I started this blog in 2006.
Almost 20 years.

But I want to take advantage of this weird little boom I’m experiencing on social media—and leverage it while I can.
A literary agent reached out and, after some really thoughtful conversations about how to strengthen my digital presence, I’ve decided to do what all the cool kids are doing:

I’m jumping on Substack.

If you’re already subscribed here, you’ll get an email soon inviting you to subscribe to the newsletter on Substack. (It’ll be free.)
The content won’t change much; still me, still stories about life, faith, and everything in between. Just a new home.

JosephYoo.com will no longer point to this blog.
Instead, it’ll take you to a simple landing page with links to where I’m active online.

This blog will quietly return to its original name: pressingtoward.wordpress.com.
Way back when, it was called Step by Step. And the URL was always “pressing toward.”

Obviously, I hope you’ll stick around and join me in this next chapter.
But truly—no pressure. No guilt. No hard feelings if you don’t want to jump on the Substack train. I get it.

The next time you hear from me, it’ll be through a newsletter.
But whether it’s in your inbox, on your screen, or in person—thanks for being part of the story so far.

I don’t know what doors (if any) this will open.
But I’m riding this wave as long as it carries me with gratitude, curiosity, and a decent Wi-Fi connection.
If you want to get a head start, here’s the link to my substack.

Thanks for being here.
Really.
It means more than you know.

As I write this: Today, Nathanael has officially finished 8th grade.
And yes, what “they” say is true (whoever they are): the days are slow, but the years are fast.

When we were saying goodbye to his teacher and one of the student aides, I found myself tearing up. I wasn’t expecting it—but there it was.

I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of N.
But I’ll save that for a post in June when we celebrate a family anniversary.

Right now, I want to give a shoutout to Nolan Ryan Jr. High.

Through the generosity of Alvin ISD’s previous SpEd director, we were able to send N to Nolan Ryan—even though we weren’t zoned for it. We chose it because it’s basically across the street from Mosaic, which made life simpler.

That said, I’ll admit, it was a little short-sighted on my part.

All of his classmates are headed to Shadow Creek High School… and we’re zoned elsewhere.
We requested a transfer. It was denied.
On one hand: really? It’s just one more student…
On the other: I’m choosing to take the humble route: I don’t know what I don’t know. I trust there were valid reasons. Sure, I thought about pushing back… but it is what it is. We’ll make the best of it.

To be clear: the school we’re zoned for is not a bad school. It’s a good one.
N will make new friends. He’ll charm his new teachers the way he charms everyone. He’ll be okay.

Still, who knows what public education will even look like in a few years now that Texas cowardly passed the school voucher system. (And yes, I say “cowardly” because they didn’t even let us vote on it. And we all know why.)

But if I had a do-over, I’d send N to Nolan Ryan Jr. High all over again.

One of the things I appreciated most was how clearly and consistently N was loved by his teachers.
We knew he was in a safe space.
That alone is no small thing.

So to the faculty, staff, and students of Nolan Ryan Jr. High—especially Mrs. Washington, Mrs. E, Mrs. Daniels, and Mrs. Sykes:
Thank you.

Thank you for an amazing 8th grade year.
Thank you for pouring out your care, your time, your presence, your support.
We felt it. And he did too.

We never had to worry about whether he’d be okay with you.
And in a world like this, that kind of peace is a gift.

How loved was Nathanael?
Here’s the video from 8th grade graduation: the cheers, the standing ovation, the joy.
It was a holy moment—loud, full of love, and completely earned:

And now, as with life, we move forward.
High school is next. Change is coming.

But, thanks to the people of Nolan Ryan Jr. High, we move with a little extra lift in our steps—
The kind only love can give.

Anyhoo.
I’m doing alright, thank you for asking.

The best way I can describe it is this:
I’m standing in water that’s at chest level.
I’m not treading water or struggling. I’m able to stand comfortably, head above water.
I can see some semblance of the shore, but I don’t know what’s ahead.
Is this the deepest the water will get and I can walk easily the rest of the way?
Or are there going to be sudden drops here and there, where I’ll struggle to find solid footing again?
Who knows. The only way to find out is to keep moving forward… or as a wise being once chanted: just keep swimming.

I’ve been cautiously monitoring my everything—how my body feels, what emotions are coursing through me, what things are triggering, etc.

I discovered another thing about myself.
Once I realized something wasn’t right within me… and then was told that it was depression, I embraced it wholeheartedly. Maybe even felt a bit relieved, as it helped make sense of my year.

A clergy friend asked, “Do you think it’s also burnout?”
And the offense I felt at that question and the speed of my “No, it’s not that” response was something I felt needed to be unpacked.

But I didn’t want to linger on it.
Then I remembered the words of Richard Rohr: what you resist, persists.

Why was I so willing to embrace a diagnosis of depression, but so opposed to the idea of burnout?

The more I thought about it, the clearer the answer became.
Pride.
Which is also the answer to many of the problems we’ve caused, no?

I don’t know.
Maybe burnout feels more avoidable—like it’s a failure of discipline or boundaries.
Maybe, in some twisted way, burnout feels like failure.
Which is hilarious because that’s not what I’d say to friends going through it.
Maybe burnout implies you walked away… and that comes with questions.
Walk away from what? To where? For how long? What if you don’t come back?

What ultimately forced me to sit with it was a Simpsons episode (of all things).

I was working on something when one of my favorite jokes involving Rev. Timothy Lovejoy came to mind (it’s the one where he says to Homer, “I’ll see you in hell,” then slams the door—only to open it again and say, “From heaven.”).

That joke led me to think about the episode In Marge We Trust.

If you’re in ministry, I strongly suggest you watch this episode.
Someone on the writing team knew what clergy burnout looks like.

Here’s how it showed up in the life of this minister (cartoon or not, what he experiences is as real as you and me).

Apathy Disguised as Wisdom

Early in the episode, Ned Flanders calls Lovejoy in the middle of a spiritual crisis.
Ned, turns out, is the type of parishioner who is… draining.
There are people in our churches who energize us.
And there are people who take more out of us than we were willing to give.
Not because they need more grace—but sometimes because our personalities don’t gel. Or they talk without leaving a moment to respond or breathe. Or they ask for time and energy when we’re already running on fumes.
Sometimes people can be both at different seasons: a boost or a drain.
Regardless, we’re still called to love them in whatever season or situation they’re in.

(And remember: the command is to love people. There’s no verse that says you have to like everyone all the time. Maybe because even God knew that’s impossible.)

Ned asks for spiritual advice. Lovejoy answers:
“Mmm… just read the Bible.”
And later: “Have you considered any of the other major religions? They’re all pretty much the same.”

It’s easy to say he’s just being lazy.
But this isn’t laziness.
It’s what I call pastoral autopilot.
It’s spiritual exhaustion in a clerical collar.
Lovejoy isn’t snarky because he doesn’t care. He’s snarky because he has nothing left to give. His tank is empty.

When our tank is empty, we hand out fortune-cookie theology.
Not because we don’t care—but because we literally can’t care more right now.

Loss of Purpose

We see that Lovejoy, when not taking calls, is playing with model trains.

It’s hilarious and tragic because he’s not hiding it. He’s not even pretending to be engaged.
He’s clocked out while still wearing the vestments.

That’s when burnout turns into something worse: meaninglessness.
You’re not just tired of the work. You’re starting to wonder if the work matters.

And when your job is literally pointing people toward meaning…
that’s a terrifying place to be.

Being Replaced by Someone with Heart

Enter Marge.

With her towering hair and towering empathy, she listens. She cares.
She becomes “The Listen Lady.” And wouldn’t you know it, she starts doing actual pastoral care just by showing up.

