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The Deadly Viper Controversy, Week Two

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 04:27:59 GMT

Yes, it's been months since my last blog, but hey, I'm at the mercy of the current of events and the temperature of my inspiration. Something sufficiently registered on my radar a week ago today so I'm ready to take the plunge with you once more.

Monday, November 2, found me at my alma mater, Fuller Seminary, as a panelist at a symposium on the future of Asian American churches. As a respondent, I'd been given a draft of Dr. Jonathan Tran's two lectures ahead of time, so I knew going in that a good twenty percent of this first lecture was aimed squarely at our church (Evergreen Baptist Church of LA) and the one Dave Gibbon's planted in Irvine (Newsong) a little more than a decade ago. Following his lecture, I used my ten minutes to take apart his equating us (an 80+ year-old church compromised of four generations of various Asians, Asian Americans, and all kinds of other groups) with a church that was planted not long ago and that didn't come close to having our diversity in ages and generations. Dr. Tran was extremely gracious in receiving all of our critiques. Immediately after he issued his brief response, I was on my way to LAX to catch the last flight to Dallas. The symposium overlapped with my commitment to mentor nine 30-40ish senior or solo Asian American pastors and they had gathered again from around the country for the final installment in our 18-month-long experience.

All of this is my way of explaining why I woke up in Texas, Tuesday morning, without a clue of what had exploded all over the internet the previous day.

North Park Seminary's Dr. Soong-Chan Rah had been flipping through the new catalogue from Zondervan on Monday when something caught his eye on one of the pages. The clearly Asian graphics on the cover of one of the promoted books was unexpected. Even more, though, was the book's title: "Deadly Viper Character Assassins: A Kung Fu Survival Guide for Life and Leadership." Co-authors Mike Foster and Jud Wilhite had framed an important but rather boilerplate topic (achieving and maintaining Christian character for leaders, executives, etc.) with this sort of "Kill Bill" (Quentin Tarantino's series of movies that revolved around various assassins) gimmick. I've only read reviews of the book and glimpsed brief snippets of its content, but I believe they came at this topic from the angle of there being these different kinds of martial-arts-related "assassins," e.g. ninjas, who are out to destroy your character if you're not careful.

Okay, so I never studied martial arts but I was a huge Bruce Lee fan (as was EVERY AsiAm male in the '70s) and, to a much lesser degree, I've seen my share of Jackie Chan, Jet Li, Sho Kosugi (ninja superstar), and I've even watched an occasional Chuck Norris and Steven Seagal flick (ok, most of the Seagal flicks). Oh yeah, even Jason Scott Lee. And even if the reviews are tepid, I'm probably going to go see the "Ninja Assassin" when it comes out later this month just because, even at the tender age of nearly 55, I still find myself drawn to martial arts movies.

So then, why was I drawn into the firestorm that erupted last week against the authors and the publisher of "Deadly Viper Character Assassins"? Why wasn't I just drawn to this book on Christian character that is framed within a martial arts, Asian-esque motif? Why isn't the way the authors chose to use Chinese characters and a strange intermixing of Japanese and Chinese martial arts images a huge boost to my historically beleaguered AsiAm male ego?

Since I'm already in the mode of truth-telling, my AsiAm male ego honestly hasn't really felt that beleaguered for more than ten years now. It's partly due to the fact that I'm too old and misshapen to make any non-Asian assume that I am a martial arts expert anymore. But mainly it's because I've long since made peace with how I look and how others look at me. Maturing as an apprentice of Jesus has been a sizable part of that inner transformation.

So when I first heard about the building outcry against the co-opting of historically hurtful or demeaning Asian images by the authors and the publisher, my first reaction wasn't pain or outrage. It was more like "So what's all this fuss about?" In scanning the blogosphere, I saw where another AsiAm Christian blogger was calling me out, along with Francis Chan, Dave Gibbons, and Peter Cha, to weigh in on this controversy. Sheesh! That was the first time I've ever been publicly called out twice in the same week (Tran's lecture @ Fuller, remember?). I haven't come across anything from those other three yet, but I ended up jumping in head first Thursday, after coming back from Dallas the night before. By Friday, I was part of a 7 AM conference call with Rah, Pastor Eugene Cho (Quest Church, Seattle), and Kathy Khang, of InterVarsity Christian Fellowship.

My three brilliant colleagues made the case to these executives from Zondervan exactly why the use of these images was so offensive to so many Asians and Asian Americans. Rather than me going into all of that here, please check out Soong-Chan's blog at http://profrah.wordpress.com If you scroll down, you will get a chronological understanding of this issue as well as where everything now stands. Zondervan has asked us to please be patient as they gather more information, confer with Mike and Jud, and weigh their options. We told them that a public offense requires a public apology but they never promised that they would eventually issue one.

They kept saying that the content of the book was solid and wanted to be sure that none of were offended by the content. My friends and colleagues went out of their way to affirm the lessons on Christian character. I, on the other hand, quipped that, depending on how the authors and the publishers respond to the growing outcries against the co-opting of these historically limiting images for many Asians and Asian Americans would have everything to do with whether or not I had issues with the book's content. "The Bible teaches that we're all part of Christ's body and if any part of the body is in pain, the entire body is supposed to feel that same pain. Whether or not anyone intended to offend or harm any Asians or Asian Americans, we are telling you that that is what you've done. All of your sincerest apologies mean nothing to us if you continue to sell the books or maintain the "Deadly Vipers" webpage. To me, how you all handle this issue, now that we've taken the time to explain why these images are offensive to us, is going to speak volumes about all of your character."

What's most disturbing to me about all of this is that this is the second time in three years that Zondervan has put out a book that portrays Asians in a demeaning way. The first time was when they published Youth Specialties "The Skit Guy," in which one of the characters to portray is an immigrant Chinese restaurant delivery guy. Rah called them on that and they eventually pulled the material. Back then, they reassured Rah that they were going to improve their vetting process so that this would never happen again. The fact that it has means that, despite whatever ways Zondervan believes that they have broadened the scope of their vetting process, it still has major blind spots when it comes to Asians and Asian Americans. The four of us told them, in no uncertain terms, that their use of these images was entirely inappropriate, insensitive, and offensive to many of their Asian and AsiAm brothers and sisters in Christ. I said to them, "So what if Mike and Jud had settled on harmfully stereotypical images of people with serious disabilities as the way to frame this book on character? What if, instead of ninja "character assassins," they chose to portray severely disabled people like the old circus sideshow 'freaks' who are out there wanting to 'disable' our characters. Are you telling me that you'd green light this project? Well, it might not sound like the same issue to you, but it's pretty darn close."

