When I met up with the Singaporean-Canadian couple, I wanted to hear their individual stories of how God had placed a desire for missions on their hearts, as well as the joys and challenges they had experienced in living with, learning from, and loving the people they serve. My curiosity was also piqued by the fact that Alina had left home (i.e. Singapore) on her own and lived in Afghanistan by herself for a few years—a decision that single women would not often consider, and one that was clearly grounded on her sure and certain faith in Christ and her heart for the Afghan people, as the interview below will show.

My hope and prayer is that you may be encouraged and challenged by Alina and Caleb’s sharing. While you might not feel led to serve in overseas missions, missional living is integral to the Christian faith. May you discern and live out your God-given identity wherever He has placed you.

xx,
iz

Kabul, Afghanistan. Photo: Mohammad Husaini/Unsplash

Alina and Caleb, how would you define being a missionary?

Caleb: “The word ‘missionary’ is a loaded term. It might involve going overseas and living in a culture that is different [from yours]. It takes learning the culture and language of a people group that is different from your own context, and is characterized by making disciples.”

Alina: “By that definition, all of us are missionaries. We are all either missionaries or a mission field.”

What are some misconceptions about missions that you hope to clarify?

Caleb: “The missionary ‘lifestyle’ is quite misunderstood. Some might think that being a missionary means going to the jungles of South Africa and evangelizing to people who carry spears and walk around naked. While that is possible for some, the church was already established in Thailand; there is just a low percentage of Christians in the population. I have to do a lot of mundane tasks and experience a lot of frustrations there. Adventurous and fun? Perhaps. But I also deal with red tape and bureaucracy. Modern missions is different from what we’ve read about [in books].”

Alina: “I don’t like terms like ‘missionary’ because it is not in the Bible. Churches tend to place missionaries on a pedestal, but missionaries are ordinary people trying to obey the call of God on their lives. That takes us to places: overseas for some and offices for others.”

Rice paddy fields in Thailand. Photo: David Gardiner/Unsplash

How did God place a desire for missions on your heart?

Alina: “I went to a missions school in Singapore. I first heard the Gospel there and started going to church then. I attended a missions’ conference and remember feeling excited at seeing the faces of various ethnic people groups there. I thought to myself, ‘If God is God of the world, I want to know what He is doing in these parts of the world.’

At the age of 18, I read Genesis 12:1 where God said to Abraham, ‘Go to a land that I will show you.’ That was the first time I felt the call of God so clearly. I took my passport, my Bible, and my toothbrush and left the house immediately, although I did not go to the airport that day in the end! But I started praying and going on short-term mission trips.

One of the places I visited on such a trip was Kazakhstan. Over there, my eyes were opened to God’s heart for the Muslim people. In Kazakhstan, many students came to faith, five of whom were Muslims. I was blown away. I had never heard of a Muslim person coming to faith in Singapore. Even when we shared about Christianity in university, we would be warned not to speak with Muslims. But this experience was a paradigm shift for me. Then I visited Kyrgyzstan. In 2010, there was a riot in South Kyrgyzstan and I was advised to take the first flight out. This meant that I would be flying from Bishkek (note: the capital of Kyrgyzstan) to Istanbul.

On the plane, I sat next to an Afghan man. I had never met an Afghan in my life before then. He was so interested in the Gospel, and throughout the whole flight, I shared everything from the creation story to Jesus’ coming and His resurrection. Before the plane landed, he wrote three sentences to me in Dari: ‘Afghanistan is a beautiful country; please come to my country.’

I went on my first vision trip to Afghanistan in 2010. I just went by myself. I wrote emails to friends and gathered enough money for a one-way ticket. In my email, I wrote that I was called there and trusted that God would provide. Someone immediately paid for my return ticket. In 2015, I left my job in Singapore to go to Afghanistan, and was there till 2019 working with two NGOs. Whenever I wondered about what I was doing in Afghanistan, I would read what the Afghan man wrote for me on the plane and remember [my purpose here].“

Caleb: “I was a pastor for five years before being called to missions. At my last church, my ministry areas focused on Tibetan and Pakistani people in Toronto. What gave me joy was the opportunity for cross-cultural interactions and serving people in that capacity. Around that time, people were coming to church to preach and ask if people would go to Thailand [to be missionaries there]. After eight to 10 months of discerning, I went to Thailand. When I flew there, I had a vision from God, and I saw the people from my vision in the flesh. I never looked back.”

An Afghan woman. Photo: Isaak Alexandre Kaslian/Unsplash

“At the age of 18, I read Genesis 12:1 where God said to Abraham, ‘Go to a land that I will show you.’ That was the first time I felt the call of God so clearly. I took my passport, my Bible, and my toothbrush and left the house immediately.”

— Alina

Alina, what are some of the cultural differences you experienced while living in Afghanistan?

Alina: “It’s a whole new world. In Afghanistan, it’s not okay to have men and women in the the same room. When you’re invited to a home, men eat first, then women. Offices are gender-segregated as well. The Afghans revere the modesty of women by keeping them safe. It was very challenging to get adjusted to this when you come from a society like Singapore.

Over time, the Afghans have come to see female foreigners as a third gender. Afghans drivers tell me, ‘What happened to you? You have no male representative. You must be so bad that you got exiled here.’ We are not like their women because we interact with people and government officials even though we are not men. So they see us as aliens. I was the only Asian expat in the NGOs that I worked in there. Many people thought I was Hazara (note: the Hazaras are a Persian-speaking ethnic group in Afghanistan). I felt very safe because I blended in, but I could also be harassed as a local woman. I needed to know how to play my cards right.”

With these differing customs and cultures, how would you speak about your faith there?

Alina: “One thing that is beautiful about Afghanistan is that they are incredibly resilient people. They also practice Old Testament (OT) traditions such as the Corban (sacrifice); they really revere God. It made me appreciate Old Testament customs more. I find that the people have a genuine faith in God, but do not have the revelation of Jesus.

There is no physical church in Afghanistan as the last church was demolished by the king before it fell to the Soviets. Just by being there, we are a witness. Afghans have never encountered Christians. What they see in the movies are images from Hollywood. They think we are very immoral, and they detest Westerners and Western media. You are there as a living testimony.

Lying is okay in their culture, so truth-telling is being counter-cultural. They observe how we as Christians live and interact with one another. For security reasons, we cannot openly share [about Christianity]. It would be very foolish and would endanger lives of our co-workers. But I have invited girls to my home and out of nowhere, through building relationships, they accept prayers. One girl was experiencing severe cramps, and after I prayed for her in Jesus’ name, the pain was gone. She told everyone that I had prayed for her—and she preached better than I did that Jesus had healed her. These are opportunities to witness.

