If I may say this about Koreans in general, I don’t think we’re too good at this diaspora thing yet.

When I think about diaspora, I think of the Jewish people and the Chinese. I think these two people groups, while there are certainly other groups who qualify as diaspora people, have a great deal of wisdom when it comes to maintaining their identity while living peaceably in another’s land.

For instance, Jewish people have a notion of charity or tzedaka, that is not meant only for fellow Jews, but for the community as a whole. I think in general, there is a great deal of accumulated sophistication on how to negotiate racial identity formation in the face of a dominant culture.

I also believe that the Chinese people are much better at diaspora as well. I don’t know how to put it in words, but there is a sort of pragmatism about them that lends itself well to brushing off potential offenses and gets on to the business of living and working. While that may not have done all that much in advancing civil rights or whatnot, it has helped the Chinese establish a positive impression in the community as a whole. It may be perhaps that they have called other lands “home” for many generations and centuries, much longer than Koreans have.

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In poetry, there is nothing quite like a “found poem”. A poem where the words have been floating around, you’ve heard them before, but then someone captured all those words and put them in the right order, in the right rhythms to make it sing. This one on money is one of my favorites. It makes me wonder how much poetry in my life that I miss…I mean, it’s right there, I know all those words, but I missed it. I never saw the beauty until someone put it all in order for me.

Last night, I was reading this post, that made me ask a single question — Is this common? Would I find more of this if I looked? (OK, that’s two questions)

And suddenly I “found” this racism. I’m becoming ghastly aware of and sensitive to the thought that “my people” might be racist. And just like found poetry makes me hear poetry and rhythm out of everyday words, I now see that in small ways, insidious mannerisms and off-the-cuff, under-the-breath, behind-closed-doors statements, perhaps a great obstacle that the Korean-American church must face in order for the gospel to be released in power is to address this racism.

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I love this game. I absolutely love this game. Admittedly, I have no reason to love this game — I can’t jump, can’t run, can’t shoot, can’t pass, can’t block — put simply, I’m really not that good at the game of basketball. In fact, it’s a curiosity to my wife who has raised an eyebrow and said to me, “Most people participate in hobbies that they’re good at, honey.” To which I could only shrug and say, “I know, but what can I do? What are you telling me, don’t participate in anything? ” (I have a strange masochistic streak where if I cut myself down first, it saves everyone time.)

And that’s OK. I blame my genes or memes, whatever. I have accepted the fact that it will be many more years before Asians can exert any influence in the game of basketball. I can only name 4 Asian NBA basketball players off the top of my head:

Yao Ming, Ha Seung-Jin, Wang Zhi-zhi, and Yuta Tabuse. And only one of these guys is a starter, the others are marginal at best.

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For those of you who spend a good third of your day in a cubicle, or in the corporate baboon cage, you know what I’m talking about when I say there is a certain deadness to this life. Enough concrete, grayness, processed foods, and testing of computer and office furniture ergonomics to drive a man insane. There are moments when it all seems so plastic and fake: the fantasy leagues, the “happy hours”, the joke e-mails that get forwarded, the status meetings, the “how was your weekend” pass-the-time conversations, the water-cooler talks, the hours spent in the commute, the rush to the break room to get the last couple donuts or the leftover birthday cake, etc. etc. Occasionally, I forget to take my heart off my sleeve and everyone turns away until I can put it away again, after all, we’ve got work to do and shareholders to please.

One of the things that struck a chord in me, despite its Western imagery, in the book Wild At Heart, was that notion that there is something in my masculine heart that was deeply unsatisfied with this type of life. Even in my armchair basketball watching and even in my most heated sales or concept meetings, there is a streak in me that longs for that thrill of something outside this air-conditioned, cubicled, and cushioned life.

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation…” Thoreau’s words ring true in my ears, although I often don’t know what to do as an Asian Christian male. There is a duty to my wife and my parents, my dog, my friends, and my student loans that I don’t seem strong enough to dare break. After all, what kind of follower of Christ would I be if I did something rash? Much of church seems too tame as well. While they invite into the dangerous life that Christ calls out, I find few examples of men who do just that. Something whispers in me that these guys are just as trapped as I am.

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There was a time in my life when I had to pick up a job at a sushi bar. A tiny hole-in-the-wall type of place whose claim to fame was that it was the oldest sushi bar in Nashville (since 1982), but also boasted the best sushi in town. There must be some truth to it as years later, I still have the occasional craving.

It was a sushi bar that was not known to have male waiters or hosts — let’s just say I broke a fairly long trend of cute and young Asian waitresses who really needed this particular job at this particular sushi bar. I, on the other hand, only worked there out of the sheer lack of ambition to look any further.

In any case, the regular customers took note that a not-so-attractive Asian male was delivering the unagi to their table, and occasionally I would get the audacious question, “How did you get a job here?”

Of course, I didn’t quite know how to respond, but managed to shrug my shoulders and say, “I guess I look the part.”

And that would be true. In that sushi bar, only the customers (and the dishwasher in the back) were not Asian. My genes — those DNA recipes that put together all those magical ingredients that created my flat nose, black hair, and smooth olive skin — were my ticket in for the job.