She’s not doing anything extraordinary. She’s doing what Lovejoy should be doing.

Lovejoy sees it.
And here’s what’s gutting: he doesn’t lash out.
He doesn’t blame Marge. He doesn’t blame his congregation.
He doesn’t try to reassert himself or reclaim his title.

He just watches.

And you can see it on his face—shame. Awareness. Regret.

That’s the emotional gut-punch of burnout: when someone does your job better, not because they’re better than you, but because they still feel.

Redemption Through Calling

The turning point doesn’t come from sabbath or sabbatical.
It comes when Ned ends up in a literal lion’s den (because of course he does).
And Lovejoy shows up.

Not because it was on his calendar.
Not because the bishop told him to.
Not out of guilt.

He shows up because something in him remembers.

The love. The joy. The call.

He remembered who he was.

Burnout doesn’t always look like scandal or resignation.
Sometimes it looks like model trains.
Sometimes it sounds like “just read the Bible.”
Sometimes it’s a quiet loss of wonder.

But resurrection is possible.
It always is.

Lovejoy’s story reminds us that healing doesn’t always come from stepping away.
Sometimes, it comes from remembering why you stepped in.

Who would’ve ever thought one could find the presence of God in an episode of The Simpsons?

I always find it funny when people are so adamant that God can only be found in the pages of the Bible—like I’m the heretic for suggesting otherwise.

The irony is ironing.

I’m the one saying God is everywhere.

They’re the ones saying God is confined to the pages of an anthology.

They’re the ones monopolizing divine presence.

They’re the ones building fences around the sacred.

David once said, “Where can I go to flee from your presence?”

And these folks? They’d probably respond, “I hope David had a Bible on him, or he was outta luck.”

(Okay, they don’t actually say that. But that’s what they’re implying—whether they realize it or not.)

As for me, I’ve been asking if this is burnout. The fact that I reacted so strongly—vehemently—with a “No!” probably says more than I wanted it to.

I still don’t think it is. (Which you’d might add, I think you’re in denial).
I’m not in denial (which is exactly what a person who’s in denial would say, you’re probably thinking).

For the first time in my adult life, I have no idea what 2026 is going to look like.

Usually I have at least a theme. A word. A direction.

Now? I can’t see past next month. And maybe that’s a good thing.

Because if I rush through this, I’ll end up recreating the same patterns that got me here in the first place.

What’s the point of all this reflection if I just sprint back into the same wall?

It’s a weird place to be—holding time-sensitive decisions in one hand and deep caution in the other.

I want to move fast. But I need to move slow.

Because you can’t rush healing.

You can’t microwave wholeness.

It won’t come on demand.

So I walk forward.

Not confidently. Not quickly. But intentionally.

I don’t know what’s waiting for me on the distant shore I keep staring at.

But I know this: standing still in chest-deep water won’t get me there.

So I take another step. And continue forward, step by step.

The water may rise and fall. The ground may shift beneath me.

But I’ll keep walking toward the shore—even if I don’t know what waits for me there.

Because forward is still forward.

And grace meets us in motion.

I had coffee with someone who’s in recovery. Over eight years sober—absolutely commendable.

We ended up talking about Communion and how TEC (The Episcopal Church) practices the giving and receiving of the elements.

“So no grape juice for y’all?”

“Nope. I think we can use de-alcoholized wine, but it’s safe to say the majority of TEC uses real wine.”

“Huh,” he said as he processed. “Well, I guess that means if I ever visit a TEC, I’d have to opt out of receiving. Do churches let newcomers know that it’s real wine?”

“We do. But I don’t know about all churches. Still, you wouldn’t have to opt out entirely. You could receive a blessing instead of the elements. Or you could just take the bread without the wine. Receiving in one kind still counts for the whole thing.”

After we said goodbye, I lingered on that part of the conversation.

I didn’t say anything wrong. Canonically, theologically, pastorally—this is the stance of TEC.

But something kept gnawing at the bottom of my heart.
I wasn’t wrong… but it didn’t feel right.

There’s a huge difference between opting out of something and being excluded from it—between choosing to refrain and never having a real choice in the first place.

Before I go further:
This post isn’t about proposing canonical reforms.
It’s definitely not a declaration of rebellion against the rubrics in the Book of Common Prayer (BCP).
And I don’t have anything resembling a solution.
I’m also not advocating for anything.
I’m just thinking out loud, airing the tensions I feel in my heart, mind, and soul.
Which, you know, was the exact purpose of me starting this blog (I’ve had so many different blogs before this one) back in 2006.

Take what you want, leave what you don’t. This is what’s preoccupying my brain.

Again, there’s a big difference between opting out and being excluded.

It’s one thing to opt out of Communion when you have options:

Wine or grape juice.
Bread or gluten-free.
Blessing or elements.
You’ve got choices. You’re opting out.

It’s another thing entirely to be told there is no option for you—except to opt out.
No bread you can safely eat.
No space for your body, your story, or your boundary at the Table.

And I’d argue: that’s not opting out. That’s being left out.
Now, granted, we don’t frame it that way theologically.
But relationally? That’s how it lands. That’s how it feels.

And yes: every viewpoint is a view from a point.
Mine is from the point of relationships.

Throughout my ministry, I’ve always been:
People first. Theology second. Polity third.
I know that’s not every Episcopalian’s priority structure, but for me, people and relationships will always come first.

So I can’t ignore some of the barriers that get in the way before someone can truly belong.

I can’t help but feel the colonial hangovers baked into our DNA (surely I can’t be the only one…).
That whole, “This is the way we do it, and if you want to be here, you adapt” vibe? It’s everywhere.
There’s a reason Anglicanism is global—and it’s not because the world was just so moved by English liturgy. It starts with a “C” and ends with “olonialism.”

I feel this tension more often than not.

Maybe it’s because I’m (still fairly) new to the denomination.
Maybe it’s because I’m not white.
Maybe it’s because throughout my life, I’ve had to linger in the in-between stages—never really fitting in anywhere—so things like this stand out more to me.

But believe me, there have been moments where I felt like I had to choose between my identity and “how we do things” to be a “good Episcopalian.”

And don’t come at me with “we’re made into a new creation in Christ” rhetoric.

That’s transformation.
The former is assimilation.
And if you can’t tell the difference—well… something about being part of the problem something something.

Because for many of us—especially those of us from communities that have always had to shape-shift (or code switch) to fit in—this isn’t a theological abstraction. It’s an emotional reality.

Remember: there’s a difference between fitting in and belonging.
And the default posture of the Church has too often been “fit in” rather than “you belong.”

I wonder how many people have had to quietly remove themselves from the sacrament.
Not because they didn’t want it—but because there was no way to receive it as they are.

The majority of us rarely take the time to explain to newcomers (read: non-Episcopalians) the ins and outs of our liturgy.
We just assume people will figure it out.

Also, unconsciously implying: you need to meet us where we are—which, like a subtle chocolate note in a glass of red wine, carries a trace of colonialism lingering in the finish (among other things).

This all makes me think of something else I’ve been working on.

A few colleagues and I were talking, and from our collective experience, one of the biggest differences between evangelical and progressive churches is what they’re unwilling to change.

Evangelicals? They’ll flip the form upside down if they think it’ll bring more people in.

Coffee bars. Cigar lounges. CrossFit pastors. Worship at halftime shows. Nightclubs as worship spaces. Full-blown production worship. Hipster acoustic vibes.

But touch the theology?

Try questioning the doctrine of hell or rethinking the Bible’s “inerrancy,” and suddenly, it’s a witch hunt.