One other time, in the middle of having tea, a 17-year-old asked me, ‘Did Jesus really die?’ After hearing from me that Jesus had to die for our sins and was resurrected, she said, ‘You are speaking the truth. Our teachers lied to me.’ It was the Holy Spirit who had revealed this to her. Why would she say that her teachers were lying?”

The Thailand countryside. Photo: Sippakorn Yamkasikorn/Unsplash

These encounters with God are so powerful. Thank you for sharing them, Alina. What was serving in Thailand like for you, Caleb?

Caleb: “Sharing the gospel in Thai requires learning Buddhism and animism. I hung around in church and learned how to speak with other people about the faith from Thai Christians. In my first few months there, I learned how to buy food, manage rent, and navigate directions in Thai. I travelled to most of Thailand and visited a lot of Thai churches to do research on the regions and the people groups I was hoping to reach. Mainly, I learned how to befriend people.”

What is it like to read Scripture in Thai?

Caleb: “The Thai Bible uses a lot more honorifics. You can’t just say ‘God’. ‘My Lord’ is comprised of six to seven words. There isn’t a word for God in Thai as Buddhists don’t have a concept of God. You have to say, ‘My Lord God who is the creator of the universe.’ It’s very formal. And when you pray in Thai, you say ‘I am your servant’. I’m very humbled by this. Maybe, compared to Thai believers, we often treat God irreverently.”

Afghan children playing. Photo: Farid Ershad/Unsplash

For both of you: what were some of your biggest challenges as a missionary?

Alina: “Much of the time is spent drinking tea until divinely inspired conversations come along. Things could be really dull. I would spend my time waiting for the electricity to come back on to do my laundry. Sometimes you see advancements, but projects have to be cancelled because of security issues. It gets discouraging because you don’t see outcomes. But I learned to just hang on, and God revealed himself in a very real way to tide me through difficult moments.”

Caleb: “I was assigned to Southern Thailand, a region which practices a mix of Buddhism and Islam. The challenge was reaching unreached people groups. This region has experienced 20 to 30 years of violent history with Muslims killing Buddhists. When we wanted to work alongside Thai Christians to reach these people, we had to be sensitive toward these Thai Christians and understand their fears. They have never thought about reaching the Muslim people in that region. There was no real material to reach these people either, and there were security challenges as well.”

A Kyrgyzstan woman. Photo: Frans Hulet/Unsplash

“Even though it is tough ground, God can use anybody, and He can heal and mend brokenness.”

— Caleb

What are some of the most unforgettable lessons you’ve learned from living as a missionary?

Caleb: “I learned that the Holy Spirit really moves on the field, and it doesn’t require me [to do something to make God work]. In one church, there was a girl who was into witchcraft. The town thought she was a nobody. A friend shared Christ with her and she turned away from witchcraft. People were surprised. She went from being an outcast to going through school and now runs her own barber shop. She also faced a lot of problems in her family. Her father was arrested for selling drugs and she had been praying for him for years.

When I arrived, it had been two years since she had seen him. It just so happened that the King had released 4,000 people from jail to commemorate Father’s Day and her father was one of them. She invited him to church. It was surreal being there; everyone was really touched. It was a beautiful testimony to see how God had brought her father out of jail and allowed her to meet and embrace her father again. All the other fathers came up to pray for them as well.

This was all done through the hand of the Lord, and it gives me hope that even though it is tough ground, God can use anybody, and He can heal and mend brokenness.”

Alina: “In Singapore, I functioned at 60-70% [capacity]. In Afghanistan, it was 200%. Even though I left in 2019, my experiences there still feel very real. The local believers broke down all my previous understandings of what a church is. We met together like the early church did in the book of Acts. There was no pastor. We just read from the Word, broke bread, and sang quietly—even turning on the generator so we could sing louder. When things happened in the community, such as a kidnapping, it affected the whole community. We acted as one. These people would literally put their lives out there for me and risk their lives to protect me. That is something I will never forget.”

Operating at 200% capacity all the time sounds stressful, Alina. Did it take a toll on your body and your health?

Alina: “Yes, we’re not meant to function at 200% all the time. We were encouraged to leave the country for four to five days every few months to decompress. I saw a counsellor in Singapore to help process my experiences there as well, which was certainly a privilege. Every person in Afghanistan faces trauma. This is their norm. But in the West and in Singapore, we have opportunities for psychological first aid. While I could decompress [overseas], the Afghan people are [unable to leave] and are still processing [trauma]. The Bible talks about counting the costs and that it is a joy to partake in the sufferings of Christ. I think it’s a privilege to experience the Gospel for what it is. We might be missing out on what a theology of suffering looks like here.”

Caleb: “I experienced way less trauma in Thailand, but I wrestled with not being accepted and being treated as a foreigner. When I say I am a teacher or professor in the church (there is no word for ‘pastor’ in Thai), it can really shut down conversations. Sometimes, once I tell someone what I’m doing, they don’t want to talk. That can hurt. I think there is an element of spiritual warfare at work. It’s good to have people to talk to and share life with. If you do it alone, it can be very tough.”

Children in traditional clothes in the mountains of Phetchabun, Thailand. Photo: Norbert Braun/Thailand

As a newlywed couple planning to do missions work in Thailand, what do you think are some issues or questions you will navigate as you look ahead to the future?

Alina: “When I went to Afghanistan, I did not expect to come back [to Singapore]. But, in 2019, I returned home for a six-month sabbatical. The situation became messy and I did not see how I could return to the field without church support. I’ve been praying for a sustainable way to return to the field and did not expect that it would come in the form of marriage. I also studied the Thai language for four years previously but never used it. I think I studied it for this season.”

Caleb: “The average life span of a missionary is five years. The number one problem is team conflict; number two is family or children, and number three is finances. Some might feel ready to move back to their homeland after five years, but I feel like mine is a long-term calling. To be effective, my conviction is that you have to be there for about eight years to see the fruits of your labour. You take four years to learn a language, but you need time to learn how to talk about emotions and how to connect with their culture as well.”

Death is a reality that missionaries will often face. What are your thoughts on this?

Alina: “10 out of 10 people die. If we know that [to be true], what’s there to be afraid of? Maybe in Afghanistan, death confronts you. In a more secure place, you might live under some illusions about life. Not having that illusion is a privilege.”

Caleb: “The average Canadian goes about their lives without knowing that their lives could be taken away now.”

Alina: “And that’s scarier.”

Caleb: “That’s more dangerous than someone finding out that you are a Christian and taking your life [because of it]. What motivates me the most in missions work: 19 out of 20 people in Thailand have never met a Christian. That’s my motivation. Many people have never had a chance to hear the Gospel, unlike people living in the West.”

