they’d encountered many pastors who don’t give.

Pastors, if you can’t find a spiritual reason to give, I’ll give you a logistical one:
Put your money where your mouth is.
If you’re unwilling to give to the church, how can you stand there in front of your parishioners and ask them to give?

Also, there have been a few big shocks in transferring into the Episcopal Church.
One of the biggest ones is that TEC doesn’t seem to have an open-book policy when it comes to finances.

In the UMC, our budget was available to any member who asked for it.
All appointed clergy salary packages are available for members to see. (All the church hires are usually grouped into administration or staffing.)
It just sits unwell with me.
My dad also taught me... you can be gray in many areas of ministry because not everything is binary.
However, when it comes to finances, be as transparent as humanly possible. And I have. And I will continue to do so.

Who doesn’t want more money?
Who doesn’t want to be more comfortable than they are?
But that more destroys souls more than it strengthens them.

What I’m trying to remind myself day in and day out is that I don’t need more.
That I have enough.
I have everything I need in front of me to do the work of kin(g)dom building with God.
And I have everything I need not just to survive, but to live.
As long as I count my blessings, as long as I keep gratitude front and center in everything, the idea of more will take hold of my heart.
But not the desire for more things.
The desire to be more loving; joyful; peaceful; patient; kind; good; faithful; gentle.

We had taken our parents out to dinner because we hadn’t seen them in a minute.
During dinner, they were talking about steak bought at Costco and how that’s so different from steaks at Kroger.
I asked them if they’d ever gotten steak straight from a butcher.
They had no idea you could do that. They always walked past the butcher at HEB or wherever, but they were never curious enough to find out why they were there.
So I told them we’d be back the following week, but with steaks from a butcher.
We picked up ribeyes from a butcher in Webster. Dad grilled them.
They were some pretty-looking ribeyes, and my parents thoroughly enjoyed them.
It’s not a house (yet... who knows, maybe I’ll win the lottery), but... I mean, I don’t really know how to finish this sentence.
Like, in no way is it me “paying them back,” but...
If anything, it just made me more grateful.

I really, truly believe that if we had never moved to America, my dad would’ve done really well for himself and our family. But he also sacrificed his career to move to the States. In no way was he a “failure” here in America. But I think he would’ve been able to... be more successful (whatever that may mean in ministry) in Korea.

I am thriving because my parents survived the move.
And I hope that in these remaining seasons, they’re able to enjoy life more than they did when we were kids.

I’ll make sure of it.

Hi.
Here’s a non-update of an update.
I do have something worth sharing: I submitted my manuscript that was due on June 20 a little early! So there’s that.

I’ve been reading a lot more this year than any other year.
I was gonna add an “outside of being a student” caveat… buuuuuut… I don’t think I read all the assigned readings… it was too much.

I’ve really been listening to a lot of audiobooks. They’re just so convenient.
Driving; washing dishes; taking a walk… I can just listen to the books.

Anyway, I’ll be back with some actual posts soon… but in the meantime, here’s what I’ve read so far.

My ratings are: Loved it; Liked it; Meh; DNF (Did Not Finish).
The stars thing got too convoluted. My K-drama lists have moved into decimal ratings… like we just finished The Wonder Fools. I enjoyed it. I gave it 4 stars… but then saw some of the others I rated 4 stars and was like… I enjoyed this more than those… so 4.2 it is.

Currently reading:
Funny Story by Emily Henry
The Martyr by Kaveh Akbar
Jesus For Everyone by Amy-Jill Levine
Steering the Craft by Ursula Le Guin
Subversive Sabbath by AJ Swoboda
(we listen, but we don’t judge.)

My Friends by Fredrik Backman: Loved it.
Listen, A Man Called Ove may have been the first book that made me cry. Ever since then, I’ve been hooked on Backman’s writing. He’s become one of my favorite authors.

People We Meet on Vacation by Emily Henry: Loved it.
I’m not surprised, lol. I went through a huge Nicholas Sparks phase in college. It was a fun read (listen). It’s always nice to have those fun reads… which is why I picked up Funny Story.

The Other Side of Now by Paige Harbison: Liked it.
The premise was fun.
So was the storytelling. It was an enjoyable read.

Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid: Loved it.
This is the 3rd book I’ve read by her. The other two were The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo and Daisy Jones & the Six. Thoroughly loved both of those too. I really like her writing.

A Short Stay in Hell by Steven L. Peck: Liked it.
This concept of hell… I’ve been thinking about it here and there, ...long after I’ve put the book down, which is something we want as writers, right?

Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry: Loved it.
So much so, I gave it its own post. I still think about Gus here and there. It was such a long book, I’m hesitant to explore the rest of the series, where we see Gus and Call as younger men. But man… this book was just so good… Definitely one of my favorite reads of the year.

The Let Them Theory by Mel Robbins: Meh.
Downgraded from Liked it to Meh because of the accusations of completely stealing and profiting off an idea that was not hers. However, this is such a good thing to implement in your life. Seriously.

The Correspondent by Virginia Evans: Liked it.
I’m glad of the development of Sybil. At first, she reminded me of many elderly women in church settings. It was hard to not be triggered by the things she would say (write.) The concept was neat though. The whole book was Sybil corresponding through letters. And in her letters, you see growth and how complicated of a person she is.

Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir: Loved it.
I read PHM when it first came out and it was my favorite book of the year. People kept saying I need to listen to the audiobook and so I did. And the audiobook experience was fantastic. Now, all that’s left is to watch the movie.

The Emperor’s Soul by Brandon Sanderson: Meh.
I don’t like series… I don’t really know why. But I prefer standalones. Sanderson’s known for his worldbuilding and all that. One day I was scrolling and Brandon came on my feed talking about certain standalones he wrote. I picked up two of them. Tress of the Emerald Sea was a far better story than this one. But, I wish I could write like him.

Everything in Color: A Love Story by Stephanie Stalvey: Loved it.
Stephanie sent me her graphic novel and I pretty much finished it in one sitting. It was so familiar because of all the church trauma we carry. Beautifully written and beautifully illustrated, all done by herself. She’s so talented, I’m beginning to despise her. Hahah. Mostly kidding.

God Country by Donny Cates: Liked it.
Graphic novels. What’s not to like? It was good for what it was.

This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me: Loved it.
Here’s my conundrum. I did not know this was a series. The book ended on a cliffhanger. I’m so annoyed. But, Maggie the Undying would be a fun character to follow around and see how the story wraps up. We’ll see how I feel when the second one comes out.

Theo of Golden by Allen Levi: Loved it.
Is there anything more pastoral than what Theo does — helping people rediscover their beauty and worth (i.e., see the image of God in them)?

Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil by VE Schwab: Meh.
I could’ve done without this. I like vampire stories, for sure. And The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue was my favorite read of the year when I read it. So I was expecting something… I don’t know… which you know, that’s on me. It was a well told story… otherwise I wouldn’t have finished it.

That’s what I got so far.
For entertainment/leisure, I’ve opted for audiobooks.
But for work-related reading, it’s nice to have a physical copy, whether it be paper or kindle.

If you have any recommendations, let me know.
It definitely doesn’t hurt to add more to my TBR stack…

I’m about a third way through Theo of Golden.
No spoilers please.
And I don’t think I’ll be offering any spoilers here but just in case, tread carefully. But I don’t think I’ll be mentioning anything that’s not in the official summary of the book.

Theo is a newcomer to the town of Golden and begins buying pencil portraits hanging in a local coffee shop, returning each one to the person in the drawing. In return, he asks them to share their story.

As I read (or hear, since I’m listening to the audiobook) the conversations taking place between Theo and the recipient, I can’t help but think this is an integral part of ministry; of my call.

What Theo is essentially doing is restoring the Imago Dei (Image of God) in the people as he hands them their portrait.
Theo tells them what he sees — which is usually something the recipient hasn’t seen for a long time or has never seen in themselves.
But Theo’s gentle, yet persuasive, manner urges them to see beyond their limitations and see them as they really, and truly are: a human being.

Theo’s backstory is still a big mystery at the point I’m at. A little about his story has been revealed here and there, but for now, we’re living through Theo helping people rediscover their image of God, ergo rediscovering themselves.

There’s an interaction between a reporter and Theo that solidified for me this is a big part of what we’re called to do: help people see beyond their perceived limitation; beyond titles/labels given to them by others or, worse, themselves and to see how beautiful they are despite and in spite of their lived experiences.

