He’s in a New York City Chinatown karaoke bar. He’s with his bosses, a tender-bodied boy ironically recruited to guard other, more powerful bodies. His boss says something wrong to one boss; another boss slams his hand on the table. Everyone jumps up. The music stops. A light flickers on. His eyes adjust to recognize the barrel of a gun pointing at his head.

He pulls his boss behind him and says, “Just kill me.”

“Sabastian, get out of the way. We’re going to kill your boss.”

“No, kill me!”

So now is when the boy could hear his mother’s voice, speaking with persistence about the American dream, of a new car displayed in front of a big house. Then he would be happy. But the associates he has see to it he lives in a whirlwind of spending and consumption. They drive Beemers and Benzes, have Lincoln cars and limousine services picking them up. They dine at any restaurant. And the women — well, someone arranges for them to come in shifts. Having amassed every earthly pleasure, he is still depressed night after night.

“I wish I could tell you that I was this tough, rough, mean guy,” says Sabastian Hu?nh, 35, now the Cause Circle pastor at NewSong Church, “and that I said, ‘Kill me’ because, you know, I had been trained in martial arts, wrestling, street fighting, biting, and all those good things — but honestly, at the age of 18, I wanted him to kill me because I was just tired. I was tired of this life.”
***
Hayes, Kan., is a predominantly Anglo German Catholic town. Hu?nh’s mother moves her young son and daughter, as well as herself, into a home there with their second Caucasian stepfather. The three are the only non-Anglos in the community. During a mean prank, he is collectively informed by his classmates that he is actually not white but Chinese, which is news to him.

“And not only are you Chinese, your dad’s not your dad.”

This is shocking to hear, but he still thinks they are just jealous of him because of his superior tan.

His mother divorces her second husband, and moves him and his sister to Dallas, an ethnic cornucopia compared to Hayes.

“Those kids (in Hayes) taught me to analyze people to see how they aren’t like me, and if they aren’t like me then they’re somehow wrong, right?”

This is a method of perception he employs when he sees his first person from Mexico.

“I had never seen a Mexican in my life. I thought, ‘Man, what’s wrong with this guy? I’m kinda jealous of his tan; he’s got that going on. But his eyes need some work.’”
***
Early 1980s. His new best friend is a Mexican guy who hangs out with a Mexican crew. He steals his first pairs of Converse and Dickies because, to be part of that group, he’s got to be a Low Rider. Mexican Low Riders also put their hands in their pants and strut.

“And I would think why is my hand in my pants? This doesn’t feel normal, it doesn’t feel natural. And it was a lot deeper than it is now, let me tell you.”

“I thought, ‘Hey, should I ask this guy next to me? He looks as lost as I do.’...I did whatever they wanted me to do. Because then I found my identity and I felt secure.”

When he’s 13, his mother tells him that he has a brother named Minh in Vi?t Nam, and that this brother would be coming over to live with them in Dallas. Meen? Moon? Honestly, the kid can’t say Minh.

“Feel free to laugh with me because my Vietnamese still stinks,” Hu?nh chuckles. “I can say d?p trai, which means handsome boy. That’s what my mom would call me, and pat me on the head. Oh, and I can say dói b?ng. That pretty much summarizes who I am. I’m always hungry, and I’m handsome.”

His brother walks into the terminal. The two look at each other. Sabastian throws his arms around the sibling and exclaims, “BROTHER!!!” He still can’t say Minh.

From that day on, a new mask of identification is suddenly brought into his life. He is not Chinese. He is not Caucasian.

He is Vietnamese.
***
As his 19th birthday approaches, Hu?nh contacts 15 guys from Dallas to travel to New York to serve for him. The mafia gives him two full-time body guards and puts him in charge of a prostitution house.

“I could order this person to be killed, that person to be kidnapped. I was literally God.”

Then there is that one night when he had just gotten home from the clubs. Reflecting in the bathroom mirror was the face of someone who had become an arch nemesis, a nagging reminder of all his feelings of inadequacy. Having reached a manic state induced by drugs and alcohol; he tries to stare down the face. He demands, “Who are you?!”

Then he just punches the mirror. It shatters into several jagged icicles, each reflecting the crimson now smeared all over his hands. The mirror has not been particularly important anyway. He lost the ability to see his own face a while ago.

He is arrested for the fifth and final time in 1990, and while incarcerated, knows he has no future in prison. His eyes wide open, he wants to make a difficult admission to God. He thinks he’s conducted his life properly because the rest of the people he has surrounded himself behave the same way.

This is the revelation he had been waiting for.
***
Skip seven years ahead to the time after Hu?nh is released from jail, past his studies of the Bible. In 1997, Hu?nh starts working at a Southern California church. His vision is a multiethnic one, where Vietnamese in the community could come with all their friends and worship together. The church grows rapidly to about 300 members.

