imagination. Benches, books, ping-pong bats and skateboards had been thrown around and smashed up. Far worse, the filth of the alleys had invaded our clean club. Someone had deliberately thrown sewage all over the floor and walls. Ah Ping had no need to explain anything; the destruction screamed its own message.
I wanted to sit down and cry. My pride crumbled to dust. I thought these boys were my people who trusted me as a friend; we had our problems, but really everything was fine. Then theythrew feces all over my walls and showed what they honestly thought of me and the four-year-old club.
“All right, God,” I said, “enough is enough. I don’t mind working here forever, as long as they appreciate me. But if they don’t want me or You, I don’t have to stay here. I can be a Christian in Kensington and do normal things like normal people—dinner parties and discussion groups, apologetics and concerts. After all, I really don’t want to stay down here for the rest of my life playing ping-pong. I mean, God, it’s no joy for me to have a little room like this; I’m doing it for them. I’m willing to pour my life out for them, but if they don’t want it, they need not have it. Let’s close the room up.” Resentment burned at me. “They’ll soon miss the club if I close it up; they’ll soon see what they’ve done was really harming themselves.”
But at the same time, I also heard what Jesus had said: When people hit you, you should let them hit you again; when they persecute you, you should bless them. 1 There was another insistent passage about praising God in all your troubles. 2 But I did not want to do that—I wanted to howl and wallow in self-pity. I wanted my enemies to suffer too. I certainly did not feel like rejoicing or turning the other cheek.
So I spent the whole day sweeping up the place, muttering tearfully, “Praise God, praise God.” I hunched over the bamboo brush and swiped the floor savagely—but less savagely as the day wore on and more sadly. “Praise God, praise God.” I had fits of sobbing. The foundations of my world lay in ruins.
The next night, I opened the club as usual. For the first time, I was frightened—not of being beaten up, for God had always protected me from that—but of being rejected by the boys that I loved and ministered to. I did not know who had done it and why, and I stayed there in the club trembling all over. I was lonely and vulnerable.
A youth I had never seen before leaned against the club door. He jerked his head at me and spoke coolly, “Got any trouble?”
“No. No. It’s fine, thank you very much,” I replied hastily. “But why are you asking?” He sucked in his cheeks and thumbedhis chest nonchalantly. “Got any trouble, you just let me know.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” I said. “But who are you? Who sent you?”
“Goko sent me,” he replied abruptly.
I was shaken; I knew exactly who Goko was. He was the leader of one branch of the 14K and was reputed to have several thousand little brothers in the Walled City and surrounding areas. He controlled all the opium dens and vice in the area. The fact that this stranger had even used Goko’s name to me was undoubtedly a compliment. It is both a term of endearment and respect, meaning, “my big brother.” He was the Big Brother of the big brothers. One of the little brothers in my club had confided his name to me with awe; even 10 years later, gangsters were daunted that I knew his name, for it was only ever mentioned among themselves.
Although I knew Goko’s name, I’d never met him. For some years I had sent him messages, but he had always refused to see me. The messages had been simple, like “Jesus loves you.” I could understand why Goko did not want to see me, but not why he had gone to the trouble of sending me a guard for the club.
“Goko said if anyone bothers you or touches this place, we’re gonna ‘do’ him,” my protector continued. He demonstrated
I wanted to sit down and cry. My pride crumbled to dust. I thought these boys were my people who trusted me as a friend; we had our problems, but really everything was fine. Then theythrew feces all over my walls and showed what they honestly thought of me and the four-year-old club.
“All right, God,” I said, “enough is enough. I don’t mind working here forever, as long as they appreciate me. But if they don’t want me or You, I don’t have to stay here. I can be a Christian in Kensington and do normal things like normal people—dinner parties and discussion groups, apologetics and concerts. After all, I really don’t want to stay down here for the rest of my life playing ping-pong. I mean, God, it’s no joy for me to have a little room like this; I’m doing it for them. I’m willing to pour my life out for them, but if they don’t want it, they need not have it. Let’s close the room up.” Resentment burned at me. “They’ll soon miss the club if I close it up; they’ll soon see what they’ve done was really harming themselves.”
But at the same time, I also heard what Jesus had said: When people hit you, you should let them hit you again; when they persecute you, you should bless them. 1 There was another insistent passage about praising God in all your troubles. 2 But I did not want to do that—I wanted to howl and wallow in self-pity. I wanted my enemies to suffer too. I certainly did not feel like rejoicing or turning the other cheek.
So I spent the whole day sweeping up the place, muttering tearfully, “Praise God, praise God.” I hunched over the bamboo brush and swiped the floor savagely—but less savagely as the day wore on and more sadly. “Praise God, praise God.” I had fits of sobbing. The foundations of my world lay in ruins.
The next night, I opened the club as usual. For the first time, I was frightened—not of being beaten up, for God had always protected me from that—but of being rejected by the boys that I loved and ministered to. I did not know who had done it and why, and I stayed there in the club trembling all over. I was lonely and vulnerable.
A youth I had never seen before leaned against the club door. He jerked his head at me and spoke coolly, “Got any trouble?”
“No. No. It’s fine, thank you very much,” I replied hastily. “But why are you asking?” He sucked in his cheeks and thumbedhis chest nonchalantly. “Got any trouble, you just let me know.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” I said. “But who are you? Who sent you?”
“Goko sent me,” he replied abruptly.
I was shaken; I knew exactly who Goko was. He was the leader of one branch of the 14K and was reputed to have several thousand little brothers in the Walled City and surrounding areas. He controlled all the opium dens and vice in the area. The fact that this stranger had even used Goko’s name to me was undoubtedly a compliment. It is both a term of endearment and respect, meaning, “my big brother.” He was the Big Brother of the big brothers. One of the little brothers in my club had confided his name to me with awe; even 10 years later, gangsters were daunted that I knew his name, for it was only ever mentioned among themselves.
Although I knew Goko’s name, I’d never met him. For some years I had sent him messages, but he had always refused to see me. The messages had been simple, like “Jesus loves you.” I could understand why Goko did not want to see me, but not why he had gone to the trouble of sending me a guard for the club.
“Goko said if anyone bothers you or touches this place, we’re gonna ‘do’ him,” my protector continued. He demonstrated
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