I've made the decision to get involved and I hope that you will too. Get your thoughts together and then send an email to one of the executives that was on that conference call with us. His name is Jason Vines and his address is Jason.Vines@zondervan.com. Let Zondervan and the authors know that many of us Asians and AsiAms are proud of coming from cultures that spawned the martial arts and that even more of us have well-developed senses of humor. So this all this hullabaloo isn't because some of us are a bunch of thin-skinned, humorless party poopers. Tell them, though, that we're upset because Zondervan supposedly already got the memo three years ago that this kind of stuff is completely unacceptable. We expect more and better from Christians at a time when America has an African American First Family and there increasing numbers of black and brown faces in all kinds of roles in the media today. We're just tired that the majority of roles offered to Asian actors and actresses still revolve around martial arts, gangsters, and sex objects. On second thought, I'd love to see an Asian or AsiAm male portrayed on the big or little screen as a sex object.

How Long Must We Suffer the Consequences of Our Worst Sins?

Fri, 02 Oct 2009 18:51:01 GMT

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Should a person be forever defined by his or her worst sin? This question has long haunted me but it’s pushed its way to the front of my brain lately because of a disgraced film director and a disgraced football player being in the news today.

Not long ago, Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick was riding the tidal wave of his success on the gridiron. Brash and flush with cash from his pro contract and lucrative endorsement deals, Vick was the epitome of the instant fame and fortune that are the consequences of bringing instant credibility to a formally mediocre and obscure football team. But all of that went down the toilet in 2007 when the rumors about his being involved in illegal dog-fighting proved to be true. Vick eventually was convicted of lying to the judge about running this heinous operation and was sentenced to serve 23 months in prison for his crimes. The NFL and his team cut him loose and he lost his endorsements. During his incarceration, Vick famously repented of his wrongdoings and recently completed his sentence. He was conditionally re-instated by the NFL and signed to play with the Philadelphia Eagles. Animal lovers around the world were aghast that Vick would get another shot at playing football for an insane amount of money while some football fans felt that he had paid his debt in full and deserved a chance to redeem himself doing what he does best.

And then there’s the current attempt to extradite infamous Hollywood director Roman Polanski, who’d managed to elude the long arm of American justice since fleeing the country after his 1977 conviction of the statutory rape of a 13-year-old girl in Los Angeles. The director of such notable films as “Rosemary’s Baby,” “Chinatown,” and “The Pianist,” the now-seventy-six-year-old Polanski was in Switzerland, attending the Zurich Film Festival when Swiss authorities arrested him on behalf of the U.S. government. Many of today’s liberal Hollywood luminaries are arguing that he should not be extradited to serve his sentence now, since he has proven himself to be much more than a pedophile. Conservatives are demanding that he be made to return to the scene of his unquestioned crime of 32 years ago and suffer the full consequences.

So should a person—whether famous or only known to just a few—be forever defined his or her worst sin? I’ve long believed that while Jesus offers complete and unconditional forgiveness of our sins (1 John 1:9f), he doesn’t offer or promise always to remove the consequences of our sin. If you are convicted of pulling out dogs’ teeth with pliers or electrocuting those who stopped performing well in the ring, people aren’t going to forget that, even if you’ve served your time. Or if you drugged a 13-year-old and then sodomized her—even if this happened more than three decades ago—don’t be surprised if most people will forever associate you with that perverted act of lust. I don’t know if either Vick or Polanski has ever begged Jesus for forgiveness, but if they did, the Bible tells us that Jesus would forgive them, no questions asked. However, some of the consequences of their sins may still apply, maybe for the rest of their lives.

What’s your worst sin? If you weren’t able to keep it a secret, have you had to suffer the consequences of that sin for the rest of your life? What have some of those consequences been? Do you still feel that Jesus has completely forgiven you even if you are still made to suffer the consequences, maybe always? Jesus forgives but quite often people—especially those we’ve sinned against—don’t forget.

Jesus forgives and then forgets. Jesus calls us to forgive too, but our problem is we can’t or won't forget.

I don’t know about you, but I know that I have not been forever defined by my worst sin. Is that a byproduct of the fact that my worst sin wasn’t a legal matter or because, in this day and age, it’s not as scandalous as it used to be? Could it be because my worst sin is something that many of my would-be condemners have also committed? All I know is that my life today and my involvement in God’s kingdom-work isn’t limited by my worst sin. I’m certainly not proud about having this in my past but neither will I allow myself or others to think that I have no rap sheet. Instead, I am committed to coming alongside others who are struggling with similar sins and extending the experience of Jesus’ amazing grace. And while there still may have to be consequences to be suffered, I will emphasize that what should define all of us hapless and hopeless sinners today is who we are to Jesus and who we are in Jesus.

What We Typically Do When Our Leaders Fail Us

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 02:12:12 GMT

When President Clinton had nowhere to hide from his affair with Monica Lewinsky, former Speaker of the House Newt Gingrich vociferously condemned the President and demanded that he resign his office. It was only years later that Gingrich confessed that he himself was entangled in an adulterous affair while he was busy attacking Clinton. One of the other politicians who led the charge to get Clinton to resign was Senator John Ensign (R-Nevada). I don't recall Ensign being part of that outcry over ten years ago, but the fact that he was is now clear because just this week, Senator Ensign confessed to having an affair with the wife of one of his staff members. So the press is having a field day now with his apparent double standard.

Last year, former Democratic golden boy and presidential candidate John Edwards came out about his illicit activities with a campaign photographer and producer. Predictably, those on the right side of the aisle had a field day tearing Edwards apart, especially since his wife Elizabeth had garnered sympathy during the primaries with her ongoing battle against breast cancer. There were calls for his resignation, though, because he no longer was an office holder. But there were plenty of bold predictions that Edwards' lack of self-discipline and poor judgment had killed his hopes of becoming the Democrats' choice for president someday.