Progressive churches like ours? The opposite.

You can question the virgin birth. Flirt with universalism. Wonder aloud whether Jesus physically rose from the dead—and someone will probably nod and hand you a Richard Rohr book after service.

But rearrange the Prayers of the People? Blasphemy.
Change the font on the bulletin? Sacrilege.
Install screens to project lyrics instead of using hymnals? Madness.
(Ask me how I know. Story for another day.)

In many progressive spaces, liturgy is the theology.

Evangelicals protect theology.
Progressives protect liturgy.
Both are allergic to changing the thing that makes them feel safe.

So maybe that’s where this post lands:
What are we willing to change—and what are we not?
What are we protecting? And at whose expense?
Or maybe the real question is: what’s most important to us?

Because the answer to that question is the foundation our work will be built upon.

For me?
It’s connection. It’s people.
A lot of my early formation in the church followed this model:

Believe. Behave. Belong.
In that order.
Believe like we do.
Act like we do.
Then you’ll be allowed to belong.

No one explicitly says it.
But you pick it up in the spaces between the lines.
I’ve long since shed that approach.

I believe it should be the other way around:

Belong. Believe.

People need to belong first. Truly belong.
Not just tolerated. Not just accommodated.
When they belong, they feel safe enough to explore who God is and who they are in God.

Behavior?
That’s not something we control.
We trust that transformation flows from love, not conformity.

I’m not saying we need to rewrite the Book of Common Prayer.
I’m not calling for folks to protest by abstaining from receiving or administering Communion.
I’m not even suggesting we start raising the profile of a non-alcoholic grape juice brand to rival Welch’s.

All I’m saying is… sometimes, it feels like I’m bending the rules just to connect with people.

But here’s the thing—I’m still going to try.
Because my primary goal is to help people become disciples of Christ.
That’s the first call. Always.

The secondary goal? To help them be faithful Episcopalians.
And let’s be honest—we all know Episcopalians (and Baptists, Methodists, Lutherans, Presbyterians—you name it) who are more devoted to their institution than to Jesus.

They’re disciples of form and function—of what we do and how we do it—without ever wrestling with why we do it.
And yes, I know I can be jaded and cynical when it comes to the institutional side of church work.

So take all this with a grain of salt. (Or don’t take any of it.)

As for me, I can only control what I can control.
And I move forward reminding myself that when we set the Table, just having a seat isn’t enough.
We also make space where grace is given, stories are honored, and no one leaves hungry.

Dear O,

I’ve been thinking lately about how long it’s been since we last talked… and even longer since we’ve been in the same place.

I was trying to remember the last time I saw you, which was the catalyst to write you this letter. We could’ve caught up via text messages, for sure. But these days, who doesn’t like some snail mail that isn’t asking for money? (Though, this may end with a request to support my church.)

The day I texted you to get your home address, I went with the Wife to a dinner honoring someone she used to work with. I didn’t realize it was an iftar, and that we’d have the privilege of breaking fast with the Muslim community.
It was my first iftar.

I learned quite a bit about Ramadan that night, and it was a wonderful experience.
And the food? Chef’s kiss.

I love the cuisine that comes from the area you grew up in—and everything in that kabob-y, garlicky, rice-and-meat-loving genre. I was trying to figure out when I really started liking this kind of food. That’s when it hit me—
It stems from the last time I saw you.

We had a mini reunion at your parents’s place in [your city] some years ago (okay, it was over a decade ago… you’re f[redacted]ing old, dude), and your parents prepared one of the best meals I’ve ever had.
Not to be rude to the community that fed us that evening, but it didn’t hold a candle to what your mother generously prepared for us.
I do believe that was the first time I ever tried your people’s food, and it certainly wasn’t the last. And I’m assuming you don’t mind me saying you(r) people. If you do mind… well, there’s not much I can do about that right now—this is a one-way conversation at the moment.

But seriously, you people… just kidding.

I was thinking about how amazing that dinner was over a decade ago when it hit me: I haven’t talked to you in forever.

Dude. What happened to us?
We’re so damn old now. With kids. Teenagers at that. Life moves at such a ferocious pace sometimes, I can hardly keep up. And gravity isn’t going to be any nicer to us. I don’t know about you people (ha), but at least for us… Asians don’t raisin. Or, yellow stays mellow. I still look younger than I am—a significant part of that is because I can barely grow facial hair. My son has more facial hair than me. I… have come to accept it. I cannot control what I cannot control.

I strongly felt it had been too long since I last talked to you, so I wanted to drop you a note like we used to do in the 1900s and let you know that I think about you way more than I text you. (But only by a little.)

Another reason I felt the desire to write is… I don’t know if you’re up to date on our high school classmates. I was [reflecting on a deeply tragic event that took place recently].

It’s just a reminder how fragile and unpredictable life is.
So I just wanted to take the time to appreciate you and what you mean—and meant—to me.
I look back on my time in Hawaii and you’re in a lot of those memories. We were pretty dumb high school boys… and I bet if we were living in the same area, we’d be pretty dumb men in our forties.
Aren’t you so glad there was no social media when we were in high school?

I remember the time I tried to long jump over the hood of your car.
I almost made it. Almost.
The side of your hood had a dent the size of my knee in it.
But you know what? All the stupid shit we did… there’s a common denominator: [Name Redacted… but he really was the catalyst.]
The rest of the stuff—let’s not incriminate ourselves. Though, to be fair, I didn’t get involved in as much of the stuff that y’all did. Oh. [Another Culprit] was a trouble starter too.

I can’t tell people our movie idea anymore. Well… I can’t tell random people. The 90s were indeed a different time. Almost like the wild, wild West compared to today. I guess any generation can say that about their time versus now.
We had the perfect title too: Turban Seoul.
If only Harold and Kumar had never come out… we could’ve been the first. We could’ve been famous! And rich! Haha.

Thank you for being such a big part of my life in those years.
Thanks for being a good friend.
Thank you for all the great memories from the 1900s.
Did I tell you yet that you’re old?

I hope you and your family are doing well.
And I hope you and yours continue to be safe. It’s a fricking weird climate to be a minority… more than usual.
Maybe one day I’ll find myself back in [your neck of the woods] and I’ll drive over to you.
But until then, know that I love you and miss you and am grateful for you.
And thank you for sparking the love of Afghan food—and everything in that kabob-y, garlicky, rice-and-meat-loving genre.

Love always,
Your Turban to My Seoul,
Joe

P.S. If this letter moved you, challenged you, or made you chuckle even once—go ahead and sow a seed of $500 via money order. No need to write back unless it’s to tell me the check’s in the mail. Support your local clergy like the good friend I know you are. Act now and receive absolutely no tote bag, but possibly a shout-out in my next sermon.

P.P.S. All donations are spiritually tax-deductible. The IRS may not agree, but God sees you.

However, I’m trying not to make any decisions that may have long-lasting effects in this season… (although, when I look at my forearm, there’s a huge blank space just begging for some new ink…).

Yes, I feel good.
And everything’s going according to plan right now.
So much so… I keep asking myself, do I need to be on this medication?
It’s not that I have anything against medication, but I was (and still am) a bit hesitant.
But I’m able to think like that because everything is smooth sailing for now.
Of course, I know that when you feel good, that’s not necessarily a sign you no longer need treatment—that’s often the result of treatment working.

I’m reminded of Mike Tyson’s quote: Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.
Life hasn’t punched me in the face yet (post diagnosis and meds).
It will.
I need to see how I do when I get punched in the face (hopefully, only metaphorically).
So, for that reason, we stay on this course.