Bamyan, Afghanistan. Photo: Nasim Dadfar/Unsplash

“[The Afghan believers] would literally put their lives out there for me and risk their lives to protect me. That is something I will never forget.”

— Alina

What is some advice you have for someone who would like to embark on missions work but does not know how or where to start?

Alina: “Just go. Find out. How difficult is that? If you don’t go, you don’t know. I left my job in 2014 to go to Afghanistan. I remember crying at the airport because the goodbyes I exchanged then were real. That year, 12 missionaries were killed and two Finnish social workers were killed in Herat. 2015 was a difficult year as well as projects were cancelled. But it is something we all have to consider. We think that our lives are our own, but when we read the book of Acts, we see that suffering is inevitable and that we will be persecuted to death for your faith. That is a reality that is more real than the bubble—the so-called ‘safe’ environment—we exist in.”

Caleb: “Spiritual formation and personal development is way more important [than you might think]. If you are not deep in the Word and are not speaking to Him on a daily basis, the trials of missions will expose your weaknesses. Are you serving in a church? Do you have an accountability group? You will take this into the field. The years will really test you if this is your call. When you feel like you aren’t able to handle learning a new language, people, and culture, you really have to fall back on your calling.”

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In Memoriam:
Christina Yuna Lee
Michelle Alyssa Go

God,

Hear our cries.

When Death comes like a thief

And the sun still shines outside

So brightly it hurts

God,

Be with us.

We go from rage to disbelief and back again

The only signs a trembling of our jaws,

A clenching of our hands

God,

Are You listening?

Here we lie

Broken and bleeding

And time does not stop

Silence

I wrote this piece for a Christian non-profit’s blog back in 2019, and I’m re-publishing it here today because 1) the piece seems to have been moved or taken down 2) I’ve been thinking a lot about how finding, and having, a Christian community has been so integral to deepening my faith in God.

If you’ve been burnt out or hurt by a Christian community in the past: I know how that feels. I’ve experienced it as well. And if you’re still yearning to find a Christian community despite this, or if you’ve never considered what it means to be a part of a community until now: This is something that requires a whole lot of courage and hope, and I am so glad you’re here. I hope you take all the time you need to grieve, heal, explore, and find people you can be vulnerable with again. (And if you’d like to chat about this, I’m only an email or Instagram DM away.)

xx,
iz

In the fall of 2017, I exchanged the familiarity and comfort of my life in Singapore for life in Vancouver, a city with snow-capped mountains on the horizon that teemed with lakes, waterfalls, and the potential to meet a bear while hiking (!).

Living overseas for the first time in my life was something I mostly experienced with wide-eyed wonder. But beneath the excitement, anxiety and fear kept bubbling up as I searched for a church and a Christian community I could call “home”.

Community was something that my spirit ached for as the months passed. It was such a big part of my life in Singapore that to be bereft of deep, soul-giving friendships felt rather unsettling. I went to Sunday services, fiddling uncomfortably with my arms as people around me greeted one another while I felt completely unknown and unseen. Disappointment and frustration rose as week after week passed and I had not made a single new acquaintance in church. I even entertained thoughts of buying a one-way plane ticket back to Singapore, because that was where my community was, and it just seemed like there was none to be found here.

***

Why can’t we live without community? Why is it so important to the believer?

The very word brings to life a sense of warmth and joy. It conjures up images of people breaking bread together and praying over one another.

To have a vital and vibrant Christian community is to pattern after the way of life that Jesus and His disciples modelled. The Apostles, too, celebrated community in every aspect of their lives. As is recorded in Acts 2: 46-47, “Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favour of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.”

Here are three reasons why community is something you and I cannot live without:

Community grows our faith.

Some of my largest growth spurts in my faith journey have occurred in times that I met fellow believers to pray and worship together regularly. That growth could have certainly occurred in my own personal quiet time with God, but it was all the more dynamic and wonderful and precious to spend it in communion with fellow believers who were all hungry for God’s presence and spirit in their lives.

I dare say that our faith is stretched and challenged most when we are in community. And the best posture to have, when we want our faith to grow, is one of vulnerability and openness. Allowing ourselves to be authentic and honest about our struggles, fears, hopes, and desires with fellow believers is when real breakthrough happens.

Community enables us to serve others.

We have not been created to exist in isolation. Rather, the Bible constantly exhorts us to serve one another—and community is where this takes place. Galatians 5:13 says, “Serve one another humbly in love”, and 1 Peter 4:10 says, “Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.”

Being in community has enabled me to put the needs of others before mine. It has also allowed me to become more perceptive and aware of what fellow believers are going through and how I can help, encourage, or serve them in some way.

Community edifies the Church.

Where we invest our time and energy in is crucial. And when we are intentional in building and investing in Christian community, we are able to live out God’s greatest commandment—to love Him with all our hearts, souls, minds, and strength, and to love our neighbours as ourselves (Mark 12:30-31)—in simple, practical, and God-honouring ways.

Whether it is opening up your home every week for life group, preparing for a weekly bible study, whipping up a meal for a friend who is struggling, texting a word of encouragement to someone, or taking up a particular voluntary role in your church, every little action counts toward encouraging one another to become more and more Christ-like.

***

Community is life-giving. It is humbling. It is faith-enlarging. And it is such a precious reminder of His love for each and every one of us, no matter how different or how broken we are.

Community has been my lifeline in times when my faith has been shaken or weakened. It has spurred me to walk closer with Jesus. And often, it is only when I am amongst others that my faith in God can be put into action.

For the past few months, I have been blessed to journey with a community in Vancouver. We are a group of people who couldn’t be more different in age, ethnicity, and cultural background, but we gather week after week because of a shared desire to know God more. We have laughed, prayed, worshipped, and played loads of fun games together. Because of them, my Tuesday nights have become so very special.

Finding and becoming part of a community here has taken lots of time and effort, and it has entailed being very intentional and prayerful about building community in the city God has called me to be at this point in time (instead of, say, buying a plane ticket out!).

My prayer is that you, too, will enjoy being with a community of like-minded believers who will grow, challenge, and edify you as you seek and live out God’s purposes for your life.

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Last Friday, I attended a work event. For the first time in a long time, there were over 40 people in the same room. Oh, the joys of standing around, drink in hand, in a room full of people! The extroverted side of me was thrilled. (Take that, COVID.)

A while later, my eyes landed on someone I recognized—and someone recognizable to every person in the room. He is a prominent figure in many Christian circles here. And he is someone I’ve met many times over the last two years.

I have been in Zoom calls with him where I have introduced who I am to him. I have organized a walk in a nearby park with him and emailed him multiple times, and met with him face to face on that very same walk. He and his wife prayed over my husband and I once.