I also caught myself thinking, if I had the resources that Theo has, I’d do that exact same thing.
Every once in a while, I’ll (more earnestly than joking, but fairly even) pray for God to give me a chance to prove how generous I am by winning the lottery.

I found myself making that semi-joke-semi-serious prayer after the chapter with Theo and the reporter: God, if I had the means… I could really do some good work like Theo. Give me a chance to prove how generous I can be. 

Which really, is the excuse of “Not yet, God. Just let me get to a point where….”
It’s a delay tactic to remain passive in a world that can no longer afford people being passive when it comes to love, grace, hope, joy, peace, and all them other good things. Just another excuse piled on top of all the excuses already made.

That’s a trap that I fall into a lot — and I think many of us do. (Btw, I’ve been wary of using em dashes because of how fond AI is of em dashes. I’ve used em dashes — maybe to a fault — before AI came around and trying to jack my style. I’m reclaiming it. I like em dashes and I like ellipses… and I liked it when AI was only in movies and sci-fi stuff).

When I want to do something, I want to do it with a bang; with panache; with flair; in a way that is impossible to ignore… like using 10,000 drones to create the image of Jesus for concert goers.
But when I dive deeper into that desire to do something that has immediate and noticeable impact… if I’m honest with myself, it becomes more about me than God.
Look what I did.
Look at how people are responding to what I (or we) did.
Sure, it’s about Jesus but also, pay attention to the messenger! Not to kill him, but to praise him for his efforts!

I had the tremendous honor and privilege of meeting Ben during the twilight of his life.
My favorite story about Ben (an alias) is included in the book I’m writing, with permission from his family, of course. So I won’t be telling that story.
But there was a story that Ben’s cousin told me after Ben left us that reminded me of a few things:
1) Waiting for the “right” moment when it comes to the kinship and kingdom of God is purely and simply an excuse.
2) We have everything we need to make an impact in someone’s life right here, right now.

Ben’s cousin moved Ben into his house for hospice care. I got to visit with Ben a few times and each time was so meaningful to me.
When my first visit with him was winding down, I gave him my cellphone number so that if he needed anything, he could text me. Or if he wanted someone else to talk to besides his cousin, call me or text me.
I even texted him once because I was talking about how his city has one of the best sports team logo and name: San Antonio Chanclas (right behind Rocket City’s Trash Panda).

I mean, I didn’t think much of it. I wanted to stay connected to him. I wanted him to stay connected to me. Why not give him my number?

Apparently, he was ecstatic that a pastor gave him his personal number.

I think Ben attended a large church and perhaps he had never gotten the pastor’s contact info or whatever — I’m conjecturing here. But he told all of his friends that he received the personal cellphone number of a pastor.
Cousin told me just how much he talked about getting my number.

I hope you know me well enough that I’m not haring this story as a “look at meeee! I did good!”
Instead, I hope you can see how we can be a blessing to others with what is already in our possessions.
Sometimes, (a lot of times) blessing others don’t even have to involve possessions.

Don’t ever underestimate the small things — the doable things — that are in front of us.
Alan Hirsch described “blessing” as helping someone to breathe easier, even if it’s for a fleeting moment. Helping someone breathe easier can involve big, monumental impactful things… like taking care of someone’s rent or bills.
But helping someone breathe easier can be as “small” as sending a meaningful text; delivering some food; actually hearing someone pour their heart out…
The problem occurs when we discount those things as “not enough” and therefore don’t do them at all (I’m talking to you, Joseph Yoo).

As Mother Teresa once said,
Do small things with great love.

I have to remind myself over and over and over to not overlook the small; mundane; ordinary things. That’s where we encounter God most of the time because that’s when we’re actually paying attention.

Quoting another profound human being:
“People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Most (dare I say all?) of the opportunities to be a blessing — to help people feel seen; loved etc — are already right in front of us.

Super Bowl LI. 2017.
One of the greatest games I’ve ever seen and probably the greatest Super Bowl game of all time (as of now). Well, unless you’re a Falcons fan.

28-3.
That’s the lead that the Falcons had at some point in the 3rd quarter.
The Patriots (official) chances of winning at the point was 0.3% to 0.4%.
Essentially, the game was over.

