Ministry has taken me places. Three states and five different zip codes. Most recently, my family and I moved from Honolulu, Hawaii to Cupertino, California. One of the first things I do when I move is find a barber shop, in particular, an Asian-owned barber shop. I know exactly what I’m looking for when I begin my search.
I’m not looking for clean aesthetics or a #vibe. My search is pared down to two factors: cost and expedience. I dread getting haircuts so I have no need for plush lounge chairs or shiny espresso machines. Get in, get out, and pay as little as possible.
After looking at a few spots online, I found a place within miles from my house listed as “Classic Barber.” Sounded promising. When Saturday morning came around, I woke up my son and, with the promise of donuts afterwards, convinced him to make the trek with me.
Their listing showed they opened at 9am, but we got there at 8:30am and we were greeted by the buzz of an “OPEN” neon sign in the window. We walked through the door and an unfamiliar barber with a familiar Asian face directed my son to an open chair. He sat down and I made my way toward the row of cracked pleather chairs against a mirrored wall. In the short distance that I walked to my seat, I noticed an array of fake plants, four faded wall posters of hairstyles that no one has ever asked for, and an exposed water heater in the corner of the room. I knew this was the right place.
My son and I get our haircuts together once a month and I’ve come to appreciate spaces like the Classic Barber. My parents always took me to places like these. Not just for haircuts, but for everything. Cramped grocery stores with stacked produce on their sidewalk, dry cleaners run by the Auntie who knew everyone in town, and beauty supply stores that seemingly carried every product on earth.
But something happened as I got older (not wiser). These spaces began to lose their appeal. They became eyesores and anxiety traps, a mess of clutter and disorganization. They became… too Asian.
I gladly traded away clutter for minimalism – deep reds and golds, clashing hues and scattered designs for neutral grays and cleaner lines. The Asian-owned barber shop became the trendy salon with the shiny espresso machine.
This is progress, I told myself.
In the same way, many of us left the Asian immigrant church and traded in its messiness for thoughtful symmetry, matching decor, and a streamlined membership process.
This is progress, we told ourselves.
Many of us had good reasons to walk away from the immigrant church. Mental health concerns and proper boundaries were God’s prompting to lead us elsewhere, and rightfully so. But for others like myself, we woke up years later, looked at our children, and realized there was something missing.
If there was a silent exodus twenty years ago, there might be an even more silent return in the last few years. For us, it’s a muted revolution.
Maybe I’m a glutton for emotional punishment. Maybe I’m too much of a coward to commit to somewhere unfamiliar. Maybe all of the above. But I am also certain that God is still doing something amazing in immigrant churches, to which a part of that is to heal a sense of cultural self-reproach many of us didn’t know existed. I haven’t fully parsed this out in my soul yet, but it’s no big mystery that a reclamation of Asian heritage has also led to a reclamation of Asian spaces.
When I was pastoring in Hawaii, one of the deaconesses said something I believe helps with this reclamation. She began her congregational prayer with, “God, I thank you for your consistency…”
The word “consistency” rang in my ears and resonated within my heart.
We know of our God who is mighty, tender, or even trustworthy. But that was the first time I had heard of God being addressed as consistent.
There was a different sense of beauty in that word and therein lies the appeal of our return to Asian immigrant spaces, including churches. We need more consistency in our lives. Amid inner turmoil and personal chaos, consistency is good.
Consistency helps us see the divine in the mundanity. It helps us see God in the most unspectacular places, while doing the most unspectacular duties. Consistency ferries us in our spiritual journey across the sea as we travel between ports of extravagance. For much of the Bible, God’s people consistently held their faith through the mundane. In the wilderness, in the waiting. From Malachi to Matthew. Lent and Advent. We are called to wait. The unfailing consistent hope of the gospel spurring our faith and deeds.
This is the lesson of immigrant spaces. Uncles and aunties, moms and pops. We bear witness to first-generation owners and pastors who endure. They are consistent in their dedication and their craft. It’s their consistency that keeps us grounded in life and in the gospel promises when there is no revival in sight.
Our immigrant churches will probably always be messy, even disorganized. But I keep returning with melancholy and hope; a convoluted mixture of trepidation and elucidation. Each time growing more aware of what it is and what it isn’t. And each time, choosing to celebrate what it is, because I’m convinced that it’s better than what it isn’t – in praise of the One who is pleased with the remarkable mundanity of our classically unremarkable churches.
Photo Credit: Dan Gold