And then we have the most recent case of Gov. Mark Sanford (R-S. Carolina). Not long ago, he grabbed headlines with his libertarian-like rejection of federal bailout money for his state's schools, but he was overruled by the courts. Three days ago, articles began popping up in the papers and on the internet, stating that he had gone missing this past weekend. His wife said she didn't know where he was but wasn't worried. His lieutenant governor (and political rival) said it was highly inappropriate for the governor just to disappear like that without letting him or other state officials know of his whereabouts. His staff at first also said that they had no idea where he was, but then began stating that Gov. Sanford had always been an 'outdoorsy' guy and that he was somewhere on the 2,500 mile Appalachian Trail, where he was hiking to recover from that recent legislative donnybrook. Like vultures drawn to a decaying carcass, this benign mystery began to attract growing numbers of Democrats and reporters in general as Sanford continued to be missing in action and further evidence seemed to point to a remote airport, not a remote hiking trail.

This latest politician's nightmare came to a head today when Gov. Sanford called a press conference and admitted that he'd been in Argentina trying to wrap up a months-long affair he'd been having with a close friend in that country. Apparently, his wife was told of his unfaithfulness five months ago and they've been seeking help and counsel. He announced that he had resigned his position as chair of the Republican Governors Association so that he would have more time to figure out what this all means for his marriage and his family. Repeatedly, he admitted that he had violated "God's moral law," was now suffering the consequences of that failure, and apologized explicitly and profusely.

As if on cue, those on the left side of the aisle are not surprisingly screaming "Hypocrite!" and demanding that Senator Ensign follow his oft-declared "Promise Keeper" Christian credentials and resign, but thus far he has said nothing to indicate that he will do this. Those mainly on the left are also calling for Gov. Sanford to resign since he clearly has failed to live up to his own conservative, Christian standards.

Sitting here in my study, all of this is like watching some really lame ping pong match, where the spectators are either major 'homers' who would rather drink acid than ever support the other team's player or they are objective observers who are completely turned off by the blatant hypocrisy of both sides. If someone really believes that cheating on one's spouse or cruising for a sex partner in a public men's room are clear signs that the guilty party has violated the public trust, disregarded their vows of holy matrimony and shown themselves to be such flawed human beings that have disqualified themselves from ever holding public office, then that standard should be applied to all public leaders, even the 'golden guys/gals' of your favorite team, right? Or do we each have a hidden well of unconditional mercy and grace for those we see as the standard bearers of our particular party or issues? Talking heads on the far right side of the radio dial today were dipping deeply into that reservoir of forebearance as they dealt with Sanford's admission of guilt today and with Ensign's the other day. Pointing a sharper accusing finger at guilty people like Edwards or Clinton is disengenuous at best and hypocritical at worst. And for talking heads on the other side of the dial to be gleefully going after Ensign and Sanford this week reeks too with the same flawed and biased double-standard. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" seems like a concept from an alien planet rather than a fundamental teaching from the book that both sides, especially the right, like to cite.

Clearly, the history of the world is proof positive that all of our leaders are flawed human beings, some more than others. Some more obviously than others. Yet some proved to be solid and needed leaders in spite of their obvious shortcomings. Others leaders on the public stage apparently had inconsequential flaws, with some even being paragons of virtue, even Christian values. Yet some of those proved to be horrible leaders.

As this latest pair of scandals plays itself out around the watercoolers and air-waves, I am doing my darndest not to revel in the trevails of Ensign or Sanford in the same way that I didn't revel in the messes that Clinton and Edwards made for themselves. As fellow flawed human beings who just don't have our sins and shortcomings dragged before the public eye, we should know that we have established an impossible standard for all of our leaders to follow. Some have gone too far, claiming far more perfection than is humanly possible and Scripturally provable, in an effort to garner votes, worship, and confidence. They add to their moral resumes by being some of the earliest and loudest voices to condemn those who have been exposed. How can I show mercy to those who have been merciless? That's where I struggle. Or how can I be understanding and forgiving when the adulterous leader isn't repentant, doesn't return to the marriage and family, but instead chooses to be with the other illicit party? Honestly, that's where I really don't know how to respond or even how to feel.

My hope is that each of us who claim to follow Jesus will never stop struggling to apply God's Golden Rule evenly to everybody, even our worst enemies or our most hated political foes. Let's not let partisanship ruin our witness for Jesus.

The Real Torture of Being a Pastor

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 03:06:36 GMT

An essential part of my morning habit is to retrieve my newspaper from wherever it was heaved and retreat to my spot in the house where I can scan the headlines to see what’s transpired while I was asleep. Perhaps as a sign of my age or life stage, I turn to the editorial pages now before I peruse the sports section. Given the debate that is being waged on talk radio these days on America’s use of torture during the just-finished Bush administration, I wasn’t the least bit surprised one recent morning to spy several headlines about this issue. What lured me into reading it, though, was a piece by former CIA interrogator who had been ordered to torture captured enemy soldiers during the Viet Nam War. The CIA believed that it had captured a high-ranking NVA officer, but despite subjecting him to all kinds of gruesome cruelty, the soldier kept denying that he was the officer in question. Finally, when the writer got involved, it was after the CIA had moved the prisoner to a small, completely white cell with no windows. They had kept him isolated there for three years, never turning off the bright overhead lights, always keeping the room temperature frosty. He only began to tell the truth when the interrogator became the only person to shatter his enforced solitude. The officer had been well-trained to endure excruciating pain and suffering. What broke him was a combination of extreme loneliness and the eventual inability to keep track of the passage of time.

While being the pastor of a local church is nothing like being tortured as a prisoner of war, it nevertheless often brings with it it’s own unique kind of torture. Speaking at a recent national gathering of Christian pastors, Pastor Rob Bell of Michigan’s Mars Hill Bible Church described our job as “death by a thousand paper cuts.” Every pastor in that audience immediately thought of the damage done by innumerable and incessant little criticisms, of the impossible-to-meet expectations and demands on the pastor and his/her family. Years and years of feeling taken for granted or not being respected also take their toll on every pastor’s spirit. Yet like God’s elite soldiers, we pastors are trained somehow to endure whatever punishment our deacons and church members can do to us. The only confession they’ll hear from us is “Thanks for sharing your concern with me. God bless you for your honesty.”

