Sons of God's Generals: Unlocking the Power of Godly Inheritance (11 page)

I am eternally grateful for my family—my dad, my mom, Carol, my sister and stepbrothers, my ex-husband, my children, my nephews and nieces, and my two grandchildren waiting in Heaven. Each one has been a gift from God to me—yes, sometimes for my character development, to practice forgiveness and also to practice repentance. More than that, though, it’s a group of people who are “mine,” tied to each other for eternity. They are God’s gift to me, to daily show me—through audible words and arms of care—that He is forever loving!

“Oh no, please go easy on me,” were the first words that came out of my father’s mouth when I told him that I would be writing a chapter in this exciting book. My response, as I walked away laughing, was simply, “I can’t promise anything.” The truth is I can’t promise that I won’t share the good, the bad, and the “not even a mother could love” ugly regarding my experience being the daughter of Pastor(s) Che and Sue Ahn. However, I can testify that those trials and tribulations that my family and I personally adventured through brought me closer to Jesus than I could ever imagine.

I’m sure that my dad’s nervous reaction to me writing this chapter stems from the fact that I am notorious for speaking my mind at a moment’s notice. Then too, my relationship with my father, according to my personal diagnosis, has not always been a “fantastic” one. In fact, if someone would have asked me ten years ago to sum up our relationship, my response would have been any of the following—bleak, depressing, or (my personal favorite) dismal.

In retrospect, I now realize my relationship with my father wasn’t all that afflictive. There are certainly far worse parent-child relationships out there. For instance, my father and his father (my
harabeoji
) had a very strained relationship while my father was growing up. One story that we children often heard was of a time when my dad and his mother (my grandma or
halmeoni
) lived in Korea while my grandfather (
harabeoji
) got settled in the States. My father didn’t see his father for the first five years of his childhood, and when they finally did reunite as a family, life was rocky. Often, my aunt raised my dad as both his parents worked hard to make ends meet. He was a latchkey kid who became involuntarily independent at a young age.

I don’t doubt that my grandparents loved their children. However, my
harabeoji
showed his love primarily through provision and discipline. My dad tells the story of his childhood in his book
Fire Evangelism
and describes how, out of anger and frustration, my
harabeoji
would physically discipline my father. My dad was a strong-willed kid and gave my grandparents hell. But there were times where my
harabeoji’s
discipline turned into physical abuse, and my dad’s relationship with his father was emotionally broken as a result. My father never received affirming words from his dad such as, “I’m proud of you,” “You are a great son,” or a simple, “I love you.” It wasn’t until my dad was 40 years old that his father said these simple yet profound words of love for the first time.

I am happy to report that my
harabeoji’s
and my father’s relationship was completely healed, restored, and renewed. When the renewal movement hit our family and church, my father repented to my
harabeoji
for all his years of rebellion, hurt, and anger he harbored against him. In turn, my
harabeoji
repented for his way of raising my father with such a heavy hand of anger. From that point on, both my father and my
harabeoji
were closer than ever. Being a fellow pastor himself, my
harabeoji
would minister together with my father. It was as if God was reaffirming their father-son relationship in a greater way by establishing it in love and mercy as they shared their ministry.

The healing that took place between my
harabeoji
and my dad overflowed far beyond their individual personal relationship, touching all of our family. My
harabeoji
became an endlessly affectionate and caring man. Whenever we saw him, whether it was in Fairfax, Virginia where he lived or in Los Angeles, he would tell us grandchildren how much he loved us and how proud he was of us. Later, when I went to Regent University in Virginia Beach to study political science in 2005, I would often visit him, and he would eagerly drive me in his Lincoln Continental, better known as “the boat on wheels” with the personalized “Ahn” license plate. I typically wouldn’t mind showing off our last name if my grandpa wasn’t such “colorful” driver. Given that he was, I was afraid that someone would look up the last name “Ahn” and sue us for reckless driving…and that would be the end to my college fund. He always took me to the same, sometimes questionable, buffet seafood restaurant down the street—Peter Pan. Even though the experience wasn’t like the dimming memories of a visit to Neverland, my
harabeoji
always captured our special times with photographs that I still keep to this day. He was indeed a changed man who loved and wasn’t afraid to show it. In my personal history he will go down as being the most generous individual I ever knew. When I think of the way my father and grandfather’s relationship was healed, it is just another reminder of the miracle-working love of God. Truly, nothing is too big for our Maker!

When I was growing up, I only saw my dad at night after he got back from Fuller Seminary. He was largely unavailable, and sometimes a stranger to me, in that he studied for his Master’s and Doctoral degrees back to back. My parents did make a point to have individual dates with each of us four kids. I remember when I had breakfast dates with my dad it was always somewhat uncomfortable. It never felt natural for me to be alone with him. He was always kind and tried earnestly to make me feel special. If I wanted pancakes he would buy me pancakes. If I wanted to play tic-tac-toe at the table, we would play and of course he would let me win. Still, my times with my dad never felt completely intimate. I now believe that as a young child I picked up on the insecurities that my father faced, as he was hurting over his relationship with his father. Because he never experienced affection and love as a child, it was challenging for him to engage in intimacy with us.

My distorted relationship with my father and the subsequent healing of our relationship mirrors my relationship and healing with my heavenly Father. My testimony starts right when I gave my heart to Jesus. I couldn’t have been older than five years of age when I gave my life to Jesus. Prior to my conversion I was immersed in every conservative “Christianese” activity. From dance to mime, I was there. I remember when my sisters, Grace and Joy, and I were enrolled in tambourine worship circle, and how we practiced day and night for our Sunday recitals. This life of constant Christian immersion was the only world I knew. My brother, sisters (Gabriel, Grace, Joy), and I had nightly devotions with my parents. They taught us to thank God in our prayers before making our requests.

