I Go To Church With My Grandma Every Christmas To Honour My Korean-Australian Heritage

Every Christmas, I go to church with my grandma. This may not sound like much, but for someone who uses the Lord’s name in vain and opens their eyes during prayers (I just want to eat the food already) — it’s a Christmas miracle. 

Buying presents can turn the most wonderful time of the year into a stressful one. Fortunately, I have a low-maintenance grandmother who simply wishes for me to be happy. So what do I give the woman who doesn’t want or need anything? I go to church.

Growing up in a Christian family, prayers preceded meals and church could only be missed if you were in hospital. The only saving grace was a cute boy in my Bible study class who helped time go a little faster. The church I went to was also just a convenient stroll up the road and so, I could be home within minutes of the benediction. 

But as soon as I became an adult and could make my own decisions, I renounced my religious upbringing and spent my Sundays hungover instead. A blank Sunday schedule suddenly revealed another world, full of brunches, markets and even a brief attempt at exercise during that time. 

My grandma didn't take my decision to not go to church very well, at first. For someone who still reads the Bible every day, it was the eighth sin. Swatting away constant questions about my absence from people in the congregation didn’t help her either. 

For many Korean-Australians, church is more than a place of worship. After the Korean War and the end of the White Australia Policy, many headed Down Under in search of a better life. With little money and even less English, many struggled to find homes and employment, let alone anyone who looked or spoke like them. 

So, it was the white crosses with Korean letters underneath that was the lighthouse most immigrants looked for when they arrived in Australia. Sometimes, it was a rented school hall, sometimes it was a purpose-built complex with its very own shuttle bus service; all their doors however, were always open. 

Given there are more churches than convenience stores in South Korea, it makes sense that some of that devoutness followed the diasporas. A quarter of Koreans in Australia affiliate with a Christian denomination, according to the latest census, and at last count, there are at least 150 Korean-language Protestant churches in Sydney — which accounts for over half of those in Australia. 

From their inception, Korean churches have been equipping newcomers with information and contacts to help them settle in their new country. Many Koreans have found jobs, friends and even spouses through these congregations. Services are followed by lunch (usually a whole Korean meal, complete with side dishes), where members break bread and swap stories. Cross-church events like volleyball competitions and camps provide even more opportunities to meet others and some churches also double as Korean schools on Saturdays — a mandatory part of any immigrant child’s upbringing. 

Church, I realised, wasn’t just for the faith-hearted. To older Koreans, they offer social networks and a weekly activity; to the younger and often confused generations, they help nurture and maintain their Korean heritage. At church, socialising is just as prevalent as sermonising. Asking a Korean-Australian which church they go to is like asking a Sydneysider which high school they went to. 

I went to Sydney Korean Uniting Church, if that means anything. Established in 1974 and turning 50 next year, it’s the first Korean church in Sydney and the church a lot of immigrants first went to – including my grandma. It’s also the church my parents were married and I was baptised in. 

My grandma had been going religiously until the pandemic and old age got in the way. At her physical peak, she would spend half her week volunteering there while taking care of me after school when my parents worked. She even set up a charity through the church, visiting and helping children, from remote Indigenous communities to villages in China’s outskirts. All her friends were made through church and the recent death of her best friend has taken a toll on her. “I’m the oldest person in the congregation, it should have been me,” she says. Now, she needs a walker to leave the house and can make it to church once a month at best. 

So, what started as a joke years ago, has now become an annual tradition. Perhaps my sarcasm didn’t translate at the time because, before I knew it, I was in my Sunday best (vetted by grandma) and having my cheeks pinched by all her friends. The brown-bricked building was still the same, but my crush was no longer there and lunch was now served with multiple questions from elders about my marital status. 

Yet, it seems the joke’s on me now. I’ve somehow come to enjoy the tradition and community I see just once a year. The carols, sung in Korean, are comfortingly familiar and I even catch myself singing along at times. The prayers are long but solemn. There’s a soothing, syncopated rhythm to the Korean language that compels me to reflect and meditate. Seeing elders too, who have known me since my chubby childhood days, reminds me how pivotal church is to so many people. 

As for my grandma and I, we still don’t agree on a lot of things: my clothing choice, nail colour and heck, every partner I’ve had (all “not good enough”). Church, too, will always be another point of difference, but I’ve discovered spending time with my grandma is the best gift I can give — and one she’ll always accept.