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In recent conversations, when I ponder the future of the AA church, I cannot help but struggle with what distinctiveness we have when it comes to worship and the expressions of our faith. While Christendom is becoming more Asian and more Latino worldwide, we Asian Americans standing in the twilight of cultures, sing to one another songs written by others, but not our own songs.

Here’s the catch, when we understand the Gospel and its power to transform, how can you keep us from singing? The notion of singing a new song is a powerful metaphor in terms of how to live the Christian life. There is nothing like putting words to that joy and setting it to music. This ephemeral art can become something strong enough for you to stand on, others to join in, and perhaps, even lead a movement. Like the African-American slaves who sang spontaneous songs of sorrow and freedom; like the Gaelic Irish who sang songs not to ward off evil, but to sing to God that set them free; like Martin Luther who wrote over drinking songs with words of praise; like Handel writing his “Messiah” and John Coltrane playing his masterpiece, “A Love Supreme”, where will our psalmists come from? Where are our Keith Greens? Our Derek Webbs?

Sing your songs. Write songs for us to sing. Just like the Levites led the Israelites with songs and worship, if our twilight generation can find ourselves on the other side, it will demand that many of you step to the front and sing songs for us, our songs.

Koo Chung and Broken for Good, Ji Lee, Lyricks, Joyce Chun, Koti Hu (Interview re:Asian Xian artists), Ji Lim, and the other artists out there…hear me out.

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I have always been accused of saying “I’m Sorry” a bit too much.

I don’t know where it started really. I don’t know if I would consider myself of low self-esteem, I don’t even think I’d be a good judge of that (that’s supposed to be funny – or not). I’ve changed it recent years to “My bad” and “Forgive me”, but the words “I’m sorry” come pretty naturally to me (and to others apparently). And when I think about it, there’s a lot to be sorry for. At least that’s how I’ve felt growing up. Being an only child, I suppose things were always my fault, that I never seemed to know better. But recently when I had some vulnerable discussions with my cousin, I realized that perhaps our fathers expected us to know things that, at least I don’t recall I was ever told.

I can’t help but wonder, in a culture that is borne out of intuition and subtlety, it’s not just me, is it? Asian culture is a great deal about the unspoken and understood, the implied and the inferred. Few of us have heard our parents say, “I love you” — it is, after all, understood. Of course they love me — why else would they keep me, feed me, clothe me, shelter me, push me, discipline me, critique me, demand the best out of me, plan my life for me, control me, ignore me, hold me in contempt, and estrange me? The love runs so deep, it cuts. I have fallen so many times in the eyes of my parents, that there were moments that I simply stayed down to save myself the trouble of having to say “I’m sorry” yet again. My apologies runneth over.

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One of the conversations that I recorded last weekend, while at ECBC, but lost (in a series of unbelievable act of user interface goofball mistakes the following day – can you hear me Sharp?! (gyah!)) was one that I truly wish that I could share with you for its spontaneity, insight, and candor. With DJ Chuang, Peter and Jamie Ong, Ho-Tay Ma, and Anna Lee seated around the coffee table, we simply threw out topics including how Asians perceive roles of ministry: elevated in Korean circles; monk-like in Chinese culture; cultural differences in the first and second generations; mentoring; networking among Chinese churches; which led us to the following topic:

Ho-Tay Ma brought up the notion of game theory and its potential application to the Asian American churches. We all sat around the table staring numbly…game theory?

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Ten years ago, Helen Lee shed a grim light on a generation of Asian Americans leaving the church in droves with a piece entitled “Silent Exodus – Can the East Asian church in America reverse flight of its next generation?” which Peter Ong resurrects on his blog.

Although I had heard of the title, “Silent Exodus”, and been loosely familiar with the term since the late 1990s, I’d never read the article until Peter’s post. When it was first explained to me back in the 90s, I remember that it had filled my heart with a sense of alarm, but when I saw the post and the title, even before reading it, I said to myself, “Exodus means freedom. They were never meant to come back.” I almost shocked myself with that thought. It runs counter to how I feel about the ethnic church that I serve and whether I truly know if they will find freedom upon leaving it. But is it possible that exodus was a necessary thing — perhaps even, a good thing? Is it possible that when Asian Americans don’t return to the church of their youth, that could spell good things for the faith of their youth?

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As I spent time with other Asian brothers and sisters in Christ this weekend, I was so struck by the beauty of our collage of people. The foods, the laughter, the intellect, the warmth, the resourcefulness, the generosity, and all that we give to each other. There is a richness, a certain affection that I have seldom felt with others. Thank you Peter and Jamie Ong; thank you DJ Chuang and Rachelle; thank you Paul Tokunaga, Greg Jao, Glennis, Anna Lee, Danny and Lisa, Ho-Tay Ma, Liz Mo, Abraham Kim, Mark Ro, Betty, Erika, Vincent, Jannice, Jeff, Lillian, Audrey, Jordan, Kelly, Cindy, James, Lauren, Angena, Amy, Stephanie, Leah, Gus, Peter, Jenny, and many more whose names I cannot remember now. Thank you, this weekend was wonderful, inspiring, and challenging. Thank you for welcoming me, dining with me, sharing with me, worshipping with me…heaven must be that beautiful.

We are such beautiful people.

We are not the only beautiful people, please don’t misunderstand. I’m not saying this to elevate us above others, but to point out that the Chinese people I worshipped with this weekend were beautiful to me.

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