“They were just regular people trying to live life, many not making it to the universities for whatever reasons. They had hard lives, and so did their families. But it was the church I had always dreamed of...multiethnic, with real people.”

“We barely made it each month with the bills and lighting. But it was floating, it was going, it was a great community.”

Until one day, Hu?nh says, that he realized he and the church leaders had different desires for the future of the church.

“I wrote the most painful two-page resignation letter that I ever wrote, and it hurt me because I loved the people I was serving.”

He goes to Los Angeles with an organization called World Impact, planning churches in urban inner cities. He leaves that job, gets his bachelor’s degree from Hope International University, and people start inviting him to speak at events.

“I’ve spoken at Vietnamese churches along the East Coast and in the Midwest. They would always come ask me because there’s not many English speaking pastors that the youth can connect with,” Hu?nh says.

“Many other ones are old, speak Vietnamese only, and all they talk about are legalism, brimstone, and fire. They don’t know their audience. They don’t know the culture they’re speaking into. The fear tactic might work for the older generation, but it really doesn’t work for the youth who tend to think for themselves.”
***
In 2003, Hu?nh lands in Irvine, Calif., and soon thereafter takes on the role of Pastor at NewSong, a church that was then only nine years in the making. Headed by Pastor Dave Gibbons, NewSong began as a series of meetings held in a small two-bedroom apartment in Irvine. Since its first official service on October 23, 1994, NewSong has expanded into a global multiethnic church still picking up momentum, with centers in Orange County, Los Angeles, and Bangkok.

The Irvine congregation alone boasts at least 15 different ethnicities among followers. While the Asian population remains the largest, Caucasian, Hispanic and African American demographics within the church grow steadily every year. Moreover, the dominant Asian population is itself, greatly diverse. The average age is 28, but older singles, couples and families continue to integrate.

For the last three years, Hu?nh has served as NewSong’s Cause Circle Pastor, with an emphasis on missionary work and global outreach. Since then, he has proven to be an invaluable asset to the community, touching the lives of those in as well as outside the church.

“Whenever he speaks, he brings the message to a practical level that everyone can apply to their lives,” says Michelle Tam, NewSong’s Cause Circle Mobilizing Director. “He is ultimately committed to the vision of NewSong, and is actively living out the values of a third-culture leader.”
***
What keeps young Vietnamese Americans in the church? Largely, it is commitment to family. But as empowering as that may be, some profess to Hu?nh their underlying feelings of guilt and shame, or fear of abandoning family duties.

The cost of keeping status is causing a modern-day spiritual crisis. Faith is dwindling. The faith is not their own; it belongs to their parents. It is here that we see the hidden break within the family structure so emphasized by the church.

“They’re dying inside. They’re out being good kids to their parents but they’re not really being good kids to their parents because inside they’re bitter and they resent their parents. I try to help them see that just because they are there physically doesn’t mean they are there in their hearts and minds. You have to be there in whole for your parents.”

Across many cultures, it is often deemed that if you are young, you have nothing of real value to say. Legitimacy is something earned with age. And this seems to be the situation that many young Vietnamese simply do not want to admit themselves to twice over because they haven’t had the chance to heal.

“Any time you disagree with the elders, it’s called butting heads. They don’t want to let you have that dialogue with them so what can you do? They won’t butt heads with the pastors and the culture again and they think it’s such a useless fight. It breaks my heart because if they’re not going to be advocates for them, then who is?”

And then there’s the problem of religion meeting culture. Religion forever has been a form of cultural identification, and the pull of Westernization is perceived to be much more of a threat to culture than to religious ideology.

“I don’t care if you’re Buddhist, Catholic, Christian, whatever. For most, that comes second to being Vietnamese. The reason Buddhism is safe is because it’s part of the culture already,” Hu?nh theorizes. “Ask, and you’ll see that most don’t know their stages of Nirvana. But if you tell a Thai person they’re not Buddhist, you might as well tell them they’re not Thai. If you tell an Irish person they’re not Catholic, you might as well tell them they’re not Irish.”

He reflects.

“The attitude I get is ‘My kids can stay Vietnamese culturally through Buddhism, Catholicism, Christianity, which ever one will promote that the most.’”

“It’s not so much about religion as it is about you robbing my kids of their culture, which is my identity and is the last thing I have left in my legacy coming here to America.”
***
It is September 2006, and Hu?nh goes on a mission to the most devastated parts of Southeast Asia. His travels take him through Vi?t Nam, Malaysia and Thailand.

“I’m telling you that when you look into these women’s eyes, and they’re just lifeless; they’re like robots. We work with Rahab Ministries to try to help women involved in prostitution pay off their debts...because that’s how they keep you.”