While some pastors finally succumb, many of us soldier on, seemingly impervious to repeated violations and degradations. However, our ultimate downfall is quite often the same thing that broke the NVA officer. It is not so much the ‘paper cuts’ but the ongoing isolation from meaningful contact with other pastors that, in the end, crushes our wills and defeats our spirits.

Years ago, I came to the realization that I—and not anyone else—was cutting myself off from regular, meaningful contact with other local pastors. Consumed by the boundary-less expanse of pastoring, my days, weeks, and months blurred into one continuous ball of concerns, meetings and messages. To remedy this, I called together an eclectic bunch of pastors to meet over lunch on the 4th Tuesday of each month. A few were already friends of mine; others were from nearby churches. Some of the originals are still here, others have dropped out, and each year we add a few more. The only prayer we utter is over our fast-food or leftovers. The rest of the two hours is reserved for sharing concerns, personnel issues, discussing trends, or seeking advice from peers. Being together has been meaningful if only because there is no need to explain what you do or to convince each other of the unique joys and sorrows of our shared calling. We have walked each other through the dark night of a church split. We have tried to parse the underlying issues surrounding ministering to homosexuals and their families. We have enjoyed plotting each other’s upcoming sabbaticals. Currently, we are weighing bringing our churches together to assist homeless families year-round.

Although I host our gathering, no one is ‘in charge.’ It’s really a circle of equals, regardless of the size of our budgets or the state of our churches. It’s become one of those unique groups where pastors aren’t trying to impress each other with factoids that rarely get at what matters to God. The time together goes by quickly. At two o’clock, we part company and scatter back to the broken people and fractured communities that Jesus has called us to love and shepherd. We return to worlds that haven’t been altered by our time with each other. But somehow it makes a huge difference to know that someone really understands and that we are not alone.

How to Judge a Tree

Fri, 06 Mar 2009 04:57:12 GMT

Having been in full-time pastoral ministry close to three decades (and all at the same church!), I've definitely seen my share of trends, fads, and movements sweep through pockets of our church. At first, you would think that these "upswellings" would be impossible to predict. But in retrospect, we should have seen quite a few of them coming from a long way off. For example, the small groups movement that arose in the Seventies seemed to be a reaction or correction to the impersonal, institutional nature of the mainline churches from the previous decade or so. And the charismatic renewal that spread like wildfire in the late Seventies, followed predictably by the prophetic phenomenon in the early Eighties, were perhaps corrections to an overly knowledge-based and experience-lite emphasis in many congregations. The re-emergence of social activism in the late Nineties till today arose in reaction to the predictable movement from the inner life to spiritual narcissism. Even the current exploration of the ancients' writings and spiritual disciplines today is no doubt an attempt to re-balance the focus on doing with being.

EvergreenLA has been around nearly 80 years and has witnessed or at least felt the effect of most of the trends, fads, and movements that have transpired. Like an ancient Sequoia, this church has witnessed the coming and going not only of thousands of people over the years, but of a plethora of activities. During the turbulent Sixties, EvergreenLA preached against racism, war, and injustice. During the Seventies, it struggled to find the balance with the small groups movement. The frustrated pastor, who wanted to see a radical commitment to small group life, left with some young idealists and eventually formed a radical Asian American Christian community that, in its heyday, produced the seminal worship songs that Asian American churches embraced in the late Seventies and throughout the Eighties. But in the end, he became overly controlling and it became a dangerous cult.

The Eighties also ignited a small but fervent group of those who began to speak in 'tongues' and to anoint the sick with oil and pray for miraculous healings. Pastor John Wimber (The Vineyard Christian Fellowship) was teaching an evening class at Fuller Seminary called "Signs and Wonders" and numerous EvergreenLA young adults flocked to it, whether registered or not, in order not to miss experiencing the weekly miracles that seemed to be in abundance there. Some went even further, becoming adherents of the radical Kansas City prophets stream, straining to catch what fresh revelation that the Spirit of God was apparently making known. Others from EBCLA went in a different direction, getting trained by the Vineyard's Living Waters program in deliverance ministries. Freedom from demonic oppression, sexual brokenness, and other typically top secret sins was all the rage in that sector. There was even a sliver of 'generational healing of curses' that also occurred at that time.

In the late Nineties till now, there have been two prominent movements in evidence here at EvergreenLA. The first is the desire to cultivate greater intimacy with God and thus a deeper spirituality. Some began to experiment with ancient spiritual disciplines that heretofore seemed off limits because they had Roman Catholic roots. Now however, Baptists were hooking up with Catholic spiritual directors, retreating to their monasteries, reciting their liturgies in dim, candle-lit rooms. The second is the compulsion to look for Jesus in the eyes of the down and out, to follow Jesus into battle against unjust systems and apathetic saints.

Yes, this old church has seen all of that. And she has also witnessed one sad but consistent thing that all of these diverse movements have had in common. Can you hazard a guess?

Whatever some of the people got extremely into and excited about, they all eventually began to judge everyone else who didn't share their interest or passion. If you weren't into what I was so into, then you must not be as right with God as I am. Or as the people who share my pursuit. Over and over again, regardless of what it was, I have seen subcultures within our church begin to criticize those who (a) didn't speak in tongues, (b) didn't march in the streets with them, (c) didn't study the Bible with their method, (d) weren't regulars at the healing prayer sessions, (e) refused to join an intimate-sharing small group, (f) didn't have a prayer journal or embrace times of silence and solitude, or (g) weren't taking on evil, injustice or poverty. I think you catch my drift.

