July 1, 2025

Cupertino is a small town in Northern California—population, just over 50,000. If it wasn’t for Apple, most people outside of the Bay Area wouldn’t know it exists. But because of the globally-recognized tech giant, Cupertino lies at the hub of Silicon Valley (Mountain View’s Google notwithstanding). The longer you live here, the more you learn to decipher a brand of corporate-tech language that seeps into everyday life. 

For instance, people here don’t say “I don’t know.”

We say, “I don’t have all the data in front of me.”

We don’t say “I don’t understand it.”

We say, “There are a lot of moving parts.”

And my personal favorite, we don’t say “I don’t want to do that.”We say, “I’m not sure I have the bandwidth for that.”

I have lived across the United States and each region of the country has its own shibboleths—culturally nuanced language markers that let you know if you’re local to the area or not. Decoding the language isn’t too hard if you take the time to pay attention to context clues. After a while, however, you’ll notice some of these quality-control checkpoints are also used as subtle linguistic daggers hurled at outsiders to let you know if you belong, if your mere presence is welcome. 

These same language markers exist in institutional spaces, and regrettably, it’s taken fifteen years in white Christian institutions for me to realize it. 

The industry of Big-Church has a variety of language weapons in their arsenal. Evaluation subcommittees. Faculty senates. Judicial review. “The Board.” At face value these words are innocuous and (somewhat) vital to the health of any functioning institution. But they take an ugly turn when they are weaponized and wielded towards ill-perceived threats to their status quo. When this occurs, their underlying intent is unmistakable. Sociolinguistically, they’re deployed to tell us the same thing: This is not your home. You are not welcome. 

Here is an experience of such institutional language in the form of a three-act tragedy.

Act I:

“Welcome! Now tell me, where are you from…”

“We value unity. It’s one of the core pillars of our organization.”

“Can we take your picture for our brochure?”

Act II:

“Oh, is that how you do it in your country? That’s not the way we do things here.”

“We’ve received some concerns about your recent event. Can you tell us a little more about its purpose?”

“Do you think you can submit a report so the board can review your leadership role?”

Act III: 

“We’re making some organizational changes. From now on, you’ll be reporting to the Committee of Standards and Best Practices.”

“Your expenses must now be pre-approved or they will not be reimbursed.”

“Thank you for your compliance…Unity for the glory of God.”

This has been a recurrence in the institutional spaces I’ve been associated with throughout my pastoral career. Coded language, whether it’s a disguised inquiry or a full blown witch hunt, lets us know we’ve outstayed our welcome. Even if these sentiments are made from a vocal minority within the group, the silence of the majority speaks volumes. In the end, institutions are not equipped, nor do they wish to become properly equipped, to bear the responsibility of diversity. These Christian institutional spaces habitually fail to protect the minorities they so eagerly wish to display on their promotional materials. 

I’m left wondering if we will ever find an institutional home?  Will we ever experience that elusive feeling of not having to explain ourselves? A place where we won’t have to worry about our standing. We won’t have to live in a perpetual state of low-grade anxiety. We won’t need precursors and preambles. No need to hem and haw, preface or presuppose. And best of all, we can repurpose our efforts—blood, sweat, and tears—into building something of lasting progress, instead of toiling away for years in Sisyphus-like futility. 

The need for blood, sweat, and tears still exist. But I want my efforts to go towards something that amounts to more than just treading water. These days, I don’t dream about funding so we can spend it generically, aimlessly. I dream about it because it will provide something we’ve never had. An institutional home. I don’t dream of power so we can mold and shape people into our image and likeness. I dream of it so we can create a more inspired place to house a larger spectrum of God’s people. There are healthier, more God-honoring ways to exhaust our emotional and spiritual calories—a vision compelling enough to warrant this kind of expenditure.

Therefore, to continue to fight for our right to exist in institutional spaces that do not care to protect us? 

I don’t have the bandwidth for that anymore. 

Daniel Jung lives in Northern California, where he serves as an associate pastor at Home of Christ in Cupertino. He also serves as the Associate Director of Communications for KALI - Korean American Leadership Initiative, a ministry of the PCA. In his spare time, Daniel loves the 49ers, good coffee, and writing about faith, culture, and exploring the rabbit holes of his God-ordained Asian American identity. You can find more of his work here.