Arise, my soul, arise

What is your calling in life?

What do people mean when they say they are called to be a pastor, or to do urban ministry, or to be a missionary? Is it possible to not be called to serve poor people or battered women or prisoners, or not be called to be a mother or a father, or not be called to be a counselor, or a worship leader, or an usher?

What is your calling? Are you called?

I may not know you very well. In fact, I may not know you at all. But I do know that you are called.

A little over eight years ago, a small Chinese church in the suburbs of Chicago called Hans to be their English minister. With our wedding approaching, he asked the church for a little more time. He wanted me to visit the church after the wedding and we would make the decision together. During our honeymoon and the few weeks after, we had this big decision to make. We knew we would be serving somewhere, but was this the right church?

Every fiber of my being screamed — No.

That is, until I met them. We visited the church the first Sunday we were in Chicago. Seven young people. Bright faced, cheerful, so lovely. Suddenly, it wasn't just any random church anymore. These were people, who needed help. Even then, I was not quite convinced that this was our "calling" and would much rather go back to planning my own life.

But my husband was certain that we should stay. So, we did. And I am so grateful for his decision. I cannot overstate how glad I am that the Lord called us to this church.

Being called has little to do with my feelings or desires. Being called has little to do with my talents or abilities. Being called has everything to do with the One who is doing the calling. Being called has everything to do with who is King over me, whom I am living for.

We cannot predict our future. We can, however, take on whatever task set before us by faith, with joy, making a habit of rising to the occasion — doing whatever the trial demands of us. Or, in the words that the Lord commanded Joshua, be strong and very courageous.

This is wartime. Eternal rest and peace is coming, I am certain of this. But today, we are at war.

We were once rebels. We were once slaves of another kingdom. But the King called us, by name, to be his own. The King's Son died in our place, and the Father adopted us, former rebels, into his family. We are now his sons and daughters.

In this household, the King's children do not sit around during wartime. The King's children do not chase after their own comfort, or their own success, or more money for their own glory. This would be absurd.

No, the King's children would rise, and fight.

In the King's house, it is all hands on deck, all the time, until his kingdom come and his will is done, on earth as it is in heaven. Some are at the frontline, some are in the trenches. Some are commanding officers, some are cooks. Some care for the sick and wounded, some sharpen arrows (my task at the moment). The question is not "what is my calling?" The question should be, whom am I serving? Am I building my own kingdom, or am I serving the King?

I may not know you, but I know that you are called.

The King calls you to be his child.

This one calling would lead to millions of smaller callings. This one decision would lead to millions of smaller decisions. The narrowness of this calling is the narrowness of a birth canal. There is an entire universe waiting on the other side.

I never felt particularly "called" to be a minister's wife. Yet, there we were. I never felt particularly "called" to be a mother. Yet, here I am. I never felt particularly "called" to host a mother duck on our balcony (of all the places she could have chosen!). Yet, here I am, taking pictures of her eggs like I would my own babies. Because my calling has little to do with me — my feelings, or abilities, or desire. My calling has everything to do with the One who is calling me — to his purpose and his grace.

But I must listen.

I must hear the King's voice and hide his Word in my heart.

I may not know your smaller callings. I may not know the hundreds of decisions you need to make in the coming days and years. But I do know that if we stay near to our Father, if we look to him from moment to moment, he will use our every decision, every moment for his grace-filled purposes.

I learned today about a man in Liberia named Johnny. He was born a cripple. His mother wept over him because in that society, his prospects were utterly hopeless. Just another roadside beggar. But Johnny had a friend. This friend carried Johnny on his back and brought him to church. There, the King called Johnny out of darkness into the kingdom of light.

Shortly after his conversion, Johnny was so compelled to serve his mother that he would drag himself around the village with his able arms, collecting dirty dishes and washing them. The Lord would later raise this broken body to bring the Gospel to the unreached places of Liberia. There, Johnny served the Gola tribe as their youth pastor. Children would flock around Johnny's wheelchair wherever he went, and he called them to believe in Jesus.

Johnny heard his King calling, and he rose.


Arise, Soul, arise.





(Johnny's story begin at 09:22, but the entire video is worth watching)

Freezing beautiful

My friend Laura recently posted on her Facebook status that she has: 

been laboring to help her 7 year old understand how hard it would be to show up in the middle of the year in a new classroom to find yourself one of the only people of color and far, far behind academically. A little warmth and kindness can go a long way, my child. Can you overcome your shyness, be brave, and reach out? You will not regret it, sweetheart.

Her words came as a gentle knocking on the door of my childhood that I prefer to be kept locked.

