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"Moses says, 'God, I am a wimp!'" Pastor Stephen Ro shouts the words. His audience, mostly Korean American teenagers and twentysomethings, laughs appreciatively at the way he can reduce larger-than-life biblical characters to normal size. "'I cannot speak. I cannot lead the people. Pick someone else!'"
"God says, 'You're right, Moses. You are a wimp. You are a nobody.'" The words of the Almighty, translated into nineties-speak. "'But I can use you.'"
Pastor Ro's voice grows softer, more convicting. "'I use nobodies to declare My glory.'"
Moses was unwilling to follow without negotiation God's design for his life. Ro compares this to modern Christians, who are so unsure of their own abilities to evangelize that they don't reach out at all. This is a grave mistake, he explains; this is Satan working through the sin of pride. In reality, it's not about our abilities, or about us at all. It's about God's ministry.
Ro speaks candidly about his own insecurities: his imperfect English skills, his voice that is a mix between a Korean accent (where he was born) and Baltimore ghetto slang (a former place of ministry). He challenges himself to live up to God's desires for his life, and in doing so issues an identical challenge to his congregation: to be more friendly toward outsiders, visitors, and non-Christians in their neighborhood.
I squirm in my seat. Worshiping here for the first time, a participant but also an observer, I hoped to remain unnoticed, but was pounced upon cheerfully by the welcoming committee, given a name tag, made to stand up during the announcements, and chatted with at least 15 times before finding a seat. The members of the congregation are friendly, gregarious, and on fire for their God, and I'm a little overwhelmed by it all—but I feel very much at home in a place where I would normally feel quite foreign.
Now their pastor exhorts them to reach out more. I anticipate further zeal after the closing hymn.
Pastor Ro, the youth leader and pastor of the English-language congregation (also known as Grace Fellowship Chapel) at New York Presbyterian Church in Queens, is emphatic about getting his congregation to follow a path of evangelism. I hear about an upcoming prayer march modeled on the Battle of Jericho: for seven Sundays, the youth and their leaders will march around Long Island City praying for its hurting citizens. (They don't say whether the trumpets will be included on the last day.)
Young Hee Lee, head pastor of the church and leader of the Korean-language congregation, is also concerned with the plight of those around him who are living without Christ. He speaks compassionately about healing the city: "People nowadays, their ideas, their thinking, their heart, body, relationships, everything is—" He pauses again, searching for the right word. "Broken. This city is wounded."
The new building across the parking lot, the one that is not yet completed, is also a form of evangelism. The huge cross on the front facade, made out of steel I-beams, is visible from far beyond the adjacent shopping center, and on sunny days, the metal-edged folds gleam in contrast to the dark gray stucco. Among the drab factories and car dealerships of the Long Island Railyard area, this facade—with its tiled windows and bold, flourishing Korean characters—stands out. In the same way, Lee and Ro hope that the church body will pump life and light into the apathetic and troubled world around it.
This is not a congregation that takes anything lightly. And with good reason: it serves as a governing and stabilizing force for the 3,000-plus people who attend each week. Most members are recent or second-generation immigrants from Korea. They need English classes, playmates, counseling and Bible studies; the church provides this for them. A main goal is acclimatization, helping ethnic families adapt to American life and trying to make the transition easier, while keeping close ties to home.
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