In the meantime, I’m just trying to take things really slowly.
It’s been interesting getting myself back in the regular rhythm again. I didn’t have to preach the Sunday after Easter, so that week, I didn’t do anything except catch up on reading and writing.

I know there are some heavy decisions looming in the near future, but right now, I’m taking it week by week, at the most. Tenderly and gingerly, I move forward.

I’m trying to regain some semblance of control… while also trying to balance the desire to control everything… which, you know, is impossible.
I finished reading The Tears of Things by Richard Rohr.
Started to clean my work area at home, which had gotten out of hand with all the clutter and mess (that’s usually a tell that I’m distracted or stressed).
You know… small things to accomplish…. like making this blog post.
Just checking off some of the things on my never-ending to-do list.

I’m trying to be fully present in the here and now, taking stock of how my body feels… taking notes of what feels… “new” while on medication.
Just taking everything in around me and appreciating all the small things that I’ve always taken for granted.

Like taking in how—as time passes—my wife has become more elegant as we’ve grown older.
I’ve noticed the stray gray hairs in the sea of black… and how they just still look good on her.
As time flows, she just gets more graceful and elegant.
Meanwhile, I’m just getting older. Turns out I’m navigating the second half of life much like the first—awkwardly and clumsily.

I’m paying attention to just how much Nathanael smiles.
Which turns out… I just can’t keep up.
I just want to take in everything he has to offer.
The other day, I went to take a big whiff of his hair, thinking about the days when he was 4 and still smelled like a baby.
Well, I temporarily forgot that he’s 14 now… and all I got a whiff of was his nasty, sweaty head.

I’m not looking for grand and spectacular signs to remind me of life and God’s presence.
I’m trying to focus on the small, ordinary things all around me.
Like the sunrise during a morning walk.

Or the pair of birds that took up residence in the front entrance of our home.

Or simply just gazing at the milk intermingling with the coffee—(I don’t know why I really enjoy the milk squeezing its way through, making sure everyone in that cup knows its arrival…)

And celebrating milestones—which I have a hard time doing.

I have thoughts on the first milestone… and I feel wary sharing them… I also never really got to “enjoy” it because… well, probably depression. But this week, I sat back and was just… what’s the word to use? Marveled? Stupefied? Befuddled? Amused? Tickled? Confused?
At the end of January 2025, I had 21k followers on Instagram.
At the end of February, I had nearly 50k.
At the time of writing this, I’m at 85k…
I don’t understand what’s going on and why, all of a sudden, people are following my account. I haven’t changed anything in my approach on social media.
I’m not complaining either.
I also know, there will be a time where a mass unfollowing will take place as well.
I once lost about 1200 followers on Instagram last year when people found out that we treat our LGBTQiA siblings with love, respect, dignity and welcome them with love and open hearts, open minds, and open doors. (See, I used to not be able to say that without the need to add asterisks… IYKYK).

The other thing is, at the time of writing this, I’m at 950 copies sold of my book.

It’s only when things get close to a big, round number that I really start paying attention and willing the numbers to go up.
I don’t know what 100k followers on Instagram would actually do (absolutely nothing) and nothing will change hitting the 1k books sold mark…
But I really want both of them to happen.
It’s funny… once those milestones reach, I just go back to not thinking about it… until their next milestone (150k; 1500).
I have more thoughts on this and just what a wild ride social media has been for me.
But that’s for another blog.

The real big milestone we hit in this season is something that I should be sharing, but I’m also wary of. That’s the Asian cultural wiring in me. (Modesty, I suppose. Don’t make a big deal out of anything.)
But this past Easter, our church hit a milestone. For the first time ever, we had over 100 people in liturgy (114 to be exact).
We ran out of chairs.
We made it work though.
My favorite part was seeing our children’s director scramble to find more seating… she brought some of the barstools we had… and then she brought out the piano bench from the children’s room.
Everyone had a seat—albeit, some of them were makeshift.
It was a good problem to have.
And, yes, it feels funny talking about it in a sense of accomplishment.
But it is an accomplishment.
And it’s something we should all be proud of and grateful for.
God is moving in, with, and through us.

Anyway, I’m constantly reminded that God is more often found in the ordinary, mundane things all around us.
Like in a sunrise. Birds. Nature.
In people’s smiles and hugs. In the way people have reached out to me to see how I’m doing.
In the hugs from my wife. In how Nathanael still wants to take a huge sniff of my hair (though I’ll be more mindful about when I try to return the favor).
Like in the bread and wine prepared every Sunday morning.

The question we have to ask ourselves is: are we paying attention?

I joked with family that May is my month.
Not only am I AAPI, I’m also officially depressed. (May is AAPI Heritage Month and Mental Health Awareness Month.)

Humor and the small things.
That’s what’s been helping me move toward wholeness.

This season isn’t about grand declarations or major breakthroughs.
It’s about recognizing grace in quiet places.
A smile. A moment. A whisper of beauty in the everyday.
I’m still here. And right now, that’s more than enough.

So grab a drink and get comfortable.
If you’re reading this while you’re squatting and surfing, I don’t know who’ll finish first: this post or your well-deserved break (hope everything comes out okay).

But if you want the gist—here’s your tl;dr (too long; didn’t read, for the uninitiated):
The Episcopal Church gave me depression.

How’s that for clickbait?
Now… to see how true that statement is… you’re just gonna have to get on this ride with me.

So get your drink and buckle in (unless you’re squatting and surfing… don’t bring your—you know what? You do you. I’m sorry for passing judgment. It’s just that… never mind).

On a bright Sunday morning in August 2024…

tears flooded my eyes as I was driving to church. I had no idea why I was crying.
My son didn’t either. He didn’t say anything about his daddy crying—maybe because he didn’t know what to say—but he tried to keep the conversation going as best he could.

When we pulled into the parking lot, the tears had dried up. I thought everything was back to normal and it was time to go to work.

But as soon as I entered the church, the tears came back with a vengeance.
I went straight to the bathroom, locked the door, and instinctively curled up and just bawled.
When the final sob left me, I looked at my watch. Oh good… there’s still about an hour or so before the first person shows up.

Got up, washed my face, took a deep breath, and headed back out to the world—where I found my son watching a Taylor Swift music video on the church’s TV screens. But he did all the things on the Sunday morning to-do list while I had locked myself in the bathroom.

I didn’t have time to linger in the moment because there were still many things to do before people started to file in.

The liturgy went well.
There were no hitches or hiccups. I didn’t lose it. Whatever took over me was long gone. Or so I thought.

The moment—like seriously, the instant—the hood of my car exited the imaginary boundary of our campus, the tears came back.
This time, my son asked if I was okay and why I was crying. (“Yes… and buddy, I don’t know. I’m sorry.”)
Bless his heart for trying to keep me together.
As soon as I got home, I went straight to the bathroom, resumed the fetal position, and let whatever was within me out.
A workday bookended by fetal positions in bathrooms.

I really should’ve sought help back then.
I assumed it was just the result of a very intense week—and that my body was just catching up to all the emotions.

But that wasn’t the moment that broke me.
Perhaps it was a deep cut—or a fracture.
It didn’t break me.
What else could I do but move forward?
Perhaps (metaphorically speaking, of course) I was moving forward with a limp.
But forward, nevertheless.

If that was it, maybe I would’ve climbed out of the hole I didn’t know I was in.

What did me in was what took place in October and November.
That’s what ended up breaking me.

I’ve been reflecting on 2024.

I described to my Canon to the Ordinary what my year felt like using a boxing analogy.

• February was a clean jab to the chin.
• June was a straight right I didn’t see coming.
• August, a strong left hook.
• October, an uppercut.
• November, the powerful right hook.