I was the only person of color in my fourth-grade class in Dubuque, Iowa. I was the new girl with black hair and a strange nose. The girl with the mismatched clothes of awkward proportions and clashing colors, courtesy of people's donations. I spoke no English, and I had just learned that I had an English name. I-R-E-something-something.

My sisters and I moved across cultures and continents quite a bit when we were growing up. I was on my first international flight when I was 21 days old. My mother packed all our belongings — right after she gave birth — and we flew to Indonesia. How she managed this, I will never know. By the time I turned 4 years old, we had lived in 4 different countries.

We met many friendly people, but we had very few friends. Along with all the perks of international living came a fair dose of loneliness, and being teased and bullied.

Sticks and stones might break my bones, but unkind words always hurt me. I stood there, surrounded by people yet feeling completely alone, and confused. My face hot and tingly, embarrassed. Was this really happening? Was I imagining all of this?

The worst part about being teased and bullied was the silence of the on-lookers. They watched, yet they did nothing. They said nothing.

So, when I read that my thoughtful friend was teaching her shy daughter to befriend the new student, my heart swelled with gratitude and hope. Yes, we must teach our children that teasing and bullying is unkind. This is the easy, obvious part. But we cannot stop here.

I hope and pray that my children would learn to overcome their own self-consciousness, to see beyond their fears, and reach out to others. To have the courage to speak to and speak up for those who have no friends. We tell the boys often that they are their brothers' keepers. They are to stand with each other, and stand for each other. They are to be their brothers' strength and the shield.

As Laura said, a little warmth and kindness would go a long way. To have someone who would see me as a friend, despite my strangeness. To have friend to sit with me during lunch time, to stand in line with me, and do nothing with me at recess. I knew the difference between having one friend, and having none.

I had a friend. Her name was Keturah, and she lived next door. She introduced me to Barbie dolls, snow forts, and bicycles. She taught me how to play tetherball. I loved playing with her even though I always lost.

She taught me English by simply talking to me. I said her hair was yellow, she said her hair was blonde. On the morning the leaves turned red, she said to me, "I am freezing cold." I thought, "freezing" must mean "very." So, I started saying things like, "That is freezing beautiful," and "I am freezing hungry." We walked home together one afternoon after it had just snowed. I said to her, "The trees are freezing white!" She just looked at me, confused, and we kept walking.

Two years later, my family moved again, back to Malaysia. Reverse culture shock was even more brutal. I no longer looked different from everybody else, but I was — different. The bullies knew that I was. Teenagers were even meaner than children. Words now hurt a lot more. And there was no Keturah in sight.

In my sadness, another friend showed up. His name was Jesus, my true and never failing friend. He was my strength and my shield. He was the keeper of my heart. He became freezing beautiful to me, and I realized I had been freezing hungry my whole life. He was my manna in the desert.

He walks me home.

The best gift, by far

The thing about life-changing moments is that you don't know that they would be life-changing until they have passed. It is when you look back, you are hit with the realization that you are now a different person.

Photo by my sister Catherine Yong

When I was seventeen, my mom was diagnosed with cancer. When she told me that she had cancer, I cried. And she was the one who comforted me.

On my eighteenth birthday, she received her third dose of chemotherapy. She protected us by locking herself in the bedroom. She did not want her daughters to see her in such a state. Years later, she would tell me how awful these treatments were. How sick she felt. How she would crawl to the bathroom when she needed to vomit. How she fought to stay alive, for us.

Suffering is the part of heroism that we are less keen to talk about. We want to remember the triumphs, the celebrations. But heroes suffer.

Our home was dark and quiet during those months. Ma was the one who switched on the lights when the sun went down. If she saw us reading in the dark, she would say, "Don't ruin your eyes, always read with the lights on." When she was sick, no one else thought to flip on the lights. That is until we got tired of groping in the dark.

One evening, I walked into the living room and found a fairly common sight. Pa was sitting next to Ma. Ma had taken off her scarf. He was stroking her bald head. During the day, she wore her scarf with so much dignity and courage. In Malaysia, covering one's head carried a religious meaning — it was a mark of the Muslim woman. If strangers stared (and they did, a lot, because Ma did not look quite like a Muslim), Ma would graciously explain that she was a Christian, fighting cancer.

Anyway, I walked into the living room that evening not knowing that my life would be changed, that this picture of my father caressing my mother's bald head would stay with me for years to come. It held so much of what I knew about them, about their one-ness. When I came to the States for college, this picture of them, sitting together, comforted me during my darkest nights. When Hans asked me to marry him, I thought to myself, can we be happy, like that?