Funny story. My wife’s good friend flew out to Houston to hang out and watch the game with us. When the game ended, I turned around to share in the excitement of the history we just witnessed…
Only to see the both of them, sleeping. Not just sleeping, but knocked out.
When they woke up, one of them said, “I can’t believe the Patriots got trounced like that.”
They didn’t believe me at first that the Patriots actually won.
And then lamented that they missed it.
You snooze, you lose.

Comebacks like that, on that kind of stage, are rare.
But teams blowing big leads? That happens all the time.
There’s a difference between playing to win and playing not to lose.

When a team builds a lead, they often let off the gas.
The mindset shifts. It’s no longer about winning. It’s about protecting what they have.

One of the most frustrating things I’ve seen from my Houston Dynamo FC, especially last season, is that whenever we were up a goal, we’d “park the bus.” Basically, we’d sit back, play ultra-defensive, and try to hold the lead. We lost a lot of those games.

Because we stopped trying to win and started trying not to lose. (Also, I don’t know why we refer to our teams as “we”… like uh… no… “we” didn’t do anything but watch on TV…)

I think one can argue that when you’re up by 25 points and you have less than 30 minutes left in the game… it’s natural to let off a bit, no?
But you don’t play these games not to lose.

You play to win the game.
Hello? You play to win the game.
For the majority of you who may not get this reference:

Does this relate to anything ministry related or are we just talking about sports again? Yes.

When churches become more concerned with surviving than living… they’re already dying. Usually, it’s a slow and drawn out death because no one wants to close a church.

“Playing to win” involves risks.
You take that shot.
You try that new play.
You adjust. (By the way, Doc Rivers rarely adjusted in-game, which is why he holds the record for the most blown 3–1 series leads —_three._ How he got that Bucks job is beyond me. How the Bucks played after he became coach was more than predictable. That man has been squeezing EVERY. LAST. DROP. out of that one championship.)
You improvise.

“Playing to survive” (playing not to lose) is completely different.
You hold your ground, even when it’s hurting you.
You stop trying anything new.
You avoid risk at all costs.
You preserve everything exactly as it is (and has been) and hope somehow it works out.

And in the process, we turn things into sacred cows that don’t give life anymore. We spend time, energy, and money keeping ministries alive that haven’t borne fruit in years. And when you ask why, the answer is almost always the same:
“Well… we’ve always done this.”

Love involves risk.
Churches that are holding onto survival have forgotten how to love and how to be loved.
Fear is what they know best. So they hold on tightly to anything and everything, afraid that one change might be the slippery slope that leads to their inevitable death.

It’s an odd place to be.

I’m not trying to minimize the faithful stewards of churches who have given more than anyone else in that community.
But we are a people of resurrection.
We should not be afraid of death, especially when it’s not the death of a loved human being.
We should not be afraid of letting ministries and programs, and even churches, die.
Because you can’t have a resurrection without death.

Letting those things run their course might open the door to new beginnings, new stories, new life.

Many may disagree, but I’d rather take the risk of sundowning something that’s not bearing fruit to try something new rather than doing the same thing over and over and over, expecting different results, which Einstein defined as insanity.

And if churches operate out of fear, they will continue to do the same things over and over again, hoping for different results.

They’d rather play it safe.
They’d rather preserve the era that was fruitful, even if that era was decades ago.
The ironic thing is, they’re doing this because they don’t want their church to die. But by doing this, they’ve sentenced their church to death.

As cliché as it sounds, I do believe that the best “ability” is availability when it comes to our personal faith journey.
But for a community, I think one of the biggest assets is flexibility.
Rigidity will squeeze the life out of us.

I believe that we were meant to be explorers, adventurers.
I don’t think we were meant to be settlers, growing so comfortable with our settlement that our comfort outweighs our call to go.

Here’s something NBA Hall of Famer Coach Gregg Popovich said:

You’ve got to keep up with it, because teams change, players’ careers change, and the makeup of the team changes. Standing pat never works.

I think that applies to ministry as well.
If resurrection is really our story, then death isn’t something to fear. It’s something to trust God with.

So maybe it’s time to stop clinging to what was and start making space for what could be.
Because playing it safe might keep things around a little longer.
But it won’t bring anything back to life.