I told the Canon I was up before the 10-count, albeit wobbly.
Turns out, that was a lie. I was out for the count.
But I refused to admit it. I refused to acknowledge it.
I refused to admit that I was hurt; I refused to even entertain the thought that I wasn’t okay.
Of course, I didn’t know I was refusing any of this at the time.
Ah, the gift of hindsight.

I just kept moving forward, not even realizing how numb I was.
These shadows eventually caught up with me.
I wasn’t aware of any of it happening.
I just kept going. And going. And going.

Earlier this month, I had my regularly scheduled one-on-one with my boss.
We were discussing some things we, as Mosaic, should start considering. I felt the excitement building up within me—like, “Oh yeah, if this works, this would be great.”
However, as soon as the call ended, I felt nothing.
It was noticeable enough for me to admit something wasn’t right.

So I called my therapist, and he told me to come see him the very next day.
During our session, I finally shared just how sad I’d been the whole year.
It’s funny. I literally pay this man to talk about my feelings, and yet I reserved a good chunk of them in our sessions.
But that’s because I didn’t want to confront this.

The sadness stemmed from (I thought) my son and our futures.
It really saddened me to the pit to think about how he’d get along without his parents when that time came.
I’ve always been worried about this and thought of it often—but never in a sad way.
I would feel like crying thinking about it—but I wouldn’t allow myself to.
I mean… I was so sad about it, a part of me wanted to pray to God so that I could live to 95 and N live to 65… and he kinda… goes before me. (I felt so ashamed thinking like this, I’m actually surprised I’m leaving this thought in for anyone to see…)
But the source of sadness wasn’t specifically about my son.
There was sadness everywhere.
It permeated into the folds of my life—areas I didn’t even know existed.
The tinge of sadness was everywhere I looked.

That can’t be normal, right?
I told Tom the Therapist all this and he looked at me and said, “Joseph. You might be struggling with depression.”
“Mmm…. Am I? Oooor… am I just the first-born son to Korean parents?”
“Okay, let me ask you some questions.”

True to my Asian form, I aced his pop quiz.
My reward was: yes, indeed, I have depression.
And we hashed back and pinpointed it to February of 2024 where this all began—aka The Jab.

Funny thing… the day before my one-on-one with the boss, I made this video:

Yea. Turns out what was broken inside of me was (is) depression. Tada!
A lot of this stems from never truly processing what happened in October and November—AKA Uppercut and Right Hook, respectively.

I’m learning a lot of new things about myself.

One of them is, apparently, it matters a great deal to me that people see me as someone who keeps going despite The Institution.
Not someone who wins—because nobody wins against The Institution. We go in knowing we’ll take the L, but hoping that the people after us don’t have to.
But someone who takes the L and bounces right back up, like nothing ever happened.
You know, channeling the spirit of Steve Rogers—who, even before becoming Captain America, would take a beating and still get up saying, “I can do this all day.”

Admitting just how hurt I was by The Institution was more than I could face.
It didn’t line up with who I thought I was—or maybe who I wanted to be.
It definitely didn’t align with how I wanted people to see me.

I don’t know why this mattered so much to me.
And I don’t know how long it’s mattered to me.
But I’d rather bury the hurt deep within the bowels of my soul than even acknowledge it.

I couldn’t even muster a ‘Tis but a scratch! (… I usually clarify pop culture references for folks older than me… but I think I have to clarify for those younger than me now…):

Yet, what I thought I thoroughly hid and buried—its ghost haunted me.
But not in the form of vengeance or horror… but in sadness.

Depression.
It was a scary word to hear.
Yet… everything about 2025 started making sense.
I was unbelievably frustrated with myself because I felt like I was being so apathetic; so lazy.
I kept procrastinating—more than usual. It kinda felt like it was getting out of control.
In fact, a lot of things felt out of my control.
I kept chastising myself; trying to will myself to do the things that needed to be done. But it would always take a lot out of me.

Another thing I discovered:
For about two months now, I’d do two-a-days more often than I normally would.
Usually, only Tuesdays would I go to one coffee shop in the AM, take lunch, and go to another coffee shop in the PM (if there were no meetings that day).
But I started doing two-a-days more and more. I’d joke with myself: this will not be sustainable in this economy.
And because my body wasn’t accustomed to that much caffeine, I’d feel weird by early evening.

I’d normally work from home or the church in the afternoons when I didn’t have meetings.
I think this was me avoiding being by myself, which is ironic because as an introvert, I want nothing more than to be “by myself” (sometimes, yes, completely alone; most of the time, by “myself” with my Inner Circle).
Because when I’m by myself… I’m by myself. Alone with my wandering thoughts.
There’s a difference between being alone at a coffee shop (or a public place) and being alone, by yourself. And I didn’t want to be alone, by myself, with my thoughts—because there was a thread to be pulled, and I didn’t want to see what unraveled.

Depression.
Now that I know, there’s a small sense of relief.
Nothing’s wrong with me.
Well… I mean… there are plenty of things wrong with me…
But depression isn’t a definition of who I am—and it’s barely a descriptor.

Since the diagnosis, I’ve been giving myself permission to feel everything and to not hold it in.
It’s been nearly two weeks and:

There was a point where I thought to myself—this is ridiculous, I gave myself too much permission.

I was chatting with a friend at my regular coffee shop about non-dairy milks. I’ve been ordering oat milk flat whites for years—figured it was better for my pre-diabetic self and still gave a little sweetness.

Then the barista, who knows I’m pre-diabetic, casually says, “Oh yeah, oat milk is actually the worst option for you.”

First reaction: Why are you telling me this now?!
Second: YOU LIE.

So I googled it.
They were right.
And y’all… I cried. Not a full sob, just one of those quiet waves of sadness.

There I was—literally crying over (not-so-spilled) milk.

That was when I thought, yea… maybe not everything…

The crying has helped me feel a lot better.

The other thing that’s helping me is letting people know what’s going on.

I think my son instantly knew something wasn’t right.
Right after I got my diagnosis, I had to pick him up from school. From the ride home until bedtime, he’d ask, “Daddy, are you okay?” Every 10 or so minutes.

There was a brief moment of hesitation in wanting to tell my wife—part shame, part not wanting to be some sort of additional burden.
But, as expected, she was the easiest person to tell.
She held me, affirmed me that while there may be many things wrong with me, this isn’t one of them, and cried with me.

Humor is how I deal with things.
And I love dark humor, too.
The thing is, you can joke about anything—but you can’t joke about anything with everyone.
Obviously, the wife is someone I can joke about anything with, and vice versa. Laughter has helped restore a bit more color in my life.

I appreciated the jokes that some of my friends responded with:
Have you tried not being sad?
When I shared with one that I’d be on medication:
Mmmm… maybe you should try prayer instead?
(Put that response on the back burner—we’ll come back to it, because I think it’s important.)
And on Easter Sunday, I shared this with my church, tying it into Mary of Magdala’s proclamation of “I have seen the Lord.” (The sermon, if you want to see it and spend even more time with me, will be posted at the end of this post.)

Talking about it has truly helped.
If anything, it’s helped shine a light on the dark spaces in my mind.
This is why I’m sharing this with y’all—and why I shared it with my church.
I also want to do my part to help de-stigmatize mental health issues.

In quoting a modern philosopher and poet:
I might be okay, but I’m not fine at all.
And, seriously… that’s okay.
It’s okay to not be okay. Because once you understand you’re not okay, that’s when the healing process can begin.