Of all the gifts that my parents gave to me, the best gift, by far, was the gift of their love for one another. I don't recall a lot of chocolates or roses, though I am sure there were some. I do recall, however, specific examples of how they changed and grew and sacrificed their own interests for the sake of the other person.

My dad loved my mom. He took her out for walks everyday. They watched the sunset. They held hands. They talked. They laughed, a lot. And Pa caressed Ma's head when she was bald. "To keep her warm," he would explain. But I knew it was because he loved her.

I am Thine

Dear friend,

I heard you that have been restless and weary. The days are long, but the years are short. In case you, like me, need words of help to pray, here is one I am praying today.

Often foolish, I act as though I am my own resting place. But as the Lord is kind to reveal, again and again, that I am not enough. I am not trustworthy; I am not strong.

Thank you, Puritan brothers and sisters, for writing down your prayers.

O HEAVENLY FATHER, 

Teach me to see
that if Christ has pacified Thee and satisfied divine justice,
He can also deliver me from my sins;
that Christ does not desire me, now justified,
to live in self-confidence and in my own strength,
but gives me the law of the Spirit of Life, to enable me to obey Thee;
that the Spirit and His power are mine by resting on Christ’s death;
that the Spirit of Life within answers to the law without;
that if I sin not I should thank Thee for it;
that if I sin I should be humbled daily under it;
that I should mourn for sin more than other men do,
for when I see I shall die because of sin that makes me mourn;
when I see how sin strikes at Thee, that makes me mourn;
when I see that sin caused Christ’s death, that makes me mourn;
that sanctification is the evidence of reconciliation,
proving that faith has truly apprehended Christ;

Thou hast taught me
that faith is nothing else than receiving Thy kindness;
that it is an adherence to Christ, a resting on Him,
love clinging to Him as a branch to the tree, to seek life and vigour from Him.

I thank Thee for showing me the vast difference between knowing things by reason,
and knowing them by the spirit of faith.

By reason I see a thing is so; by faith I know it as it is.
I have seen Thee by reason and have not been amazed,
I have seen Thee as Thou art in the Son and have been ravished to behold Thee!

I bless Thee that I am Thine in my Savior, Jesus.

The Valley of Vision, 102-103.

Snot on my armor

{A short Biblical theology of fashion}

In his mercy, God clothed Adam and Eve. The serpent promised that their eyes would be opened if they ate the fruit of the forbidden tree. The irony is that their eyes were opened—unto death. They stood there, naked. Fig leaves were not enough to cover their shame.

All of us—men and women—wear clothes, everyday. The Bible has so much to say about fashion and what we should wear. Except for the occasional mention of modesty, however, our theology of clothing is as thin as a shabby T-shirt in the winter storm.

Our Lord Jesus declares, it is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person. What defiles a person, he says, proceeds from the heart. By the same principle, it is not what I put on my body that defiles me, my heart defiles me. I could be covered from head to toe and still be defiled. Living out a Biblical understanding of clothing is not about what I wear, but why I wear what I wear.

1. I wear clothes as a reminder of Adam and Eve's former glory.
Adam and Eve walked with God in Eden. They had nothing to prove, nothing to hide. Their lost their glory when they rebelled against God. When they felt shame for the first time, their impulse was to cover themselves, though their leafy garments were insufficient. God did not reprimand them for their desire to cover themselves. Instead, he clothed them with something far better — garments of skin that required the spilling of blood. Therefore, returning to our naked state is not an option. Our reality is now outside Eden. Therefore, we clothe ourselves.

2. I wear clothes as a confession that I am not who I ought to be.
The king of Nineveh took off his royal robe and covered himself with sackcloth and ashes. He commanded his people to do likewise.The Lord looked on the nation with mercy and forgave them of their sin. I put on clothes every morning as a prayer unto the Lord for mercy. I confess that I am a rebel, I cannot save myself. I am not enough. My clothes are my sackcloth and ashes, a sign of my repentance.

3. I wear clothes as a confession that Jesus Christ is my perfect covering.
I am hidden in the death and the life of my Lord Jesus Christ. I can stand before the Father's throne because he sees the perfect obedience of his Son. I put on my clothes — in remembrance of him. Christ is my perfect covering, my armor of light. Christ is my helmet of salvation. Christ is my breastplate of righteousness. Christ is my belt of truth. Christ is my combat boots, preparing me to preach the Gospel of peace. Christ is my shield. He gives me the sword of the Spirit, his living Word.