I went up to him while he was seated at a table and said a bright, big “Hi!”. I said my name when I greeted him too. (I know it’s hard to recognize people with half our faces masked.)

He looked at me and said “Hi!” without saying my name.

I tried jostling his memory again by saying, “I’m V’s wife.” And he replied, “Nice to meet you.”

Once that happened, I knew immediately that he had NO IDEA who I was. I was floored. I went back to my seat and told a friend about this and started trying to explain away his appalling behaviour, like: “I guess I never took a class with him so he doesn’t know who I am”.

I realize now that I was hurt. I still am hurt.

This past week, the question that’s been swirling in my mind has been: Am I that forgettable?

The answer, crushingly so, seems to be “yes.”

Life as a visible minority—as an Asian woman—in Canada is something I’ve been navigating ever since I stepped foot in beautiful British Columbia four years ago. Being a visible minority feels like something that’s happened, and is still happening, to me. There is a sense of discontinuity, a sense of feeling boxed in, bolstered by a deep discomfort and—dare I say it—a growing rage. Because this is NOT how it is supposed to be. My name and personhood are not forgettable.

“For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.”

— Psalm 139:13-14 (NRSV)

At the same time, I find that this space, this “living on the margins” kind of existence, is one that I am deeply humbled to be a part of.

For most of my life, I have been part of the majority race in Singapore. We tout ourselves as multi-racial, but I think those of us who are Chinese Singaporean have never quite reckoned with how our words and actions (or inaction) have deeply hurt another person at the core of their being. I’ve been following @minorityvoices on Instagram to let these stories of pain, of being unseen and unheard and unrecognized, wash over me. Because, ironically, I too am like He Who Forgot My Name. I too am part of a majority race that has left invisible scars on those who look and sound different than we are.

These are scars that take shape in so many different ways—names that are forgotten or mispronounced; making jokes at another person’s expense; ridiculing another person’s accent; speaking in a language that the other person does not understand; being passed over for a promotion at work; not being invited to social events; and so on.

None of these scars are too small to pay attention to. None of them are too insignificant to a God who has made us and knows every single inch of who we are.

Ryoji Iwata/Unsplash

Perhaps, the first step toward making reparations and reconciling us with one another is to practice something as small as remembering another person’s name.

As I was mulling stewing over that unpleasant encounter with He Who Forgot My Name this past week, two other incidents during that same event suddenly came to mind.

The first one occurred when I was standing in a discreet corner of the room with my back facing the entrance. A voice suddenly broke through the hubbub and said, “Hi, Isabel!”. I turned around in surprise and realized that it was someone whom I had never met in person, but had interacted with in Zoom calls and over email and social media. Thinking back now, I realize that I felt delighted that someone had recognized me and called me by name even when my back was turned.

The second one occurred when I spoke to the guest-of-honour that evening. Again, I had never met him in person but had “met” him virtually over Zoom and via email exchanges. As I introduced myself and told him my name, he said, “You’re the social media person, right?” And I laughed and said “yes!”. It felt, well, nice to be remembered.

Amidst my anger and grief over being forgettable, I had forgotten that there were people at that same event who had seen and recognized me. I didn’t need to have a prestigious title or role to be seen. I didn’t have to look or sound different. I was me, and that was all I needed to be.

These two (wonderful) people I had never met or interacted with in person remembered my name—and that has made a far larger impact on me than they will ever really know.

One of my most loved passages in the Bible is the account of Mary Magdalene at the empty tomb:

“But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). ”

— John 20:11-16 (NRSV)

Mary Magdalene is intimately acquainted with life on the margins in first-century Palestine. She knows what it’s like to be forgotten and overlooked. And of all the things that Jesus could have said to her when He revealed Himself, He chose to say her name.

In that name, that precious name by which Jesus knew and loved her by, she immediately recognized that the gardener before her was none other than the risen Christ.

Jesus remembered Mary’s name. He remembers mine. And he remembers yours, too.

To those of us who live, move, and have our being in alienating (or disremembering) spaces, may we remember that our Lord Jesus Christ remembers us, knows us, and loves us more fully and deeply than we can ever, ever imagine.

xx,
iz

When walking in a beautiful garden most people are wont to gather a few flowers as they go, which they keep, and enjoy their scent during the day. So when the mind explores some mystery in meditation, it is well to pick out one or more points that have specially arrested the attention, and are most likely to be helpful to you through the day, and this should be done at once before quitting the subject of your meditation.

The devotional bouquet that I’ve been collecting of late has been one about beauty. It’s come as a surprise to me, because it seems ridiculously fanciful to be dwelling on beauty amidst the pronounced suffering and tragedy in the world right now. But I have been drawn to thinking about beauty despite all of this unimaginable pain and brokenness.

At the tulip fields some weeks ago, I pondered the way the tulip stalks bend toward light and the way the wind ruffles their petals. Their colours, as bold and loud as they all were, seemed to whisper to me: “We exist. We are here. That is all that matters.”

And on a recent bus ride (in which I missed my stop because I was so wrapped up in enjoying said devotional bouquet), I was struck by how beauty may only fully and truly be so when it is not possessed or grasped. The minute that happens, it shrivels up and dies… for to see or appreciate beauty requires that we do not own it or lay claim to it; it can only be received and beheld.

To think on, meditate, delight in, and savour beauty in a hurting world is, perhaps, a way of speaking hope—first to myself, and then to others.

It’s resisting the pressures of this world to calculate and analyze and categorize and utilize.

It’s pushing back against narratives that unconsciously train us to be numbed by the overwhelming onslaught of terrible, awful stories.

And, like Steve Garber writes in Visions of Vocation: Common Grace for the Common Good: It’s knowing the world and loving it.

***

Gathering a devotional bouquet doesn’t have to be hard, though it naturally requires some intentionality on your part, like collecting the thoughts that you fleetingly encounter throughout the day, choosing a particular image or experience or emotion to reflect upon, holding it up prayerfully to God to open up His wisdom, and finding joy in doing so even if nothing profoundly earth-shattering is revealed.

In the same book, de Sales moves from exploring practices of devotion to outlining the nature of prayer:

Prayer is a stream of holy water [that] flows forth and makes the plants of our good desires grow green and flourish and quenches the passions within our hearts.

What would our prayers be like if we thought of them as a bouquet of gorgeous tulips to be sniffed at throughout the day?

How would our prayer lives change if we saw it less as something transactional, and more as something as natural and effortless as a bubbly little stream making its way through a thick forest, watering our thirsty, hungry, God-yearning souls along the way?

I loved Francis de Sales’ invitation when I first read it last year, and I continue to hold it close as a spiritual practice to enter into. I love that it teaches us to value wonder, to still our thoughts and bodies, and to recognize God at work around us and within us.