My prayer is that, however the Spirit chooses to move and whomever the Spirit chooses to move among, we would all display the fruit of that Spirit's transformative ministry within and among us. Because no matter how much any of us might like to claim that whatever we're into is something God is doing, God's Spirit doesn't inspire envy, anger, or dissension. God's Spirit will NEVER divide the Body of Christ. That's the 'fruit' of fallible, sinful human beings. When the Spirit of God is truly at work, there is amazing unity amidst mind-boggling diversity. And the fruit of the Spirit's true work is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, meekness, and self-control. When the Spirit is allowed to bring forth that fruit from all of us and each of us, there can only be a supernatural unity, even though there are many different passions at work in the church.

These many, many years at EvergreenLA, I've learned to judge a tree strictly by its fruit.

Healing and Hope

Mon, 08 Dec 2008 23:53:13 GMT

The word's been out for over a month now: my daughter's tree house is finally finished! The fact that Jeff B. and I didn't complete it until just past Halloween is probably one of the reasons few of our friends have actually seen it up close but countless folks have at least reviewed some of the pictures that I've posted here on my blog and also via my FB page. So the accolades we've received have been based on people's reactions to my photos, not merely trying to massage our egos.

But even if a single picture is supposed to be worth a thousand words, none of my photos come close to explaining the almost indescribable sense of validation I received by constructing this elevated wooden recreational platform for our 9-year-old daughter Janessa. Since I've been meaning to blog about this for months, now's as good a time as any to try and describe what happened to me.

The Three Fong Brothers. To those who know us, we're a pretty impressive trio of siblings. All of us are unusually articulate and are in professions where speaking with intelligence, wit, and persuasiveness are absolute requirements if you're going to be successful. Although we each have our own peculiar tastes, we're each recognized as 'stylish' dressers and possessors of high degrees of self-confidence and ego-strength. But only those closest to us know that all three of us are severely crippled when it comes to using our hands in constructive ways. Hand us a microphone in front of a large crowd and we are ready to captivate and convince. But hand any of us a hammer or a power saw and you will trigger waves of self-doubt and inferiority messages.

Since I'm the oldest, I've been infected by this mechanical malady much longer and maybe even had it the worst. When I was my dad's only son, I can remember gamely trying to help him with whatever project he was working on at the time. This was a guy who had single-handedly built our family home, did all the repairs on the family cars and appliances, and literally forged his own pair of pliers back in the day. Dad was not only precociously adept with his hands, he was also a perfectionist. So when I would bend a nail or strip a screw's head or be unable to make sense out of engine, Dad would say "You're useless. Let me do that myself." I've carried his invalidating voice ever since then and so have both my younger brothers. I will say this, though. After I got married and we would buy furniture at those Scandinavian-based furniture stores that require expert-wielding of an Allen wrench and the ability to decipher exploded diagrams, I developed some measure of confidence about assembling those puzzles This summer, when I was staying with one of my brothers, I noticed a tell-tale large, flat cardboard boxes leaning up against the wall in the spare bedroom. My sister-in-law had bought a matching bookcase @ Cost Plus Imports several years ago but my brother couldn't muster the courage to unpack the new bookcase and put it together even though it was his books that were overloading the first bookcase. Brimming with a narrow measure of confidence, I volunteered to assemble that bookcase. After I finished, my sister-in-law remarked, "I don't know what it is about your brother. Every time I ask him to do something that involves tools, he sort of retreats into a sort of funk and never tackles the project, no matter how simple or small. Even hanging a picture on the wall is too much for him to handle."

I had overcome that part of the malady but still was battling all kinds of self-defeating messages about my lack of ability to use tools. So it was beyond ludicrous for me, earlier this year, to become obsessed with building a tree house for Janessa.

In case you haven't noticed, kids today hardly ever play outside. And when they do, it's typically through some sort of organized league with uniforms. I was concerned that Janessa wasn't spending enough time outside playing by herself or with her friends. She preferred to park herself in front of the big screen TV or cruise the internet. I announced to my wife back in January, "Janessa needs to go outside and play more. We've got this huge backyard and she doesn't seem to want to play out there. I'll bet if I built her a tree house, she'd love to play in the backyard." Knowing full-well that she married a man who doesn't build or fix things, she replied, "How's that supposed to happen? You just can't go out and hire some day laborers to build Janessa a tree house." "That'll be my problem. But I'm going to build her a tree house." Over six months later, the tree house is done and I've acquired some carpentry tools, skills, and necessary confidence.

Now that the project is finished (and you can see some new pics on this page), I can honestly say that God used it to validate two crucial aspects of my life:

1) My dad's 'curse' wasn't true nor was it permanent. Sure I bent some nails, stripped some screws and didn't always make the straightest cuts with the Skilsaw. But neither did my friend(s) who partnered with me. I learned that it's wise to buy more screws or nails than you need because you're bound to make mistakes. Having a box full of spares breeds confidence. The one friend who was absolutely essential to turn this dream into a reality is also a perfectionist. The biggest difference? He's not my dad. Plus, he's working hard on not being such a perfectionist. So there was a solid psychological symbiosis happening between us. Dad's way too frail even to fly down to SoCal to see what I've done (rats!) but I showed him pictures when I was up in Sactown last month. "Gee, you built that? It looks really good and sturdy." That compliment, plus the fact that I was able to "talk shop" with Dad was an amazing gift from God.

2) Building this tree house also was a way for God to validate how he's inspired me to lead others, especially EvergreenLA. When I became the senior pastor in 1996 I didn't have a clear and compelling strategic plan, just like I never had a plan on paper for how to build the tree house. What I did have in both cases was a compelling vision of a preferable future. God gave me a compelling vision for a Faith Village, a unique social community whose life together serves as both a picture and a preview of what God is doing in and for all creation. I didn't have a road map, only a captured imagination. I didn't need to know exactly HOW we were going to become a Faith Village or build my daughter a safe and fun tree house. In both cases, I started talking about the preferable futures everywhere. Jeff Bradshaw heard me talk enthusiastically about building Janessa and her friends a safe and fun tree house. He'd built an amazing one the summer after he graduated from high school and couldn't wait to tackle another one nearly 40 years later. He came over and, after we selected the tree, climbed up and sat in the main fork of the old avocado tree, waiting for the tree to 'tell' us what kind of tree house it would let us build. We began with different design notions but knew that we'd have to construct a solid foundation first, so we got started on the three-primary support legs and floor joists. The end result doesn't look like what either of us envisioned at the start but we both agree that it reflects our respective sensibilities while also being far better than either of us originally were imagining. All this is to say that you, your church or just about any organization doesn't have to wait until they concoct the 'perfect' strategic plan. Let yourselves be so captured by God's vision of his coming future that it gets you off the couch and out there talking it up and eventually hammering. Even if you end up bending a bunch of nails.

pken.

ps: My favorite response to those who ask "Did you download the blueprints from the internet?" is "No, because our TREE isn't on the internet."