4. I wear clothes as a reminder of the Church's present labor and future glory.
The Lamb of God laid down his life for his Bride, the Church. His blood purchased her fine linen of righteousness, bright and pure. While we wait for his return, we, his royal priesthood, shall labor in our priestly garments. We wear our priestly robes in service of others, in the presence of God. Our robes could look like office attires, nurses' scrubs, hospital gowns, military uniforms, firefighters' suits, a chef's hat, prison uniforms, or — my blouse and jeans. My priestly garment is currently covered with paint, snot, a splash of bath water, mud, cream cheese, and I smell like chocolate cookies. Somewhat like the priestly garments in the Old Testament, without so much blood.

I like pretty clothes. But I don't like to admit I like pretty clothes, because I don't want people to think I am vain and superficial, though I can be. There is nothing wrong with wearing pretty things, because it is not what I put on my body that defiles me. My heart defiles me; idolatry defiles me. Wearing things (pretty or not, long or short) for my own glory defiles me. People may judge me according to my outward appearance, but the Lord sees my heart. The Lord sees why I wear what I wear; he sees my intentions, my motivations. And that's a scarier thought.

So, why do I wear what I wear?

I change out of my pajamas in the morning out of respect for my children as we begin our homeschool. I put on my favorite things on Sundays because I get to stand before God in the midst of his congregation. I feel weird about wearing cross necklaces because the cross is the sign of my death penalty that Christ has paid. And I feel weird about seeing my death penalty decorated in gold and hanging around my neck. I don't wear WWJD bracelets because I think they are ugly. And I prefer my priestly garments to be non-ugly.

But what do I know? I have snot on me.

When I love certain things a little too much, I ask myself, "Am I willing to give this away?" I am learning, slowly, to hold all things loosely. Fabric, faux-fur, and leather are merely shadows of what is to come.

I read recently a story about an 80-year-old farmer in North Korea. In the cloak of darkness, he goes on a boat and drops scripture leaflets along the coastline of the hermit kingdom. “I pray over every gospel leaflet I throw into the sea," he says. "I pray for those who will read them as they wash up on the shore. This is now my profession, the most important task of my life.”

For this reason, he goes out into the night wearing his nicely pressed suit and a tie around his neck. He puts on his best. He knows for whom he is dressed; he knows of whom he is wearing.

And so must I.



My updated thoughts on a biblical theology of clothing: The Gospel on Our Sleeves.

Flinging life away for love of him

Hans and I never lived in the same state until the day we got married. After the wedding, everyday was like a big date. We got to eat, work, and talk — face to face. We even got to decide how to spend our leisure time together. I know, crazy stuff. Hans knew what I loved. He took me out on walks; even on our shoestring budget, we tried a few new restaurants and museums. He was a lovely man.

And then, he taught me how to play strategy games.

I must confess, at first, I just didn't get it. I did not understand the benefits of staring at a board, or the computer screen, for hours upon hours. What were we accomplishing? How was this useful? What am I getting out of this? Did he not know that our dates were about me and revolved around my interests and for my benefit?

Seriously.

I disdain useless things and I have an irrational fear of being useless. Thinking about it makes my throat close and I can't breath. When I was pregnant, I couldn't stand my closet. I wanted to purge everything because nothing, not even the stretchy things, would fit. But Hans wisely told me to hold off on giving everything away, at least until the baby arrives.

I am my own idol. Even during some of my finer moments of serving others and keeping spiritual disciplines, I can be very concerned about myself and what's in it for me. Meditating on Mary's love for Jesus has been good for my soul.

Mary, and how she sat at Jesus' feet, listening to every word, watching every gesture, beholding every expression. Mary, and how she fell at his feet, weeping. How she broke and poured her alabaster jar of pure nard, on Jesus' feet. How she wiped Jesus' feet with her hair.

Mary's love for Jesus was so indiscreet, and even immodest. Hers was a love that was self-forgetting. She broke decorum and abandoned respectability. She used the crown of her head to wipe the dirt beneath his feet. Her worship of Jesus made people uncomfortable.

Mary placed herself at his feet. This is a pattern in Mary's relationship to Jesus. She was always at his feet. This was not a mutual exchange, not an equal give and take. This was not Mary helping Jesus out. This was worship.

Martha welcomed, served, and helped. Judas was an advocate for the poor. Mary did nothing useful of that sort. Yet, Jesus commended her, defended her. He called her sacrifice beautiful. Jesus was not saying hospitality was bad or feeding the poor was bad, but Jesus was distinguishing these works from Mary's worship. Unlike the others, Mary saw Jesus properly, so she responded properly — with homage and devotion.