I offer this invitation to you today, too. May you find flowers to gather and dwell upon for your very own devotional bouquet as you work, eat, rest, and play.

xx,
iz

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One of the largest adjustments I had to make in 2020 was in terms of student life. Switching from in-person education to hours of zoom instruction was, needless to say, super tough. I was struggling with a deep sense of disappointment with the whole situation when fall term started as well, so I suppose that made going for zoom classes even harder. Couple that with bouts of anxiety during and after zoom classes… being a student during the COVID-19 pandemic sure wasn’t easy at all.

This post goes out to all new and returning students. Many of us are still continuing with online or zoom education this year (hopefully not for long, though!). Wherever you are, if you experience anxiety or fear as you show up for zoom classes every day, I pray that this piece (originally written for my college’s student publication) will encourage you and remind you that you aren’t alone in this <3 Press on!

xx,
iz

Photo: Cookie the Pom/Unsplash

Thoughts that run amok in my mind every single time I attend a Zoom class:

“Ugh, my fringe looks weird.”

“Great. What I just said out loud sounds really… lame.”

“Please don’t call on me to answer anything.”

Before the fall term started, one word that a couple of fellow students mentioned when I asked them how they were doing was “overwhelmed.” We’re now seven weeks in, and it doesn’t seem like anything has changed. Of course, this isn’t a universal, shared experience; some of you might be enjoying online classes a lot more than other folks! And while I love taking less-than-five paces from bedroom to (virtual) classroom—as opposed to trudging over to college with icy snowflakes bombarding my face—I’ve noticed a rather sharp spike in my anxiety this term.

I first realized this when my subconscious rudely startled me awake in the middle of the night during the first week of term. I started fretting over what a poor answer I had given to a prof’s question in class, and it took me a long time to fall asleep again. And as term progressed, I began feeling a tightness in my chest every time I thought of all the deadlines and commitments I was juggling.

I’m more than acquainted with stress and the strain it can have on my body, so it doesn’t surprise me that I’ve been experiencing some physical tension. What does surprise me, though, is how much anxiety attending Zoom classes causes me. “It feels like I have to “perform” and be my “best self” in front of the camera, the prof, and all my other classmates,” I commented recently to my husband and fellow grad student, Victor (who, to my chagrin, replied that he does not experience any of that; someone tell me I’m not alone in feeling this!).

At in-person classes, I’m the kind of student who’s perfectly content to sit quietly at the back of the classroom, head buried in my note-taking and reading. But when I speak in Zoom classes, it feels like a billion pairs of eyes are on me, scrutinizing my every word and facial expression, and hearing my voice in their ears (isn’t that such an intimate thing to experience, too?!). I’m also pretty attuned to body language and behavioural cues, and since Zoom cannot quite communicate these across, I find myself bereft of little ways I can connect with my classmates, like admiring their rain boots or valiantly striving to parse Hebrew words together.

My work at Sanctuary Mental Health Ministries, a Christian mental health non-profit in Vancouver, has given me some handles and helpful tools to process and understand anxiety. I’ve learned that it’s much easier and healthier to allow myself to experience it, rather than suppressing it or trying to crowd it out. Therapist and researcher Hillary McBride dubs this “birdwatching” our emotions, which I think is absolutely spot-on. I’ve also learned to give myself time to probe why I’m feeling anxious, instead of criticizing myself for feeling it.

In a sense, there is something powerfully freeing in allowing these anxious cogitations to come and go. It’s cathartic, really, to relax and breathe into—and yes, write about—this experience of Zoomiticus Anxietus, rather than finding ways to resolve it. Even now, an image comes to me as I wrap this reflection up: I am reaching out to scoop and drink from His deep well of love; it is cool and sweet and (to my great relief) endlessly available.

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I hope you’ve been keeping well in this tumultuous year. Amidst the grief, sorrow, and anger that many of us have undoubtedly experienced, it may sometimes feel jarring to also experience moments of joy and hope in this time. My friend Alice Hodgkins captures this delicate tension so well in her words. Whenever I read her blog posts, I come away with a renewed sense of God holding, nurturing, and loving the world and everything in it, and a greater desire to surrender my life and my plans to God’s abundant love and grace.

Alice’s writing is pensive, emotive, and heartfelt, and the best way to read her work is to savour it slowly and allow it to settle gently into your soul. I am honoured to “host” a beautifully reflective piece she has penned here for this blog. May it bless and encourage you!

xx,
iz

Photo: Alex Lanting/Unsplash

Long ago, in what now seems like another life, I used to teach high school. One day in history class, a student somewhat flirtatiously asked what my greatest fear was. I think he expected me to say heights or spiders, but I’m compulsively truthful, so I looked him directly in the eye and said, “Failure.” He was blessedly silent for the rest of the hour. And if I was afraid of failure at the age of twenty-four standing in front of a classroom full of teenagers, it is a fear which has only become more pronounced as I’ve stepped deeper into adulthood.

I am by nature a maker and a planner and a dreamer. These are not bad things to be. They are traits which make it possible for me to write, to take a blank page and put something on it, but when I lean into them too heavily, as I often do, I usually find that I’m angling for creative control not only of whatever task is directly before me, but of my entire life. The ship of my life must be kept afloat by my own ideas: the accomplishments, the employments, the sartorial choices, the relationships, the minute person-to-person interactions. I take control so things can succeed as they ought.

But if, on a global scale, this year has been the story of anything, it has been the story of the dramatic failure of human control. So many best laid plans have not merely gone awry, but have crumbled into dust and blown away with the wind, betraying how flimsy they were all along. We thought the world was firmly in our grasp and then a virus smaller than the eye can see has come along and knocked it all off-kilter, not because we weren’t holding on as tight as we possibly could, but because it was never ours to hold in the first place.

And while I certainly feel the ways this wave has lifted and carried and—to some extent—crushed all of us collectively, I have spent quite a lot of time this year preoccupied by my own personal lack of control. I now cannot make a list or put on a dress or spin a daydream or buy a plane ticket to make it all come right. It occurs to me that the tools I had at my disposal for warding off failure were pretty limited. How could I have thought I could save myself? And so I sink. As the Book of Common Prayer would have it, I must “gat me to my Lord right humbly.”

Yet, despite my absence of power, and though the last few months have been occasionally painful and certainly stark, I am coming to see the ways they have also somehow been lavish with a kind of hardy beauty, like some desert flower which refuses to die because it does not know how. In September I went out to a little cabin on one of the Gulf Islands with a couple friends. As the ocean lapped on the rocks below us, we were content to realize that in the midst of the chaos we had brought too much food. More than that, there were too many books, too many puzzles, too many words to be said, too many silences to be listened to, and too many garden beans to snap. I found myself stepping lightly among the plenty of the days, not in fear or flippancy but in reverence.