Most of these women start out as laborers, but are exploited because of their marginalized class. They are often subjected to a fee just to be permitted to work, so they are in debt before they start. If they are paid considerably less than what they automatically owe, they are often given alternative methods of earning a quick buck.

Rahab Ministries, located in downtown Bangkok, was established in April 1989 when four women decided to share in their desire to help victims of the prostitution rings in Thailand. It is a beauty shop and greeting card manufacturer, employing former prostitutes and educating them about income generation and trade skills.

They are surprised to find housing at Southern California prices in the Sài Gòn area, $700,000 for a house, $300,000 for an apartment.

The Southeast Asian economy is climbing right now, and labor is cheap. Global markets are starting to take notice, particularly of Vi?t Nam because of trade sanctions opening up and people bringing in business left and right.

But either you have the rich or the poor. Most people buying the expensive houses are government officials from Hà N?i buying their second homes. The average income went from $40 a month to $70 a month because the economy is booming, but that’s still based on scale.

In Sài Gòn,  Hu?nh is invited to attend worship at several “house churches” that had sprouted up to nearly 3,500 across the country. These underground organizations base much of their platform on social justice issues and civil activism. 

“Well, in Vi?t Nam you have three self-churches, meaning they’re registered with the government and can worship publicly on the weekends. House churches are not registered with the government, so they just meet at a house, and they’re considered illegal. Because in Vi?t Nam, if you have a meeting of 13 people or more you have to register.”

From there he goes to Malaysia, where there are currently about 150,000 factory workers between the ages of 18 and 25 who are originally from Hà N?i. These young people have been streaming in since four years ago, when Vi?t Nam established a labor contract with Malaysia.

But most Malaysian factory owners can speak only Chinese or Malay. The language barrier is one factor contributing to the oppressed situation of Vietnamese laboring abroad. Another is the problematic situation created from trying to free oneself from unfair, even torturous, conditions. If a Vietnamese laborer quits or is fired, he or she automatically loses the right to work, making residency in Malaysia illegal. If they become illegal, Vi?t Nam won’t take them back, and so they must stay in Malaysia, working under the table and away from their families indefinitely.
 
Hu?nh, a married father of three, sees a new life for him and his family here. 

In mid-October, he and his wife make another trip to Bangkok, returning to California in the late hours of Nov. 11. At Sunday service the following morning, Pastor Sabastian shocks the congregation by announcing his decision to leave NewSong’s Irvine Campus, and relocate his wife and three boys to Bangkok, where he feels he is particularly needed. Even though his eldest son, Kaleb, 6, has just made it into the accelerated GATE program at school, the next three to five years of the family’s future will be in Thailand, where Head Pastor Dave Gibbons has spent the last year building NewSong Bangkok.

“We’re going to have teachers out there to teach them English so that if there has been an injustice done against them, they can go talk to the Malaysian government. We’re having people teach them Malay and Chinese, too.”

“Sabastian’s decision to go to Bangkok has great possibilities for him because of his desire to show unconditional love to those not only in Bangkok, but Southeast Asia.” Gibbons says. “Vi?t Nam has a special place in his heart...It’s like a lost son has come home.”

Hu?nh hopes to do good work, like the work of a woman he meets named Cô Thuong, who lends a helping hand in dire situations.
 
“This Vietnamese lady is about 60 years old (we call her m?, or mom). She built a house right between jungle and the industrial city in Malaysia. She left her lights on 24/7 so laborers who had been mistreated or abandoned could find their way to her. She fed, clothed, bandaged them up, took them into the hospital, even took them into the courts to try to get their jobs back.”
 
Hu?nh says Cô Thuong is simply a Vietnamese American who, after becoming aware of the situation, went to see for herself. She returns to the States for a few months, raises money, and goes back to Malaysia to reach out to others.

Recently, Cô Thuong moved from her sanctuary to a place across the street from a facility of approximately 3,000 factory workers. A church paid for her living quarters, as well as an adjoining facility with the capacity to house 200 people.

“She’s been reaching out to these 3,000 people, and she probably has nearly 10 percent of them coming into her home all the time. She cooks food that they’re familiar with, Vietnamese food. She’s like a social worker.”

“In Malaysia, they don’t get persecuted because of religion, but because they are Vietnamese. It’s hard because these kids don’t even look like they’re 18 to 25. They look like 13- to 14-year-old girls and boys.”

Even with her monumental efforts, individuals like Cô Thuong barely make a dent in the situation. A few compassionate people can only provide aid for so many.

“I’m grateful for the people who take time away from their families to go out there because they have the resources to create change. They’re tired of living this OC life, you know. It’s just about the bigger car, the bigger house...”

But it’s not about being religious, he insists. It’s about having a relationship with God.