It was Holy Week last year (Holy Wednesday, to be precise) when I was diagnosed with depression.
My first thought was, “Really? Now? During Holy Week?” followed immediately by, “No, that can’t be. I’m Korean. We’re supposed to suffer.”

As I was grappling with this new and unwanted revelation, a small thought began to emerge from the depths of my brain: While it was still dark.

It was John’s description of Easter morning when Mary went to the tomb. And listen, John is either my second least favorite or my least favorite Gospel. It just depends on my mood. Luke, Mark, Matthew/John, John/Matthew. However, my favorite resurrection stories are in John. John’s account of Easter is what I use for my sermon.

While it was still dark.

And just like that, the Spirit gave me the idea for my Easter sermon.
Granted, it was way too late in the week. Late enough that I started feeling anxious.
But now I had my sermon.

While it was still dark.

But it wouldn’t stay dark forever. The sun was going to rise very soon for Mary.
And while, for me, the season tumbled into a new kind of darkness, I knew it wouldn’t stay dark for long.

If you want to watch that sermon:

This year, nothing that exciting has happened during Holy Week that I could turn into a sermon. But I’ve felt more stuck than I did last year.
To which I posted:

I think what was happening is that my Easter sermon overlaps a lot with chapter 11 of the book I’m working on.
I was stuck on chapter 11, and therefore I was stuck on the Easter sermon.
And I was stuck stuck. Like, there’s no better way to describe it than mental constipation.

A few days earlier, something happened within the church.
I felt the urge to scramble for an answer, but I resisted.
I felt the urge to gently push back, but I kept my thoughts and questions to myself.
Everything is fine, I reminded myself. If this is the most stressful thing in my life right now, then I’m doing pretty well.

And then I randomly stumbled across this quote.
I don’t know much about saints, and my knowledge of early Christian writing is… minimal.
I don’t know much about St. Julian of Norwich except that she’s a mystic.
But I came across one of her quotes:
All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
I know the urge to add an “s” to “thing” is strong. But leave it. It’s grammatically correct in Middle English. Apparently, “thing” here is a collective noun meaning “every kind of thing” or “everything.”

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.

I sat with that for a while.
Wind in my hair, I was there, I remember it all too well.
Kidding. “All shall be well” and “All Too Well” share similar words but mean very different things. Julian and Taylor.

Anyhoo.

All shall be well…

Looking back at last year, yeah. In certain moments, it felt like nothing would resolve. But a year later, either things did resolve or they just stopped mattering as much.

Then I started thinking about my time as a church planter over the past almost seven years.
I almost said, “Life was so much simpler back then.”
But I caught myself.

Was it actually simpler? Only if you’re six years removed from it emotionally.
It feels simpler now because it’s in the past. I know how the story ends. I know the players. I know the moves. I know the pitfalls. It’s like playing that same level of Super Mario Brothers for the thousandth time.

That’s when it hit me.
Nostalgia is one hell of a drug.
And it’s not truthful. Because nostalgia isn’t just remembering the past.
It’s longing for a version of your life that made sense while you were living it.

Before I cut myself off, I was thinking about how much easier things were when there were only 20 people on a Sunday.
But if I’m honest, not knowing whether anyone would show up was incredibly anxiety-inducing.
No, it wasn’t easier back then. It just feels like it.

And then that second thought hit me:
Do not hold on to me.

It’s what Jesus says to Mary after revealing himself.
Lol. I don’t like how I worded that. But I’m leaving it there so you can appreciate how mature I am.

When Mary realizes that the gardener is actually Jesus, she reaches for him. She wants to hold on.
And Jesus responds, Do not hold on to me.
Maybe Mary was trying to hold on to who Jesus was.
To go back to how things were before the cross.
And Jesus is telling her: there is no going back.
We move forward into something new.

At the time of writing this, it’s Holy Saturday.
I’m wearing all my Dynamo gear because there’s a game tonight.
I haven’t run through the sermon yet, but we’re making a quick stop at church before heading to the stadium.

Here’s the manuscript for the Easter sermon.

I don’t know what will change, if anything, by tomorrow.
You never really know how it’s going to flow until you say it out loud.
And I like to know how long it actually is.

What you hear on Sunday might be different from what’s below.

But here it is.

Happy Easter, beloved friends.
No matter how bleak the world feels, there is hope. There is always hope.
For Christ is risen. He is risen indeed.