A Giant Step Forward for America

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 15:33:32 GMT

"Americans like to say that in this country, anyone can grow up to be president, and until Tuesday that was inarguably true--as long as you were born white and male. Today, a 47-year-old African American who was born when someone like himself would have had trouble voting in many parts of the country, when interracial marriage was illegal in 22 states, is president-elect of the United States.

"...his improbable personal journey is inextricably intertwined with the nation's long, bloody road to racial equality.

"Before it was changed by the 14th Amendment, the Constitution defined someone like Obama as three-fifths a person. It took the Civil War to end the abomination of slavery, and another century for the civil rights movement to prevail. Obama's victory hardly marks the end of America's most corrosive social affliction, but if racial prejudice and mistrust die in a thousand moments of progress, this is the most important one in a long, long time." USA Today editorial, November 5, 2008

Now that the results for the presidential race are in and Obama was selected by the majority of Americans to be our nation's next leader, it's time to put aside partisan-driven ideologies and differences, at least long enough to celebrate what just happened to us as a country. Even if you disagree with all or most of Obama's platform, even if somehow you're still convinced he's a covert Muslim who nevertheless attended a Christian church as a baptized member for 20 years, all Americans should rejoice that a thick, previously impenetrable glass ceiling has been broken that must have God smiling down on us.

Obama's victory is a moral victory for our country, one that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., prophesied forty years ago but an assassin's bullet kept him from experiencing. If he were still alive, he would have been 78. And I believe he would have emphasized that Obama was elected first and foremost because more Americans voted for him because they deemed him most qualified to lead us, not simply because he was black. Still, of the 95% of African Americans who voted for Barack, there were no doubt some or many who did so primarily because he was their first opportunity to cast a ballot for a Black person. And who can blame them--especially those who suffered through the evils of bigotry and racism in the darkest of times? Certainly not me. And the exit polls indicated that there were numerous Whites--especially in the South--who voted against him primarily because he wasn't White or because he was Black. I have no sympathy for those folks. Clearly, we still have a ways to go to embody the principles put in place by the imperfect but prescient founders of this nation.

If you're a follower of Christ--regardless of your political affiliation--I hope that you can appreciate that America's choice of an African-American, albeit a biracial one, albeit one who worked long and hard to prove that he was not a threat to White Americans, albeit one who had to distance himself from his 'radical' pastor, is a sign of God's justice not merely the victory of one party over another. For those of us who claim to look at history through redemptive lenses, yesterday was a breakthrough that some thought would never come. For those of us who are committed to pursuing biblical reconciliation, this was a victory for God's coming kingdom.

Moses led the people of God for forty years of wandering in the desert. When they finally got to the Promised Land, God kept Moses from going in with his people. But he died knowing that they'd gotten to where God had pointed them.

Forty years ago, Dr. King reminded our nation where God had originally pointed us to go and he never got to see us take those first steps in the Promised Land. When Gen. Colin Powell became the first African American Secretary of State. When Condoleeza Rice followed in his footsteps. When Geraldine Ferraro and then Sarah Palin became the first female candidates of either party to be Vice-President. Those were just a few of the notable steps we have taken as a nation towards a Promised Land where all people are judged by the content of their character instead of the color of their skin or their gender. Where there is truly justice for all and equal opportunities for all. Electing our first non-White president, though, is a giant step into that storied land of the free and home of the brave. I hope you will join me in thanking God that this day has finally come and in recommitting ourselves to praying for and working for God's justice for all.

An Historic Moment Not to Be Missed

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 05:14:07 GMT

I sent in my ballot weeks ago but, like many Americans, I'm still riveted by this year's election. So I just thought I'd post a short blog on the eve of this historic day.

As far as children like my daughter Janessa knows, it's completely normal to have a nonwhite man or a woman run for the two highest offices America has. (Almost ) regardless of which pair wins, children not just in this country but all over the world will just assume that America is truly the land of opportunity.

Okay, if you're not a declared Christian (even if you don't go to church), if you're an agnostic or atheistic, if you're a Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim or maybe even a Jew, you still probably can't yet throw your hat in the ring. But it's no small thing that this year, after an unbroken succession of 43 white male presidents and vice-presidents, we're either going to have a nonwhite President or a non-male Vice-President.

My mother raised all of us (boys) to believe that, if we worked hard enough, we could become the President of the United States one day. Her dream for me came to an abrupt halt in second grade, when my red-haired 'girlfriend' Patty McKinney announced one day that "we can't get married because you're Chinese." It's funny. She didn't add "...and you also can never be President" but I distinctly remember concluding that fateful day that I was not as American as Whites, no matter how acculturated I was.

I'm not so naive to think that a majority of America is now ready to vote for an Asian American, Native American, or Hispanic American yet. Or that they're ready to vote for an ethnic female for President. Or a disabled Anything American for either office. Or an openly homosexual American.

But I know this: our 4th-grader has more unfettered dreams today than I did when I was her age. And for that miracle, I am extremely grateful to God.

I hope you will be sure to vote November 4th. And I hope and pray that our country can reunite around whichever team wins. The problems we face today are mind-boggling. Our best hope is if we can join together to solve them.

The Better Way

Wed, 15 Oct 2008 16:56:35 GMT

One of the reasons my wife 'Snoopy' and I were drawn to each other is because we both love dogs. That shared love of pooches had to go unrequited for the first years of our marriage because we were either living in an apartment or the church's parsonage. But soon after we purchased our quaint starter-home in Temple City in the late Eighties we got our first family dog, Callahan. That began a succession of golden retrievers that has remained unbroken to this day.

