Goodbye, 2025

And hello, 2026.

Photo by Jamie Fenn on Unsplash

“I think this is it,” I confessed to my family while picking at the salt and pepper fish I had been working on for the past five minutes.

I’ve always found it comforting that Chinese restaurants (and many other Asian restaurants) are open on Christmas Eve.

“What do you mean?” my idiot brother asked with his idiot mouth.

“Yeah, what do you mean?” my wife echoed.

I didn’t mean to, but a deep sigh escaped from somewhere deeper than my lungs.

“I’m… done. I think. I have no desire to continue doing this under these conditions. And now maybe we see what the best way is for me to leave all this behind. Maybe even get out of Texas.”

That conversation took place on Christmas Eve of 2024, right after our Christmas Eve liturgy at Szechuan Spice.

My idiot brother led worship for us, as he has done before.
Having him lead worship is always a plus for me. Even better, I get to see my niece and sister-in-law, who are nothing but lovely human beings despite the fact that my brother is an idiot.

Did I mention that my brother is an idiot?
No?

Well, he is. His AOL screen name (yes, AOL… remember them?) was literally “iamanidiot” followed by numbers related to his birthdate.

Am I mad at my brother? Not at all.
Do I love him? Absolutely.
I can love him and still think he’s an idiot.
Just kidding. I don’t think he’ll even read this. Mainly because I’m not sure he actually can read.

I was exhausted after that Advent season. My body, mind, and soul had been through a lot.
Part of it was burnout.
Part of it was resentment.
Part of it was frustration.
So yeah… all of it was burnout.

And I couldn’t picture myself standing in front of my church past June of 2025.

The sad thing is, my issue wasn’t with my local church. Much like a divorce where the kids are innocent bystanders, the church was innocent in my situation with the diocese.

That situationship led directly to me being diagnosed with depression. I’ve been on Zoloft ever since.

When I started this work, more than gratitude, I felt indebtedness toward the diocese. Not in a bad way, at least not consciously. I was determined to be fiercely loyal to the diocese and the bishop and not make them regret taking a huge chance on me. Because it was a huge chance.

They took a 39-year-old frustrated United Methodist and gave him an opportunity to plant a church as an Episcopalian.
By April of 2019, the only door open for employment was this diocese. They were the only ones willing to take a chance. None of the UMC doors I knocked on were willing to do so. And honestly, I can’t really blame them.

So more than gratitude, I felt like I owed them an effective ministry. I felt like I needed to prove that the resources they were investing in me and in this community would not be for nothing.

I need to be clear about something. This pressure lived entirely inside me. The diocese never made me feel like I owed them anything.

I still don’t know if that internal ethos comes from being a Korean immigrant or if it’s just a personal flaw I’ve been carrying around my whole life.

I’m telling you all this because the moment I heard the doctor say the word “depression,” that sense of indebtedness dissolved. Some of the anxiety went with it too. There was a strange relief in realizing, “Oh… thank God. Something actually is wrong.”

That diagnosis helped me make sense of breaking down and bawling on the bathroom floor of the church two hours before service was supposed to start in August of 2024. I think I was in denial for a minute or two, but denial is hard to maintain when a doctor leaves you no wiggle room to reinterpret what they just said.
The anger faded too. I became far more concerned with my mental health than with staying angry.

This entire Advent season, I’ve been thinking about last year and just how different this year feels. How different I feel. How different I am.
Last year, I dreaded Christmas Eve. I felt defeated and hollow. This was months before the official diagnosis, but my body already knew. I didn’t have the energy to put on my “extroverted pastor” suit.

From August of 2024 through the first half of 2025, I couldn’t see the future of Mosaic. That has never happened to me. I’m usually planning two years ahead. Instead, all I could think about was where else in the United States I might want to live.
Southern California.
New York City.
DC, Virginia, Maryland.
Seattle and the Pacific Northwest.
In that order.

But sometime after June of this year, everything shifted.

Maybe the meds finally kicked in. I was still tired, but I could see the future again. I wanted to redo things, make up for lost time, dream toward 2026.

I felt like I was back.

But one thing had changed completely.

I no longer felt indebted to the diocese.

In my own strange internal math, I figured we were even after the depression diagnosis. And yes, I realize the diocese probably got the short end of that imaginary deal. They have no idea this calculation ever existed.
What surprised me most was that it felt like a reset. A starting over. And this time, there was nothing but gratitude.

There really aren’t many religious institutions doing what this diocese is doing. There aren’t many church bodies willing to bring someone in from outside their denomination, fast-track them through ordination without cutting corners, and invest real money and trust into a new community.

How could I not be grateful?

And I’m grateful that I found my way back to gratitude.
If there’s anything I’m taking from 2025, it’s this: gratitude has to stay in front of me. I have to frame everything through it.

As I write this, I’ve just finished my Christmas Eve sermon. It’s 8 p.m. on December 23rd, and I’m sitting in a coffee shop laughing to myself about how different this Advent feels compared to last year.

Before heading to the church to practice the sermon, I wanted to write this final Substack of 2025. I thought the mailbag would be the closer, but this felt more honest.

Last year, I was burned out.
This year, I’m grateful.

I’m still dreading Christmas Eve, though dread isn’t the right word. I’m anxious.

Our very first in-person Christmas Eve service, I hoped we’d double our average Sunday attendance. Instead, a new strain of COVID introduced itself to the world. I don’t remember how many people showed up, but my family made up more than half the room.

This year, I’m anxious for the opposite reason.
We have 138 chairs set out, and I’m praying for at least 25 empty ones.
Am I the first pastor to hope for a slightly smaller crowd than what could show up?
See? Something is still wrong with me.

But I can’t tell you how free I feel.
How alive I feel.
How grateful I feel.

I’m grateful for you too, my Substack community.

2025 is almost over. Now we look toward 2026.

I don’t know how wild the world will be next year. That’s beyond my control. What is in my control is how I show up and how I respond.

I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions. I save that for my birthday. But this year, I’m resolving to be grateful. To lead with gratitude. To filter everything through it.

Gratitude helps me see clearly.
Gratitude reminds me that I’m not entitled to anything, but entrusted with everything.
Gratitude reminds me that when I count my blessings, they will always outweigh what I think I lack.

So here’s to 2026 and the adventures that await for us.
Through it all, may I (and we) continue to be grateful for the gift of life.