Love takes us beyond ourselves. Of course, love can be helpful and practical, like receiving socks on Christmas morning. In fact, I love receiving socks for Christmas. But love can and should also be extravagant and unreasonable and sacrificial. For some birthdays, Hans would give me useful and practical gifts like my dutch oven and my chef's knife. For other birthdays, and especially for my non-birthdays, he would give me outrageous things, like a polka dot skirt. In the winter. He is a lovely man.

I am look forward to spring.
 

The only thing I bring to my salvation is my sin. Christ took my sin and death upon the cross, and in exchange, he gave me new life — with him. Therefore, I need to quit asking, "Am I being used by God?" Because, frankly, I am of no use to him at all.

The Father is looking for worshipers, like Mary, who are not the least bit concerned about themselves and what is in it for them. Because Mary surrendered herself, Jesus says her story would be told wherever the Gospel is proclaimed.

Consider this final passage by Howard Guinness in his book Sacrifice:

Where are the young men and women of this generation who will hold their lives cheap and be faithful even unto death? Where are those who will lose their lives for Christ’s sake, flinging them away for love of him? Where are those who will live dangerously and be reckless in his service? Where are his lovers, those who love him and the souls of men more than their own reputations or comfort or very life?

Nearly eight years later, Hans made a convert out of me. I love strategy games. It's a lot more fun now that I know what is in it for me.

A lot of wins.
Ha. Just kidding.

The dove returned

We heard last week that North Korea's supreme leader Kim Jong Un ordered the execution of 33 Christians. As we scoured the internet, we could only find bits and pieces of news, tainted with staged interviews and scripted press releases. From this distance, it is hard to distinguish truth from propaganda.

I found this sliver of information to be consistent in the reports: The 33 Christians were accused of planting 500 underground churches.

Our hearts swelled with a joyful sorrow.

Thirty-three. As it was in the days of Noah, the dove returned in the evening, bearing in her mouth a freshly plucked olive leaf. Ironically, the news of their death sentence is a sign of life — the Lord is at work. So, we receive this dire news with hope. The Body of Christ is alive in North Korea. Against all odds, the church is growing.

This is remarkable given the degree of persecution against Christians there. Following Christ comes at a great cost, sacrifices of many kinds. The "three-generation" policy makes North Korea the most brutal and suppressive regiment against Christianity in the world. Not only would the accused individual be sent to labor camps, but their families, their parents and children, would all be put away. Imagine having to watch your elderly parents and young children die of starvation and exhaustion — because you were found to be in possession of a gospel tract, or a few pages of the Bible.

The blood of God's children cries out from the ground. We must keep our brothers and sisters in our prayers. Pray not only for the 33 saints, but pray for their families, pray for the underground churches, pray for the pastors, and all the saints. Pray that they would be strong and courageous. Pray that they are somehow able to hear God's Word. Let us keep praying for them with all vigilance.





My sister Jean shared this hymn with us last week. She took an old hymn and gave it a new melody and a bridge. As I listened to it the first few times, I was filled with curiosity and admiration for Jean's gift. But as I started singing with her, this song really got to me.

So, I am sharing with you the soundtrack of my prayers for North Korea. I praise the Lord for their testimony, how they hastened to follow Christ, despite the many waters of persecution.

I am hastening, slowly.
Would you come with me? I would love your company.


Stanzas 1 & 2:
Resolved no longer to linger,
Charmed by the world's delight,
Things that are higher, things that are nobler,
These have allured my sight.

Resolved to go to the Savior,
Leaving my sin and strife;
He is the true One, He is the just One,
He hath the words of life.

Refrain:
I will hasten to Him,
Hasten so glad and free;
Jesus, greatest, highest,
I will come to Thee.

Stanzas 3 & 4:
Resolved to follow the Savior,
Faithful and true each day;
Heed what He sayeth, do what He willeth,
He is the living Way.

Resolved to enter the kingdom
Leaving the paths of sin;
Friends may oppose me, foes may beset me,
Still will I enter in.

Refrain:
I will hasten to Him,
Hasten so glad and free;
Jesus, greatest, highest,
I will come to Thee.

Stanza 5:
Resolved, and who will go with me?
Come, friends, without delay,
Taught by the Bible, led by the Spirit,
We'll walk the heav'nly way.

Bridge:
He's awaiting that glorious day
When His bride sees Him face to face
He's preparing her for that day
Dressed in white and adorned in grace
A queen readied for her place.
Refrain:
Shall we hasten to Him?
Hasten so glad and free;
Jesus, greatest, highest,
We will come to Thee.