In truth, the larger lesson of these last two years in Vancouver which hit me with a bracing jolt in the middle of a lecture on the Psalms and which I am still swallowing with difficulty, is that Jesus loves me. He really loves me. Not because other people say so, but because he does. And that love is out of the reach of my control. I cannot predict it and I cannot understand it and I cannot stop it. That love sees my failure and is not afraid.

I spent two months this summer working part-time at a long-term care facility and I think the experience poured gold into the cracks in my soul. It was a stressful job in certain ways and I was often running from place to place. On one unit, whenever I entered a particular bent old woman would roll along after me in her wheelchair grabbing my hold of my hand and kissing it repeatedly, eager and happy. I always had to disentangle myself because I had somewhere to be, but love followed me down the hall anyway.

I’ve reorganized my bedroom a whole lot this year. It’s apparently a new hobby of mine. My bookcase has been in two places and the desk and chest and mirror have been in three. But no matter how many times I redecorate and rearrange, my view on the outside world remains the same. It is a long shallow window set high in the western wall of my room and through it I see clouds and a tangle of pine branches and sometimes, when I cannot sleep, I see the moon.

But I cannot rearrange the sky, nor will I try. I’m learning.

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alice hodgkins was born and raised in North Carolina, and now writes, studies, and watches people on the bus in Vancouver, BC. She is always hopeful that she will run into a poem where she least expects it. You can read more from her at alicewithpaper.com.

Stories like Kelly’s are intensely personal, and yet, they are often overlooked or undervalued. But I can safely say that for many of us, our response to this is: No longer. In this blog post, Kelly shares life-altering accounts of racial discrimination; how she processes the anger and hurt experienced by the Black community with God; what the lack of diversity in theological schools signals to her; and what she thinks the church and the world can do in encouraging diversity and inclusivity.

I pray that you receive Kelly’s story with open eyes and soft hearts. To be truly with Kelly demands courage and compassion on our parts. May this be what we offer as we read Kelly’s story, and as we also examine the ways in which we have, unconsciously or otherwise, marginalized or neglected to pay attention to the stories of others who are not like us, and whom we call our brothers and sisters in Christ.

xx,
iz

Thank you for agreeing to share your story, Kelly. You were telling me that although you live in Canada, it feels like you don’t belong here. Could you share more about why you feel this way?

“I was born in Montreal, Quebec. In the first 10 years of my life, I didn’t question my identity and belonging as a Quebecoise that much. But everything changed after 1995, the year that the Referendum in Quebec for separation from Canada lost.

The “No” campaign received 51% of the votes, and the “Yes” campaign had 49%. It was very close. The comment made by the Prime Minister, Jacques Parizeau, at the time was that they had lost because of the ethnic vote. From then on, I felt like I was in a place that I didn’t belong to. That was the first time I recognized that I was not a Quebecoise. I was something else, but not sure exactly what.

Even though my parents were born in Haiti, most of their lives were spent here. So for me the connection with Haiti was remote. I had never been there, did not even speak the language—Creole—and could barely understand it. So even if I wanted to claim that I am Haitian, I really couldn’t. But at the same time, in Quebec I was labelled as “this ethnic group”. So it felt like being Quebecois was essentially being White. And you had to have been there for a few generations.”

Kelly (second row, first from right) in kindergarten

And this sense that you didn’t belong persisted throughout your school years, while you were growing up?

“That’s right. It actually got worse through the school system. When I graduated from elementary school and went to secondary school, it was predominantly White. I could count with my two hands how many Black people there were in my year. It was a big contrast from my elementary school’s demographics; I really felt like I did not belong.

The school I attended was different on so many levels. I was from a middle-class family; many of the White students were from the upper-class with parents in prominent positions in society. And on top of it, I faced discrimination from some teachers in that school.”

Kelly (first row, third from left) in secondary school

What incidents do you remember facing discrimination in?

“One incident is the one that changed me forever. I was in secondary three (the equivalent of grade nine). I was in a class where there were only a few Black people and a person of mixed ethnic background. It was a private school and one of the top schools in Quebec, so you naturally want to perform and get your chance to answer questions. Each time the teacher asked a question, and us students of colour raised our hands, she would never pick us. Our suspicions were confirmed when one day only Black students were raising their hands to answer the question, and she decided to pick a Caucasian student who had not raised her hand. This happened so often.

One day, we had an oral test on a book we had to read. And the way it was set up is that this teacher would call five people to the front and ask five different questions. Of the five people sitting at the front, whoever knew the answer could raise their hands.

I had read the book, but I was not feeling well that morning. Despite that, I went to school to do the exam. While I was sitting at the front of the class, I raised my hand for the first three questions she asked—and she picked the other people. I was the only one consistently raising her hand and she would not pick me. When she asked the fourth question, I raised my hand. There were only two of us left, and I was the only one raising my hand. She asked the other student and said, “Come on, I know you know the answer”. She even provided hints to that student so she could get the answer to that question.

When she asked me the fifth question, which she ensured would be hard for me to answer, I was so angry at the injustice. But because I was a very shy person, I didn’t say anything and accepted the fact that I wasn’t going to get a good mark for that oral test.

As I settled back in my seat and put my head on my desk because I was feeling unwell, a friend of mine seated in front of me turned and asked if I was ok. As I was about to reply, the teacher yelled at us saying, “If you girls keep on talking again, you’ll both get a zero for your test”.

I told the teacher that my friend was just checking on me because I was not feeling well. I don’t remember exactly what the teacher replied, but she said something along the lines of: “Then you shouldn’t have come”. And I said, “But I had a test”. And she responded, “Well, you should have planned accordingly”. And at that point I lost it. I yelled at her and said something along the lines of: “Are you dumb? How can I prepare for a sickness?” In front of the whole class, I went off for a couple of minutes on that teacher, telling her exactly how we felt about her and how I would never tolerate her discriminatory behaviour again. And the girls (it was an all-girls school) started to applaud and support me.

Because of my outburst, I created an uprising and ended up being called to the principal’s office. I got a detention and was asked to apologize to the teacher in front of the class and to write a letter of apology. After calling my mom and explaining to her what had happened, she went to the school and stated her opinion. And when we left the office, my mom said, “If you ever apologize in front of the class or write that letter, you’re going to get in trouble with me.” Although the teacher constantly asked me to apologize, I found a way to avoid it. Also, I never wrote the letter of apology.

From that moment on, I was changed. I started to notice more injustices in the school context. And from that day on, I was not afraid to speak up for myself and people close to me.”