Golden retrievers are known for their sunny dispositions, their beautiful soft coats that they're always shedding, and their obsession with retrieving things like tennis balls, frisbees, lemons or whatever else they can coax you to throw for them. They're super with kids and love nothing more than to doze at your feet while you're watching TV.

Until late last night, we had two of them. This morning, only one.

I was less than two blocks from home when my cellphone rang. My wife asked in a voice filled with tension, "Where are you?" "I'm nearly home." "I think there's something wrong with Oliver."

We almost missed adopting Oliver fourteen years ago. Back then, we were just immersing ourselves in the taxing process of trying to find a child to adopt. A 19-year-old AsiAm teenager had wandered into our church office one day, already deep into her second trimester and wanting desperately to abort this unwanted child. I coaxed her into going full-term and she promised me that she would give us first crack at adopting her son if she chose not to keep him. So for those next four months, we pretty much had to suspend our lives, in anticipation of possibly and suddenly becoming first-time parents.

It was during that last trimester when we were told that someone's golden retriever had recently had a litter of puppies. We already had Riley, whom we'd adopted from the animal shelter as a two-year-old, but we so much wanted a chance to raise a golden retriever puppy. Next to baby harp seals, there is arguably no cuter baby animal on the planet. On the way out to view the litter I remember telling 'Snoopy,' "What are we doing? How can we even THINK about getting a little puppy when in less than two months, we might have an infant? This is crazy. We shouldn't even be going to see the litter." But because we were enthralled with the idea of a litter of goldens, we went anyway.

They were even cuter in person than they are in pictures. But as we played with them and toyed with the idea of taking one home, the grown-up part of our brains kept repeating the responsibility-mantra: "How will you raise one of these puppies if you're going to have a baby?" We eventually listened to that inner voice and drove off without a puppy.

The young mother gave birth to a strapping little boy but couldn't make up her mind what she wanted to do. We finally told her, "Have a nice life," and then called the people with the puppies. Were there any left? "Yes, but only three." With my brother-in-law Greg in tow, we headed back to the puppy place.

By the time we got there, two of the pups were already spoken for, so we were left to consider the one everyone else had overlooked. He was quite a bit bigger than his sisters, with sizeable paws and a broad head. But he had a slight bulge on his neck that had scared off the others. It later turned out to be an allergic reaction to one of his shots. We just knew that he was ours.

As the three of us drove back home that evening, I'll always remember 'Snoopy' cradling the cardboard box in her lap while the fuzzy little puppy explored its inner recesses. Greg and I were tossing out possible names for our new dog. "How about 'Rusty'? He's kind of a strawberry blonde. Or how about 'Franklin'? Or 'Bosco'?" We went on and on with our suggestions, but 'Snoopy' didn't think any of them were appropriate. All of a sudden her face lit up as if the gods had revealed the right and true name of our new charge. "His name is 'Oliver.'" And in that moment, as our car sped down the freeway, we all knew that that was his rightful name.

Riley was a total ball-hog and the alpha male, so even though Oliver eventually grew to a much larger size, he never displayed an interest in fetching balls or anything. Whatever pleasure might come from that simply wasn't worth getting bushwacked by Riley. So even after Riley died and Oliver was our only dog for awhile, he still showed no interest in balls. What he did love was going for long walks around the neighborhood. Even in his senior years, when his back was stiff and hips weren't trustworthy, if Oliver saw 'Snoopy' dressed in running clothes, he couldn't wait till she returned, even hours later, so that they could go for a walk while she cooled down. He'd wait patiently by the front door or the breezeway's gate, ignoring food or enduring attention until she reappeared, leash in hand. He was never happier than when he was exploring the smells of his neighborhood.

When we remodeled three years ago, we had to find friends willing to house Oliver while our family of three was crammed into an old lady's bedroom up the street. He dug himself free of our friend Judie's and made a beeline for our place. Then we left him with the people who still had Oliver's mom and one of his sisters. But how could we tell him that we weren't abandoning him, that this was only temporary?

Oliver eventually howled so much there that we brought him back home, even though it was uninhabitable. But he was overjoyed to be back home. He didn't mind the rubble and chaos. He was back where all the smells made sense. The workers at one point had to remove all the gates and fences so there was no way to keep Oliver in the backyard for several weeks. I'm still amazed that he never ran away. Instead, he'd plop down in various shady spots out back, out of the way of the all workers. Or he'd perch Sphinx-like on the front driveway, watching the cars go by on our busy street. What astounds me is that, when people walked by with their dogs, Oliver never gave in to instinct to protect his yard by chasing off the interlopers. And he was apparently invisible to dog catchers!

Janessa is now 9 years old. Oliver taught her to feel completely at ease with large dogs. Even when she was a toddler, he put up with all her pokes and prods. Oliver was her constant companion. She even liked to lure him into her bathroom each night with a dog biscuit she'd never give him, wanting him to be part of the whatever fantasy she was concocting in the bathtub that night.

The final memory of a healthy, happy Oliver happened last evening, around six o'clock. Janessa had run out of the house with a new toy, eager to torment Chewy and to tease Oliver. I remember seeing Oliver, lagging behind the other two, loping happily down the slope to join in the fun. "Not bad for a really old dog," I thought to myself.

But the dog I saw after coming home late last night looked worn out and frustrated. He'd been struggling to get up off his favorite spot on the living room carpet for about 20 minutes, to no avail. It was apparent that he'd even peed on the rug beneath him and he really seemed embarassed by that. With our sleeping daughter oblivious to the crisis, my wife and I tried to help Oliver regain his feet. But his back legs appeared to be paralyzed. "You've got to take him to the vet, to see what's wrong with him." "Okay, but I think this is the end for Oliver. Are you sure you don't want to wake Janessa and come with me?"

Hope can sometimes produce denial in us. "No, you take him first. Maybe it's nothing serious. Only call us if it's serious."

After struggling to cart a bewildered Oliver out of the house and into my SUV, I drove through the vacant streets of Pasadena, to the same all-night clinic we'd taken Riley too years before. The attendant put Oliver on a gurney and wheeled him back into the room where the unseen veternarian could examine him. I was left to fill out the intake sheet. I knew that this was going to be Oliver's last night on earth.