Can’t speak much on the Episcopal Church because this is the only Episcopal Church I’ve worked at (minus a 6 month stint at st. Andrew’s).
And I know the episcopal church is often called Catholic Lite.
However, Mosaic, i think is fair to say, is Episcopal Lite.

But in the Methodist Church, (And I know for a fact it happens in TEC, but like I said, I’ve never had first person experience).
There’s a desire for younger clergy.
They want younger clergy because they want younger families.
They want to hear kids make noise because it reminds them of life… because for the past decade or so, there have been minimal presence of kids… and everyone’s always reminded of not just their mortality but the decline in vitality of their beloved church.
So they want young clergy to infuse new life into them. So often young clergy, some fresh out of seminary, are sent to churches that want younger clergy.

Now, I’d argue that one of the worst things you can do to a pastor straight out of seminary is to send them to a church that’s been in steady decline for years.
The young clergy can end up being completely demoralized and/or they pick up really bad habits that stay with them throughout their career.

Why?

Because, while the church wants a young clergy to bring in young families, what the people don’t realize is that in order to change… things need to change.

So the young clergy fresh out of seminarian has dreams; visions; ideas; they’re filled with hope. They learn what the strengths of the church are and how the church can utilize that, leverage that to connect with more people.

So the young clergy starts sharing ideas, visions, offering things the church wanted from the clergy.
And instead of willingness to go forward, the church responds with resistance.
Well… we’ve never done it that way.
Mmmm… that’s not how we do things around here.
Nope. We don’t want to do that.

After a bit of time, you learn that these type of churches are asking their clergy for something that is impossible — yes, even with God what these churches ask for is impossible:
We want to change everything without changing anything.
Can you do all the new things without taking away the things that help us be comfortable?
In Jesus’s words, they want new wine but in the old wineskin.
Because if the people don’t want to change, nothing is going to change them.)

Nostalgia is a powerful emotion.
The thing is, nostalgia isn’t just remembering the past.
It’s longing for a version of your life that made sense when you were living in it.
2016: MAGA
When asked when was America great?
Everyone answered around the time they were young.
of course they did…

We long for the version of life that made sense…

And kids… I know it may feel not that great being a kid… but I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat. Adulting is overrated and truth is, we’re making it up as we go along.
(While I have you here, I just want to give a shoutout to your parents. They were really cool, fun loving people. Then y’all came around. And now they are the way they are because of you. So take responsibility of that. )

Nostalgia also edits; filters; airbrushes the past as well.
It remembers only the highlights and forgets the parts that were actually hard.

So “that season was complicated” becomes “that season was good.”
Rather than missing the past, what we really long for is the version of the past that nostalgia has rewritten in our heads.

Change is difficult. Even when change is for the better, there’s a part of us that still yearns for the past.

Nathanael: can’t help thinking about how small he was…
Mosaic:

When things fall apart
when life shifts
when something ends
we don’t just want healing.
We want to go back.
We don’t just grieve what we’ve lost.
We grieve the version of life we thought we were going to have.

In the garden, Martha finally recognizes who she’s been talking with.
After all the confusion.
After all the running.
After all the weeping.
Jesus says her name.

“Mary.”

Mary, relieved… is that the word? that Jesus is in fact alive goes to hold him — isn’t that the normal reaction? to hold; to hug; to cling tightly.

Jesus cuts her off and says, “Do not hold on to me.”
It’s kinda weird; ruins the vibe
how would you respond to someone who you loved was presumed dead and now is alive?
I mean, I hold Nathanael just an extra bit tighter when hearing news of young children on the spectrum drowning.

If I’m Mary, I’m not letting go.
I’m hugging him. I’m grabbing onto him like, “you’re not going anywhere this time.”
We saw you die. We went through all of that, and now you’re telling me not to hold on?

I want you to notice that Jesus emulate MC Hammer and saying, ‘u can’t touch this.’ If you know that reference, we’re old.

He says, do not hold on to me.
Perhaps for today, we can view Jesus words in a more figurative way than a literal one.
Maybe Mary wasn’t just trying to hold on to Jesus.
Maybe She wants to hold on to what was.
Maybe She’s expecting; she’s _hoping_ that everything will go back to the way things were:
before the betrayal.
before the trial.
before the crucifixion.
before the tomb.
before everything fell apart.