Kelly at work in a Cellular Biology lab in Sherbrooke, Quebec

What about work or society in general? Did you face any discrimination there?

“Work has been fairly good for me. I rarely encountered discrimination as much as I did in school. I was blessed, I guess, because I know it’s not everyone’s reality. I have to admit that the work that I was doing didn’t entail me trying to climb up the ladder. Most of my friends faced discrimination when they took on management positions.

In society, it’s displayed through little comments that people don’t intend to be mean, but still make you feel like you don’t belong here. For example, when winter comes and someone says to me, “You must not be used to it, eh?” For them, there is no way I was born here. I must have come from a warmer country. This happened mostly in Vancouver and Calgary. And whenever I receive comments like these, I tell them that I’ve actually experienced harsher winters. They’re shocked when they find out that I was born in Quebec.

Their assumptions make me feel like I don’t belong here. I know they don’t mean it in a hurtful way, but that’s why most people of non-White heritage can never feel at home here.

What I’ve also experienced a lot is the infamous question: “Where are you from?”. I would say, “Montreal.” And they would reply, “Oh, how about your parents?” And I would say, “Well, they were born in Haiti but came here at an early age”. And they would answer back “Oh, you’re Haitian!” Somehow, I am just not allowed to be Canadian.”

Why do you think this happens so often? Do you think “Canadian” equals “White/Caucasian”?

“Totally. Canadian means being White. I do understand that we’re shaped by our ethnic heritage. The problem I have is the assumption that because we are of that particular ethnic heritage, we have nothing Canadian in us. But that is false because we’ve been shaped by both cultures.

The first time I went to Haiti was in 2012 for humanitarian work. And it wasn’t even in the area where my grand-parents and parents were from. That’s where I have issues with these assumptions—as much as they’re partly right, they’re partly wrong as well. We’ve adopted many of the Canadian mentalities and ways of living.”

At the ruins of a palace called Chateau Sans-Souci in northern Haiti in 2012

At an Infant Rehabilitation Centre in northern Haiti in 2012

“While I am from Canada, my Christian journey is so different from that of a White person. Many of the issues they experience are totally different from the ones I face as a Black Christian.”

You were going to share some thoughts about the church as well.

“Yes. For me, I have a unique experience in the sense that I grew up in Haitian churches in Quebec. Most White Quebecois weren’t very religious. At best, they identified themselves as non-practicing Catholics. So, for many years I thought Christianity was mainly a Black religion. It was only after moving outside of Quebec and going to school in Alberta for my undergrad that I was pleasantly shocked to see that there were many White Christians, and that Christianity was practiced by people from different ethnic groups. After that, I developed an interest in discovering how Christianity was expressed in different ethnic groups.

Sadly, many ethnic churches tended to Westernize the way they did church. I did not understand why until my time at the University of Sherbrooke. I was part of a Christian student body where many of the students were White, and they once stated that it was the White leaders of that group that taught me and another Black friend of mine all we knew about the Christian faith. Before my friend could reply to their comment, one of the leaders corrected them and said that we had already come with that knowledge. When I moved to Vancouver, I noticed similar assumptions. When I responded to questions people have about the Christian faith, it was disregarded. But when a White person said something similar, it was celebrated as an ingenious answer. The assumptions in both cases were that Christianity is a White Man’s religion and that only the White voice matters.”

Kelly with some of her first non-Black Christian friends during her undergraduate studies in Alberta

What is it like, then, to be a Black Christian at a graduate school of theology?

“Though I really appreciate the rigorous education I am receiving, there is one area in which I hope to see some changes in all Western theological schools. There is a deplorable lack of diversity in terms of our theological readings. We have a department of World Christianity where you get to read non-European writings, but those courses aren’t mandatory for everybody. It feels like you’re always learning about a European view of Christianity. But Christianity is much more than European Christianity, especially now that the latter is a minority.

The reason why I’m being so critical about it is that while I am from Canada, my Christian journey is so different from that of a White person. Many of the issues they experience are totally different from the ones I face as a Black Christian. A little example: Too often, I have heard stories of White people losing their faith when tragedy or evil hits them. Consequently, books are written and sermons preached to make sense of evil so as to help people not lose their faith. Such an approach would be irrelevant for many Black people. Though we may question God about tragedies that happen, our faith does not depend on whether evil happens to us or not. Because we expect evil and injustice to occur, what many of us want is to hear stories and biblical passages on how God will get us through hardships and give us victory. This is one reason why, as a Black person in theological studies, I struggle sometimes to understand why I’m paying money to study things that are often irrelevant to my context. There needs to be more diversity.”

Kelly performing at a church in Calgary with her family

How has your identity as a Black Christian who’s grown up in the Haitian community shaped or helped you in your faith journey?

“Thank you for that question, because that’s not a question that I’m being asked. First of all, it’s helped me navigate through life. I was encouraged to embody what we were taught in the pastor’s weekly sermons and in our family devotionals. To borrow from the words of theologian Willie Jennings, our faith is “woven into the fabric of our lives”. Jesus is real to us. His power is real in our lives. We do not understand life without Christ.

Secondly, in the Haitian churches I grew up in, another thing that was emphasized was Sunday school. That was literally like school. Based on your age, you went from one grade to another, and after a certain age, to get to the next class you had to pass an exam. I was familiar with terms like eschatology, exegesis, and ecclesiology from a young age, so that when the pastor preaches and refers to those terms, we would understand. It helps the pastor focus on preaching the practical part of theology without spending his time defining terms.”

That’s amazing. A lot of us tend to “dumb down” Scripture and make it fun and cute and accessible for kids.

“It was fun, but it was the real deal. As kids, they trained us really well. They taught us how to integrate Jesus in our lives in a real way. So that’s why you’ll see many Black Christians praying about everything and anything. At an early age, Jesus is part of our lives in concrete ways. So I think that’s why we rarely lose people to faith when they grow up.”

Kelly with her closest friends Beatrice and Vicky

We talked a bit about justice just now. With the injustice surrounding the deaths of Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, and many others in the United States and elsewhere, there must be so much pain and anger in the Black community. How do you process everything you feel toward the injustice committed against you and your community? How do you talk to God about it?

“Dealing with these situations is an ongoing process. Racism is not something that’s happened in the past; it’s still happening. Therefore it is very difficult to deal with, but God is definitely working. I know it’s our faith, family, friends and community that keep us sane. My dad, my late mother and my siblings have been an amazing source of support during times of great injustice. I have two of my Christian friends, Beatrice and Vicky, with whom I regularly talk to about injustices, so that helps. We pray together and for one another and we try to stay accountable to one another on how things affect us and how we can improve our reactions. I am blessed to have other amazing friends who also have and are still accompanying me in this life journey.