I still have a lot of wading through to do.
Oh—and I should mention this: the emotional baggage I’m carrying toward The Institution… it’s not about The Institution anymore. It’s about me.
My head has been in the space of (and has been for a while): it was what it was, and we move forward.
My heart, though, is the one that’s stuck in the “was” part.
And because my head and heart are in two different places—I fell apart.

Now, it’s time to put me back together.
And while I wade through a lot of suppressed muck from 2024, I need everyone to know just how grateful I am for the Episcopal Diocese of Texas. And I always will be. This is no longer about me vs. The Institution. This is about me putting myself together and allowing myself to feel all the things I felt and name all the things I’ve suppressed since February of 2024.

Which brings me to the last thing I want to cover while I share with you (and, remember, I’m a preacher… so don’t really trust me—us—when we say “one last thing…” because there could be at least one more thing after the last thing…)

Some of you may be reading this and thinking something along the lines of, “You should just trust Jesus,” or “Instead of taking medication, you should just pray more.”
If that’s you—first off, here’s a big virtual eye roll in your honor and a hearty, “Oh, bless your heart.”

Second—bad theology kills.
“I should just trust in Jesus.”
I stopped seeing my original therapist for various reasons.
By “chance,” I got connected to Tom through a mutual pastor friend—and I’ve found more affinity with Tom than with my previous therapist.
To be more honest: I trust this pastor. He connected me to my current spiritual director, and that’s been a gift.
One day, he shared an Instagram post highlighting Tom and how great of a therapist he is. I felt this nudge—like a holy prompt—to email Tom and get the ball rolling on having someone to talk to. Maybe my spirit knew something even then.

The pastor didn’t steer me wrong with the spiritual director.
And this indirect therapist recommendation turned out just as well.
I choose to believe that prompt to email Tom was something beyond me. (the Spirit if you didn’t get my drift).

I don’t know why we (especially American Christians) put so much emphasis on the personal when the emphasis in the Bible is always communal.
The Spirit always leads you to other people.
Following Jesus leads you to others—so that you can help people join the community. Following Jesus leads us to be conjoiners.

Prayer is always accompanied by action.
You pray for a job—but you also go looking for one.
You pray for healing—but you also go to people and places who can offer that healing.
Prayer involves action.
To pray is to act. To act is to pray.
We’ve gotta stop extracting the action part of prayer.

So yes, my seeing a therapist has nothing to do with the level of trust I have in Jesus.
Being prescribed medication has nothing to do with a lack of trust in God or a lack of prayer life. It’s the exact opposite, really.
My trust in Jesus and my prayer life led me to start this journey toward wholeness.

There’ve been plenty of moments where I knew God was with me.

Like the day I filmed that “I’m the problem” video—right after I stopped recording, I heard a rustle in the woods. It was broad daylight, so I checked it out.

Three deer.

And in that moment, I just… felt held.

Or the random voice note I got from a content creator I barely know. We’ve only exchanged a few messages (if that), but their note said, “Just a reminder—you are loved and never alone.”

Then, right after that Zoom call with my boss—when I knew something was off—I got a voicemail from a friend, a local UMC pastor.
He said, “I don’t know why I’m calling, but I felt like I needed to tell you—you’re loved and you’re doing good.”

Coincidence?
Maybe.
But my job is to connect dots—and point to something bigger.
And these dots do point to something bigger.

On the Wednesday of Holy Week, I returned to that same trail with my son, hoping we’d see the deer again.
We did.

He watched them.
I watched him.

Right now, I’m taking it slow—
trying to slowly regain the control I feel like I’ve lost.

Yes.

I’ve joked with people that the Episcopal Church gave me depression.
Like most jokes, there’s at least a modicum of truth in it.
Right now, I’m only 10% joking when I say it.
But I truly believe there will come a day when only an iota of truth remains in that joke.
I trust I’ll come to a place where I’m actually grateful for this season—for the pain, for the process.
Because it’s forcing me to confront things I’ve long avoided—things that now run deeper than The Institution.
And I know I’ll be better for it. I know I’ll grow from this. I know it will continue to shape me into the person God has always intended for me to be.
I’m just not ready to say thank you yet.
But I will be.

So I move forward.
Step by step.
Day by day.
I move forward with tremendous gratitude that will hopefully, one day, outweigh the sadness.
I move forward grateful for my wife and son.
Grateful for the people in my life.
I may never have had lots of money, but I’ve always had people who loved me.
I’m grateful for the people of Mosaic Church.

I’m grateful for my bishops, the Diocese, and The Institution.

So here I am.
And here I go.

I’m in repair. I’m not together, but I’m getting there.

It’s that time of the year when I really start thinking about Judas.
What were you taught about Judas—outside of being a traitor?
Or that he was greedy?
It’s super easy to make someone into a super villain; to dehumanize them so that we can pile more and more manure on him.

While one can’t deny that he is a “villain” in the Gospels… I think to purely label him that is a lazy way to engage with the story of Jesus H. Christ. (H is for “Howard” because we were taught “Howard be Thy Name.”)
Or maybe it isn’t lazy.
Maybe it’s a way to protect ourselves and our psyche because many of us—maybe more than we’d like to admit—would’ve done, if not the same thing, something similar.
Some of us still do.

Have you ever been deeply disappointed by someone?
Maybe to the point of disillusionment.
Maybe to the point of wanting to “make things right” (or at least avenge the disappointment).

Judas Wasn’t Always the Villain

Judas wasn’t always the villain.
We’re told he was in charge of the money.
That means that he must’ve been a trustworthy person to Jesus and the other 11. You don’t just let anyone oversee the money.

He also followed Jesus because he believed in Jesus.
He, too, must’ve left everything behind to follow this rabbi—the one who could be the Messiah.

He hung all his hopes and dreams on this man who was supposed to free Israel from the oppressive Roman Empire and restore Israel to its prominence like in the days of King David.

But.
This Jesus that he left everything to follow;
This Jesus that he gave everything to;
This Jesus that was his hope—everyone’s hope—to restore Israel…

… wasn’t who he initially thought Jesus was.
And when Jesus didn’t meet his expectations, he got bitter.
And that bitterness, that betrayal, that disappointment… it pushed him to do what he did.
Because hurt people hurt people.

We often focus on Judas’s betrayal—maybe because it was the most egregious.
But the other 11 betrayed Jesus, too.
No one stepped forward to back Jesus up.
They all scattered, ran, and hid.
Even after the first appearance after the Resurrection, the disciples hid in that upper room again. I mean, Thomas got labeled the doubter, but the other 10 who saw Jesus and heard him speak still locked themselves in that room.
How could Thomas take their word that they saw Jesus when everything about their actions said otherwise?
But maybe Thomas is for another post, another day.

That last week of Jesus’ life probably confirmed the gnawing feeling Judas must’ve had for a while.
Jesus was never shy about his impending death. The disciples probably never paid attention to those words because it didn’t fit their narratives. (I mean, Peter even rebuked Jesus for talking about his death.)

But that last week…
Jesus entered Jerusalem on a donkey—a symbol of humility, and maybe even peace—instead of riding into town on a war horse.
The day after the crowds shouted at him to save them (hosanna literally means “save us”), Jesus attacked the religious institution by flipping over tables and chasing livestock out of the temple.
The following day, Jesus saved some of his harshest words for the religious leaders—the very powers that be for the Israelites.

What was he doing?
Why is he focusing on our people?
Why isn’t he raging against the machine that is the Roman Empire?
Why is he not galvanizing our people and gearing up for a revolution?

So when Jesus kept refusing to play the part of conquering hero, Judas had enough.
Dreams shattered.
Heart broken.
I know I’m projecting way too much, but isn’t it within possibility that Judas felt betrayed?