It was during one of our family devotion times that my dad asked me if I was ready to give my heart to God. I distinctly remember the anticipation that I felt when my father led me through the sinner’s prayer. I fully understood what I was doing—that I was finally asking Jesus to come into my heart and for Him to be my Lord and Savior. Little did I know at that young age that my commitment to Jesus and my walk with Christ would be challenged in astronomical ways throughout the next 15 years!

The very next day my father baptized me in our oversized, backyard jacuzzi. Up until that day I knew the jacuzzi as our underwater tearoom where my dad and two sisters would sink to the bottom, and he would serve us proper tea. It’s funny the effect daughters can have on fathers. My father would become a different person—a rather British host who had the best underwater tea parties!

In one way, the process of baptism was so familiar to me as I had witnessed many baptisms. Often on summer days my siblings and I played PK games like pretending to baptize each other, and we argued about who would be the pastor and who would get baptized. On that warm Sunday afternoon, I knew this was no game. I was getting baptized in front of my family and family friends. That day the jacuzzi became a sacred space, functioning as a baptismal. Because I wasn’t tall enough to reach the bottom, my father sat me on his knee, and led me through the baptism questions. I nervously shared in front of the small audience what Jesus meant to me and why I wanted to be baptized. My response was pure and honest, innocent and true to my five-year-old heart as I shared it. My relationship with Jesus was simple then, without questions, drama, or strife. “Mary Christine Ahn, I baptize you in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” were the last words I heard my father speak before I was fully submerged in the water. I went into the water and came up to approving cheers and “Praise God.” If I had only known what the future years would hold in store for me, I would have stayed under that water and had endless underwater tea parties!

I often have people ask me what’s it like to be Che and Sue’s daughter and to grow up in the Ahn family. I try to respond in as kind a manner possible. I usually say something like, “Being a pastor’s kid can be challenging at times but it is extremely rewarding.” I rarely elaborate the “challenging” parts, because I don’t want to discourage any person from entering the ministry. In fact, I applaud anyone who feels called to the ministry because I have witnessed firsthand the sacrifices my parents continually make. On the other hand, I made an adamant, personal vow (one that I later received inner healing for and broke off) that I would never 1) go into ministry or 2) marry a pastor. It’s funny how the things you run away from are the very things you are called to be. And no, I am not married to a pastor but I have certainly devoted my time to ministry.

My aversion to ministry first began when I was nine years old (1993). It wasn’t that I ceased to believe in Jesus or lost respect for the ministry. However, events I could not understand were brewing and would cause me to experience intense, personal collateral damage. I can’t recall the specific details surrounding the period when my family was asked to leave the church that they planted and began in 1984. All I remember was the immediate feeling of rejection and confusion. My parents tried to explain to us four children that things would be different, and that God had called our family into a new season of ministry. From the moment my dad stepped down from being the senior pastor of a growing church in Pasadena, I was brutally aware of the discrimination Christians can show to each other. Family friends I knew all my life suddenly severed themselves from any relationship or communication with us. My sense of safety and love within the church was shattered with confusion and doubt, and as a result my faith went into crisis.

It’s ironic how the Kingdom of heaven works. You often have to die in order to truly live. God asked my parents to take a life-altering risk and to leave, in love and grace, the church they had planted and the community they had nourished. For me, it was like being wrenched from home and family as it was the only church and community I had ever known. I recently asked my parents about this period of their personal “dark night of the soul.” They both responded that although it was hard, it was also the best decision they ever made. They were able to see that what was meant for harm became a “but God” redemptive event. For me, a child at that time, I could not have disagreed with their decision to leave more. I became angry and bitter toward them and blamed them for being the cause of the separation from my extended church family.

My parents did what they knew how to do best and started another church. It first began in our living room and after one month, quickly exploding in size, we had to rent a church building. I remember those beginning days when we were first introduced to a new form of ministry—the prophetic renewal movement. After my dad and ministry partner Lou Engle came back from a trip to Argentina—and later Toronto—ministry as we knew it changed forever. It was different from anything I had ever experienced in that there was no structure to our prayer meetings and worship would last for hours followed by prayer. Often we wouldn’t even get to the speaker’s message if the Holy Spirit moved strongly. I’m sure our neighbors thought we were crazy or had opened a commune of some sort!

Initially, those prayer meetings were extremely fun for the 10-year-old within me. It turned out that the family friends who separated themselves from us, and whom we weren’t allowed to talk to, thought these new meeting times and doing church with the Holy Spirit were pretty amazing too, and they began to secretly attend with us. It’s funny how things work out for the good to those who love the Lord! The Lord is so faithful to love us and reveal our purpose and destiny according to His perfect timing.

In 1994, when the outpouring of the Father’s love became a revival at the Toronto Airport Fellowship, my dad and Lou Engle went to Canada to seek God for increased revelation and new spiritual impartation. They returned on fire and before I knew it, we were hosting nightly meetings ourselves. During that time, my family virtually lived in Mott Auditorium, the building that held our nightly meetings. The six of us would run over to our little home two miles away to eat, sleep, and then drive back for our nightly meetings.

Those renewal meetings were mind-blowing. We would worship for hours and then have soaking times where we allowed the Holy Spirit to be Lord and lead. At the end of the services, thousands would line up to receive an outpouring of God’s love and manifest it through tears of joy, laughter, shouting, jumping, even spinning uncontrollably. Row upon row of people waited for an impartation on that gymnasium floor, hands opened and palms up.