A wonderful thing about Christ is that He reveals to you where you need healing and provides the help for it. Two and a half years ago, I went to New York and my friend asked me one question that destabilized me: “Kelly, you used to be really, really sweet. What happened?” That question really hurt me. As she pushed to understand, I realized that the prejudices and discrimination that I had faced had made me grow cold.

The following day was a Sunday, and we went to Brooklyn Tabernacle church. Before our vacation started, I had prayed that the pastor would preach a message that would speak to us—and he preached on bitterness. That’s when I was able to put a word to what I was feeling when my friend asked the question. That’s the amazing thing, walking with God—when you don’t know you’re sick, He will reveal it to you.

I experienced the beginning of a “cleaning” of my heart that day, but it’s going to take a while to heal because of the constant discrimination and injustice that I face. But I believe and trust in the God of miracles. I believe He can make me the sweet person I used to be again.”

You shared with me previously that you’ve grown numb to racist remarks and experiences. Do you think feeling numb is the same as feeling hopeless? Or do you still have hope that things will change?

“I was pondering that question, and I realize that this numbness arises because of hopelessness. I’ve given up on seeing changes in society, and in the educational system in particular. For me, the educational system is where it starts. In Canada, that is where you spend most of the days of your lives after the workplace. It’s a place that shapes you as an individual, and shapes how you should think and live.

Since the discrimination that I experienced was worst in the educational system, until I see concrete changes in that area, I think that whatever we’re talking about right now—even if the Prime Minister recognizes that there is systemic racism in Canada—it’s not enough. It’s not enough to say it. I did not hear any concrete changes that he will make to address systemic racism. Also, they’re not talking about the source of the issue; they only address the symptoms. So I am pessimistic about changes at a societal level. On a personal level, though, I will still keep fighting my own battles and that of people close to me.”

Kelly (second from left) with her parents, sisters and niece

Kelly’s dad, nephew and brothers

What, for you, would constitute real change in the church, or society, and even in educational institutions, in terms of being more inclusive and open to celebrating diversity?

“In terms of what can be done in society, I could suggest many things. But I’ve got to be honest with you: They need Jesus. What I’m about to share with you is only possible in Christ. Because it requires putting your pride aside, and that pride is not going to go down easily unless God intervenes.

For me, society needs to first recognize that they have prejudices against non-Whites. A lot of people say, “I’m not racist”. But, yes, you can be. Racism starts with those prejudices. White people also need to recognize that they have a “God-complex” attitude. They often think they are superior. This sense of superiority can be in little things, like food. I’ve seen how some White people react disgustingly to food that other people bring from their own culture and say, “Oh my gosh, what is that?” Already, that attitude signals that they believe that this food is inferior to theirs. Then there are some White people who think they know best about what another ethnic group needs for their education, without ever consulting that group. That’s a “God-complex” attitude. Even if they’re doing it with a good heart, it still shows that they think they know better, and therefore that they are superior.

I’m not saying that White people have nothing to offer. Quite the opposite: I believe that every ethnic group on this planet has something to offer. What I’m arguing against is the (implicit) belief that they are the only ones that have something to offer. That’s why I say that they need Jesus. Even those who do things in good faith—such perceptions are a part of how they grew up.

Again, I go back to the education system. A sense of superiority is installed at a really young age. Quick example: I know people who have their kids in preschool, and they hear from their White peers comments like “Ew, your skin looks like poop”. You’re no more than five and you already say something like this. And their parents minimize that by saying things like, “He’s just a kid, he doesn’t know what he’s saying”. Oh, really now? Saying he’s just a kid and doesn’t know better just perpetuates that mentality and makes them think it’s acceptable. If the parents do not make it clear that they are really displeased with such comments, the child will remain racist.”

What about the Church?

“Some ‘White’ churches need to encounter Jesus again. I am talking about those who preach a Westernized Christianity instead of a Christianized Western mentality. For example, some have argued that Christian thought is one of the factors (if not the main one) that has made it possible for the West to have a Scientific Revolution. This association of Christianity with the progress of science and technology has led some Christians to claim that this is proof of the truth of Christianity. My academic and professional backgrounds are in science, and yet I would not dare think that Christianity is validated by science. That is putting science on a higher pedestal, just like secularists. This leads to an arrogant attitude, in that countries that are not as advanced in science and technology are viewed as being “behind” and incapable of contributing to human flourishing.

The Church needs to understand that the value of Christianity cannot depend on progress in science and technology. That’s not what God will look at. Some people in other countries couldn’t care less about technology. Some don’t even need it. So does that mean they’re less of a Christian because of that?

The focus should not be on possessions or on scientific or technological progress, but on the fruit of the Spirit (love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control). By putting the emphasis on that, it makes everyone equal as Christians no matter their social status, ethnic background, or even scientific knowledge—if you’re embodying the fruit of the Spirit, it means you are walking with the Spirit of God. That’s what God is looking at. The Church should focus on those kinds of values. If they do, it will help remove the “God-complex” attitude present within the Western church. It will humble them and make them see that they can learn from people of differing social statuses and ethnic backgrounds.”

Kelly in secondary school

What, for you, are some good resources or books you would recommend to help other Christians understand more about race and faith, inclusivity, and more?

“I personally don’t even read about these issues, because I don’t really need to. I live it. To be honest with you, I don’t want White people to be reading about it either. I want them to talk to other people of colour about it. What is important is to talk to people around you that are from different ethnic groups to understand their reality. I believe in this method 1000%.

You also need to be talking to people you have a certain trust in, because if you don’t like the person or have some prejudices against him or her, you’ll probably dismiss what he or she says. So you need to speak to somebody you already trust and who will not sugarcoat the truth, but will speak it in a more loving way to you.”

I absolutely agree with you on this. There should be more conversations taking place, so people are able to expand their worldviews and understand what another person’s worldviews and experiences are like.

“Exactly. One more thing: the reason why I don’t suggest reading is that people will tend to generalize and analyze issues like a mathematical problem. Reality is much more complex. And while my reality is not the same as, for example, someone who’s having a hard time finding a job, it doesn’t mean that I’m not struggling in other ways. When you talk to people around you, you get to understand their reality in your surroundings, and apply the right solutions for that person in your context. So, reading about the African-American experience will not help you understand the Black Canadian experience. Even within Canada, racism is not expressed the same way from one region to another. Therefore, talking to people of colour (Black, Asians, Arabs, Hispanics, Aboriginals, etc.) in your context is best because it will help you uncover the best solutions to address racism around you.”

That is so true, and it’s something I hope to put into action more. Thank you once again, Kelly, for sharing your story, and for trusting me to hold space for your experiences.

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