The Final Straw

And maybe—just maybe—the final straw came when that unnamed woman anointed Jesus.
Judas had already been wrestling with what felt like wasted time and wasted opportunity. But that moment? The moment when Jesus praised this woman, lifted her up, and talked about death again? That was it. That was too much.

Because Jesus didn’t just praise her—he chastised Judas. Publicly.

What Judas saw as a waste of resources, Jesus called “a beautiful thing.”
What he wanted to save for the mission, Jesus said was burial oil.
Judas wanted a kingdom. Jesus said he was headed for a grave.

Judas wanted a messiah who would wage war for Israel, like Judas Maccabeus had done centuries before. A messiah who would make Rome bleed. A messiah who would win.

And when it became clear that Jesus wasn’t going to be that messiah, Judas walked out of the room and sold him out.
Not for wealth. Not for status. But for disappointment. For vengeance. For control.

He traded in Jesus for a version he could manage.

The Judas Within

That’s the thing about unmet expectations.
They don’t just disappoint us—they destabilize us.
And when we feel betrayed by something or someone we once believed in, we go looking for ways to reclaim control.

We make trades.
We justify our anger.
We find scapegoats.

Judas did it.
And don’t front. You do it, too.
As do I.

Some of us have walked away from faith not because it wasn’t real, but because it didn’t play out how we thought it would.
Some of us turned on the Church because we were hurt—and instead of working toward healing, we wanted retribution.
Some of us cling to power because Jesus’ way of peace feels too slow, too passive, too risky.

Christian Nationalism Is Judas Energy

There, I said it.
Christian Nationalism is a theology of betrayal.

It doesn’t look like thirty silver coins.
It looks like pulpits draped in flags.
It looks like pastors preaching political platforms instead of the gospel.
It looks like worshiping access, influence, and control in the name of Jesus.

You wanna talk about the 3rd Commandment?
Tell me, please:
Which is a bigger violation of the 3rd Commandment?

Me saying, “Oh for Christ’s sake!” or “Jesus H. Christ” (the H is for Henri)
Or what Christian nationalists are doing and claiming and saying?

Yes—you can say “oh they’re both bad.”
But I tell you what:
I’ve been chastised by people for saying “Jesus H. Christ” (the H is for Hoobastank because Jesus died for a reason and the reason is you) by the same people who feel the need to wrap the American flag around Jesus.

Our siblings that are Christian Nationalists didn’t sell Jesus for money.
They sold him for power.

They wanted a messiah who would fight their enemies.
Who would protect their dominance.
Who would keep them safe and in charge.
And when the real Jesus didn’t deliver that—they traded him in for a version they could manage.

One that looked like them.
Sounded like them.
Voted like them.

And just like Judas, they think they’re helping the cause.
But you can’t save the world by betraying the one who already did.

Judas Isn’t Just a Villain—He’s a Mirror

And he doesn’t belong only to history.
Judas is alive in every one of us when we try to force Jesus to fit our agenda.
When we start believing that our expectations of Jesus are more important than the actual person of Jesus.

We are Judas when we use religion as a weapon.
We are Judas in the way we shame people out of churches.
We are Judas in the way we grasp for power instead of pouring ourselves out for others.

We all have a little Judas in us.
But we don’t have to finish his story.

Because grace still finds us—even in our betrayal.
Because Jesus didn’t just die for Judas—he died knowing Judas.
And still, he called him friend.

So maybe the question isn’t just, “Are you Judas?”
Maybe the question is:
What version of Jesus have you traded him in for?
And are you willing to let that version die—
so that the real one can rise again in you?

I’ve been thinking a lot about how many different versions of me exist in the world.
Some people may only know me as the Joseph they see online—maybe through a TikTok/Reel, a blog post, or some out-of-context thing that popped up in their feed.
Some may know me as their pastor.
Others may just know me as a pastor, but not theirs.
Some may know me as one who constantly butts heads with authority.
Some may see me as the authority who needs a head-butting.
Some may see me as the nuisance who can’t keep his mouth shut.
Some may only remember me as a teenager.
Some may know me as Joseph, the friend.
And a very few know me as a brother, a husband, a father (the parental kind and not the ordained kind).

I know there’s one lady in Pearland who knows me as the potty-mouth priest who very loudly—and with exasperation—sighed “aw f@@@@@@@@@@@@@k” when I accidentally threw my keys into the trash instead of the actual trash. Oops. My bad, lady. One of the few times I actually witnessed someone clutch their pearls.

Now, none of these versions are wrong.
But none of them are the whole story, either.

It’s a strange thing, realizing there are dozens (maybe hundreds) of versions of you walking around in people’s minds—some accurate, many not. Which is why it’s so important to know who you are… because if you don’t, someone else will tell your story for you.
And their story will be their version of you. It’ll never tell the whole truth of who you are.

Every Viewpoint Is a View from a Point

That quote by Richard Rohr really got me thinking:

“Every viewpoint is a view from a point. And we had best know our own.”

It’s so simple. So obvious. But also, deeply confronting.

The people who see me as too loud, too sarcastic, not “pastoral” enough?
That’s a view from a point.
Maybe it’s a point rooted in pain.
Maybe it’s rooted in tradition.
Maybe it’s rooted in power, and I’m messing with the equilibrium they prefer.

But it’s still a point.
It’s not the whole picture.
And knowing my point—my story, my why—helps me navigate all the other views people try to throw at me.

Know Your Story—Or Someone Else Will Write It for You

The world loves to tell stories—especially about people they don’t understand.
And if you don’t know yours, someone will absolutely fill in the blanks for you.

Their version might be louder. It might get more traction. It might even sound convincing to folks who don’t know you.
But their version will always be incomplete.

Here’s what I believe about myself:
It took a long time to be comfortable with who I am.
I think one of the last pieces of the puzzle was realizing that the Korean Immigrant Church was no longer my home. (If you want to read about that, here is the link.)
Most of my life has been spent occupying an in-between place.
A place where I’m not Korean enough, yet not white enough.
Not progressive enough, yet not conservative enough.
Not Episcopalian enough… yet too liturgical for the people I want to connect with in this season of ministry.

The thing that freed me was realizing that an in-between place is still a place.
And I’m not alone in occupying it.
I mean, really… aren’t we all in an in-between space?
We’re spiritual beings having a human experience until that experience… ends.

More often than not, I’m fully aware of what I am not.
I’m not an intellect.
Earlier in my life, I don’t think I was okay with that.
I wanted to be the smartest person in the room.

But nowadays, I know that if I am the smartest person in the room… I’m either in the wrong room, or everyone in this room is doomed.

I know where my strengths lie.
I know what I’m comfortable with and what I’m good at.
And I know that I really have nothing to prove.

I know my default mode is to follow all the rules… until the rules don’t make sense.
I tend to comply… until they lose their logic.
I try to be obedient… right up until I’m not. You get the idea.

I know my story.
I know my purpose—at least for this season.
I know I’m loved.
And because of that, what people think of me doesn’t carry the same weight it used to.

It did before. It really did.
I’d tell people it didn’t.
But it mattered to me that people liked me.

Until you realize that’s an exhausting way to live.
You learn even faster that being a people pleaser only makes you lose yourself—not in the fun, “snap back to reality” Eminem way, but in the way that chips away at your identity. You start forgetting who you are because you’re too busy auditioning for a role in someone else’s story.

One of my favorite quotes about leadership is:

Leadership is disappointing people at a rate they can handle.

Now—that’s not to say I don’t care what everyone thinks. That’s not true.
There are a handful of people whose words weigh heavily on me.
I take their feedback to heart—even if I dismiss it out of defensiveness at first.