She wants to start right where everything left off.
She wants a mulligan; a reset. Mary is assuming that everything will go back to normal. The disciples will be reunited with Jesus; they’d go doing the exact same thing they did 3 years earlier.

And Jesus says ‘no.’
Jesus is telling Mary — and us — that resurrection isn’t about going back.
It’s not about returning to life as it was.
Resurrection doesn’t restore what was — it transforms what is.

Mary is not being denied Jesus.
Mary is being invited into something new.
A new kind of relationship.
A new way of knowing him.
A new way of following him.

Not by holding on…
but by moving forward.

Oh how difficult moving forward is.
Nostalgia can be one powerful drug as well.
It has a way reminding us that — even if the past was a living hell… it was at least a hell I was familiar with.
And that familiarity has the power us pulling us down and imprisoning us.
While in the desert, after escaping enslavement in Egypt, the Israelites say this to Moses:
If only we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.”

Just think about this…
They are complaining that Moses gave them freedom.
They think back to the time in Egypt. At least we had snacks!
But they forgot they were slaves in Egypt.

Hebrew Word for Egypt: Mitzrayim 
But Mitzrayim has a double meaning:
Mitzrayim also means a narrow place; a place of limitations.

So we’re not just talking about a physical and a geographical place — it’s also refers to the condition of our hearts, souls, and spirits.
which means, the story of Exodus, God leading God’s people out of mitzrayim is not a one-time event that happened ages ago.

God is still leading us out of our narrow places; out of confinement; out of places with limitations.
The thing about mitzrayim is that it forces you to accept the that the limitations of your soul and spirit is the norm.

That you were not meant for more. That this is your lot. This is who you were.
So when you step out into the open — we’re confronted with fear more than joy.
The odd thing about freedom is that it can give us a sense of being trapped as well.
It’s like having too many options — you don’t know what to do.
And we start thinking about how comfortable our confinement was.
So instead of moving forward, nostalgia pulls us back.
Back into the toxic relationships
Back into the situations that sucks the life out of us;

We say things like, “I just want things to go back to normal.”
But what if normal is gone?
What if the thing you’re trying to hold onto is the very thing keeping you from recognizing what God is doing now?

Mary almost misses resurrection.
Because she was looking for what used to be.

I’m willing to bet, some of us are in our mitzrayims, holding tightly.
to what was.
to what we thought life would look like.
Holding on to expectations that didn’t come true.
Holding on to a version of ourselves that no longer fits.

And Jesus isn’t saying, “Stop caring.”
He’s saying, “You can’t carry that into what I’m doing next.”
Resurrection is not God giving you your old life back.
Resurrection is God bringing new life out of what you thought was over.
And new life does not look like the old life.
It’s unfamiliar.
It’s uncomfortable.
It requires trust.
It requires letting go.

Jesus doesn’t say, “Don’t touch me.”
He says, “Do not hold on to me.”
Right after that, he gives Mary a direction.

He says, “Go.”
Go to the others.
Go tell them.
Go step into what’s next.

So Mary leaves the garden with one sentence:

“I have seen the Lord.”

Something shifted within her.
Grief didn’t disappear… but it didn’t win.
Darkness was still real… but it wasn’t all there was.

I think this is what Easter offers us.
Not certainty.
Not the answers to all our questions.
But… just enough of a shift to realize this is not the end. That the worst thing will never be the final thing.
Just enough light for you to see and take that step forward.

In the words of famous philosopher, Dory the Blue Tang Fish:
Just keep swimming.
Keep moving forward, even if it’s a baby step; even if the only you can do is doggy paddle.
don’t go back.
Don’t return to what shrinks you.
Don’t return to the stories that keep you small.
Don’t return to what felt familiar but was never life.
Keep going forward.

Step out of the narrow place.
Step out of what has held you.
Step into what is opening in front of you.
You don’t have to have it all figured out.
You’ve seen Jesus.
You’ve seen love in action.
So you’ve seen enough to know this is not the end.
Enough to take one more step.

Sometimes that’s all resurrection looks like.
One step out of the tomb. Into life.

So take that step forward.
For Christ is risen.
Christ is risen indeed.