The attendant eventually escorted me to a chair in a smaller room. "Wait here for the doctor." You can imagine my complete surprise when the door opened again and it was Dr. Ann Tsugawa, a long-time friend and one of my less-frequent parishioners! The last time I'd used her services, she was at an all-night clinic in San Pedro, years ago. "Ken, it's so good to see you. I'm so sorry. Let's see what we can do for Oliver."

It's as if God had made a really tough time suddenly easier because I was with a friend instead of a stranger. She'd taken care of Oliver numerous times before, had even made housecalls in the past, the first one to diagnose that he had lots of allergies. 'Snoopy' was just as amazed when I called to tell her who Oliver's doctor was. Again, it felt to us both that God's grace was easing our pain.

Before she arrived with Janessa at half past midnight, Ann asked if I wanted her to sedate Oliver first. The x-rays had revealed a great deal of degeneration in some of his discs, which had caused his paralysis. But Oliver otherwise appeared normal and alert, his big tongue making frequent trips in and out of his mouth. I knew that if Janessa saw him like this, it would be harder for her to believe that it was time to put him down. So I gave the go-ahead to Ann to sedate him a bit. Even as she was still pushing the plunger on the syringe, Oliver's head dropped, his eyelids began to droop and his breathing began to slow down.

They placed him on a soft green blanket on a raised metal table and left us to say our goodbyes. Ann told us, "Take as long as you want. No hurry at all." As soon as the door closed behind her, I think we were all surprised at how suddenly our tears and sobs emerged. Alone with our furry family member, we were now free to feel the terrible pangs of loss and sadness. 'Snoopy' and I had been through this many times before, but we felt it was important for Janessa to say goodbye to her favorite dog, to shed her tears, stroke his head, and kiss him goodbye. If we had left her out of this time of closure, she would have woke up this morning, only to be told that Oliver was gone. No, this way was better. This way she was introduced to the reality of death. This way, as hard as it was, she got to participate in a family ritual that is a result of years of loving and being loved.

We still had more tears to shed but it felt like the time to get Ann. She came back with a large syringe. "You're doing the loving thing, you really are." While we stroked his head, Ann inserted the needle into his leg and slowly injected him with a lethal dose of sedative. Oliver's breathing gradually halted and the light in his big brown eyes finally extinguished. We cried some more, kissed him one last time and left the clinic at one in the morning, emotionally spent.

This Christmas, we will add Oliver's dogtag to the other ones that we hang from our tree. It feels kind of silly to grieve so deeply over a dog. Until we remember that he was as much a member of our family as anyone else. Maybe even more.

There's a First Time for Everything, Right?

Wed, 03 Sep 2008 03:47:47 GMT

As of two years ago, I officially became that "neither-fish-nor-fowl" amphibious creature otherwise known during elections as "decline to state." Personally, I view myself now as an independent, that most coveted of all constituents who abhors the extremes of the two major parties, who is somewhat socially conservative yet avowedly socially concerned. Who is fiscally cautious but also willing to part with personal treasure for the good of all, especially the underserved and the overlooked. Like all of the ones that preceded it, this presidential race will be decided ultimately by that unnamed mass in the middle.

But even in all those years when I had unreservedly identified myself with one of the two major parties, there was something I never, ever, ever did. I never perched my candidates' signs on my front lawn.

When I lived in an apartment, it wasn't even an option. There was either never a lawn for a sign or some of my neighbors in the complex probably backed the rival candidate. But eventually, after we bought our first starter home in Temple City, I not only finally had a front lawn for signs but we were on a street where it seemed like half of our neighbors were in the habit of letting the rest of us know who they were backing. Unfortunately, they'd put their signs up early and inevitably, my choice wasn't theirs. How could I dare put up a sign of the one they rejected without it coming across as an act of defiance, of publicly shaking my tanned yellow fist in their faces? Even though I knew it was my right as a fellow American to express my choice on my own property (ok, the bank's property), I always felt it was more civil to keep my candidate's identity a secret, letting my neighbors keep wondering or maybe think that I was one with them.

A scant 25 years later, now living in Sierra Madre and with a MUCH bigger front lawn, I decided to break the silence and to declare to all my neighbors my choice for the next President of the USA. Why now? Partly it's because I believe this election is so crucial to our collective future and the world's. Partly because I am so inspired by one of the two candidates. And mostly because none of my other neighbors had put any signs on their front lawns yet! If I'm first on my block to declare my leanings, it's now on them to decide whether they want to offend ME!

I didn't just put one sign in; I put two! And since we're on one of the most-traveled streets in our little town, people wouldn't be able to avoid noticing and knowing who I plan on voting for in November. But then the unthinkable happened: some unseen, unknown person stole one of my signs! I tried to put a positive spin on the theft. Maybe it was someone who agreed with my choice and he or she is proudly displaying it on their front lawn now. But a week or so later, when the remaining sign disappeared, I was left to ponder some vexing questions: Why would people take my signs? Was it a teenaged-prank? Was it an act of censureship? Could it have been one of my NEIGHBORS who have no signs on their lawns???

A week later, I had two new signs back at the end of my driveway, right next to the street where the original ones had been. It was my way of spitting in the face of those faceless thieves. "Hah! I've got new signs. You can't silence this patriot's voice!" When we returned from vacation, we were down to one sign again.

Although I was tempted to replant my last sign in the sanctity of my backyard, no one but my gardener would ever see it. So I kept it in the front but moved it back about 40 feet from the street and put it in the huge ornamental pot we have near our front door. It's not booby trapped or chained to the foundation. Someone could just as easily snatch this one as the other three. But it's been more than two weeks now and it's still there to greet me when I come back home. All I can think is that for someone to steal it now, they'd have to walk quite a ways into my property to grab it, almost to my front door. If they even have half a conscience, that would have to bother them, right?

Of course, now it's not as visible if you're zooming past our house. And if my SUV is parked in its usual spot, it's completely concealed. But my closest neighbors certainly all know who I'm for. And if I ever get enough guts to put the bumper sticker version on my vehicle, most of you at church would know too!