Then there are people whose words matter… but not more than my own sense of call.
And then, there are people whose words?
In one ear, out the other.
Not just the criticism, but the praise, too.

And yet, at 44 I’m still learning about myself.
More things that were lurking in the shadows are coming to the surface.
They’re helping me make sense of… me.

I’ve started to see how certain church traumas shaped the way I lead today.
And those realizations?
They’ve made me more at ease with myself—not less.

I know my story.
I know my narrative.
And because I do, I don’t need to audition for anyone else’s version of me.

What You Resist, Persists

Another quote by Rohr that’s been sitting with me:

“When we lack self-knowledge, we will unconsciously project our disliked and unknown self to others, condemning them for the very faults we share.”

That one? That one stung a little.
Because I’ve seen it in others—and I’ve seen it in myself.

When we don’t know who we are…
When we’re not willing to face our own wounds, shadows, and contradictions…
We end up making enemies out of people who are simply reflecting something we’re not ready to admit about ourselves.

We project.
We vilify.
We scapegoat.
We make their story the problem, when really, it’s ours that needs healing.

That’s not just a church thing.
Let’s take a look at The New Evangelicals. (You can read the reports about TNE here.)

I think one of the things about Exvangelicals is that many don’t work through their trauma, their hurt, their anger—the whole backpack of stuff that comes with deconstruction.

And because they don’t work through it… they often end up embodying the very things they despised.
As Rohr said: What you resist, persists.

The New Evangelicals—who built a platform calling out abuse and moral failure—ended up repeating toxic patterns they once raged against.
They had the opportunity to do something different.
To really lean in on the new part of the New Evangelicals.
And many of us watched what felt like new wine poured into old wineskins.
And it’s like… the Same old, same old.
It doesn’t have to be. And maybe it won’t. But what I do know is that reconciliation cannot happen without justice.
Perhaps things will work toward reconciliation.
Or perhaps we’ll hear the same old song.

Either way, Evangelical or Exvangelical—when you don’t work through the anger, when you don’t know yourself…
You end up becoming the very thing you hate.
You live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

Because—say it with me—what you resist, persists.

This is why people who say, “I’m never gonna be like my parents,”
—when they don’t wade through their generational trauma—
more often than not, they end up becoming just like their parents.
Because again: What you resist, persists.

Closing Thoughts

Maybe the holiest thing you can do today
is sit with your story—
all of it.
Not just the polished parts, but the cracks too.
Because that’s where the light gets in.
And when you know who you are,
you stop shrinking to fit someone else’s version of you.
You stop chasing validation or running from criticism.
You just keep showing up—
anchored not in other people’s approval,
but in grace.
In truth.
In the slow, sacred work of becoming.

I just didn’t have the time (nor the capacity) to respond to people looking for… a priest, a coach, a therapist? I don’t know. It was too much. Big mistake. Rookie move.

That’s not to say I don’t try to help.
I’d guess I respond to about 80% of the messages that come through email or DMs – sometimes just a short response, but I do my best. I’ve even made some cool connections that way. The artist who did the illustration for my book? Her husband had messaged me out of the blue with a question, and that conversation stuck.

These days, though? I just don’t know how many I’ll be able to get to.
It’s not that the messages are overwhelming but it’s enough that I often look at them and think, I genuinely don’t have time for this right now.

I’ll write more about this later, but to give you some context:
I ended January with about 21k Instagram followers. At the time I’m writing this (March 20), I’m at 50k.
(If only I could grow our church like that… Actually, scratch that. I don’t want to grow my church that big. But hey, that’s probably a blog post in and of itself.)

But there is (and always has been) one type of request I always answer:
When someone is going through the ordination process.

I call this the Steve Rule.
(Not really a rule but more of a guideline. But “Steve Guideline” doesn’t have the same ring to it.)

The name comes from a pastor I’ll call Steve. Mainly because that’s his name.

How Steve Saved the Day (and Didn’t Even Know It)

A lifetime ago, back when I was in the United Methodist Church, I failed my ordination exams. Twice.
Dejected. Angry. Embarrassed. Twice?

I’d never failed a test before. I’m Asian.
(Seriously. It’s borderline illegal for Asian kids to fail exams—just ask my parents.)

I had to take a long look in the mirror and ask:
Do I really want to do this again?
Would the third time be the charm? Or would I fail again… for the third time?

And I don’t care what kind of polite language the UMC tries to use.
They don’t say “fail”—they say you’ve been “continued.”
I mean, call it “continued” all you want, but if you give me cow poo covered in chocolate… it’s still bulls**t.

When I finally came out of my feelings, I got an unexpected email.
It was from Pastor Steve, a member of the Board of Ordained Ministry (the Powers-That-Be that either pass you or, in their best Gandolf voice, tell you, “You shall not pass!”)

He wanted to meet with me.
We met at a Starbucks, somewhere in Thousand Oaks. And he laid it all out.

He told me what I did well.
He told me what needed work.
And then he said to me something that’s stuck with me ever since:

“Joseph, you treat us like we’re your adversaries and while that may be your truth, people like me want to help you. You also position yourself as someone who knows better than anyone else in the room. And that may even be true. But in your responses, you only point out the problems in our Annual Conference and denomination. You never offer any kind of solutions.
It doesn’t take a genius to point out what’s wrong. Any idiot can do that. True genius lies in what solutions you offer. I’m not telling you to stop critiquing us. We need to hear it. But don’t just be part of the problem. Be part of the solution. Help us get healthier. That will go a long way.”

(I paraphrase… and I’m 92.5% sure I added ‘idiot’ into this conversation…)

Whew.
That hit like a ton of bricks.

Looking back, I totally see my mistakes.
I definitely had a chip on my shoulder, which I feel was fine.
But I was essentially walking into a job interview and telling my potential employers just how inept they were without ever offering a single way I could make things better.

Who’s gonna hire that guy?

At that rate, I was never going to get ordained in the Methodist Church.
I mean, I came into those interviews with the only quote I know from a Rowdy Roddy Piper movie (ooooh, you thought I couldn’t work in a wrestling reference, eh? I’ve never seen this movie by the way):

“I have come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass… and I’m all out of bubblegum.”

That was my energy.
So I had to pivot.

Which wasn’t easy due to my pride.
I wanted to do it my way.
But I had to ask myself: What’s more important?
My pride or my calling?

So I softened the edges. I led with humility.
I didn’t abandon my critiques—I just reframed them with solutions.
And wouldn’t you know it? I passed.

Why I Always Say Yes to Ordination Requests

14 years later, I’m still grateful for Pastor Steve.
He didn’t have to meet with me.
No one else on that board reached out—and I don’t blame them.
(Why would you want to help someone who seems like they have it out for you? Never mind that everyone in that room was a Christian… and many were clergy… but I digress.)

That’s where the Steve Rule was born.

I want to be “Steve” for others.
I may not be able to help someone write their theological reflections or prepare for their board interviews. But I can help them navigate the emotional rollercoaster that comes with the process.

The imposter syndrome.
The frustration.
The exhaustion.
The desire to say, “Forget this, I’m out.”

Closing Thoughts

You don’t always know the impact you might have on someone who’s hurting, doubting, or ready to quit.

I don’t know what led Pastor Steve reach out to me. Compassion? Sympathy? Pity? Or maybe someone worth investing in?
Whatever it was, I’m forever grateful.
Who knows where I would be today without that conversation.

So if you’ve been a Steve to someone?
Thank you. The world needs more of you.

And if you’ve been lucky enough to have a Steve in your life?
Don’t waste it.
Let their words do what they were meant to do:

Help you grow.
And then help someone else do the same.