I have spent most of my life somewhere between cultures. I grew up as a Third Culture Kid (TCK), spending much of my childhood overseas before eventually moving to the United States. Now I live in the UK, where I work with TCKs, young adults, and people serving in missions.

That path has given me a particular interest in one question: Are we actually caring for the people we are asking to go?

I think about this a lot when I think about Gen Z. There is plenty being written about this generation—that they are difficult to reach, anxious, hungry for authenticity, quick to question institutions, and slow to respond to traditional structures. Some of that may be true. But I wonder if we are sometimes asking the wrong question. Instead of, How do we get Gen Z to engage with the Church? perhaps we should first ask, Do they feel known by the Church?

People Before Projects

One of the strangest experiences of being a TCK is realizing how quickly people can become interested in your story without necessarily becoming interested in you. Where did you grow up? Where are you from? How many countries have you lived in? What do your parents do? Where are you serving now?

These are reasonable questions—even wonderful conversation starters. But there is a difference between being curious about someone’s story and being curious about the person carrying it. I have felt that difference in churches, in mission settings, in ordinary conversations. Sometimes I can tell within a few minutes whether someone genuinely wants to know me or has quietly decided I am their next project. It is a strange feeling, especially when you have spent more of your life on the mission field than the person trying to explain missions to you.

But I think this goes deeper than an awkward conversation. People are not projects. Gen Z is not a project. TCKs are not projects. Missionaries are not projects. The person sitting quietly at the back of church is not a project. They are people—and people need to be known before they can be meaningfully cared for.

The People We Send

This becomes particularly important in missions. We are very good at celebrating people who go. We celebrate the calling, pray over them, help raise their support, send them across borders, and celebrate the stories that come back. And we should—the Great Commission matters, the unreached matter, the work of taking the gospel to places where Christ is not yet known matters.

But somewhere between sending someone and celebrating what they accomplish, I think we can forget something important: The person still matters. The missionary who is struggling matters. The young adult who is questioning their calling matters. The TCK who does not know where home is matters. The person who has spent years adapting to everyone else’s expectations, and has finally run out of energy, matters.

Sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do is stop asking what someone is accomplishing and ask how they are doing—not as a formality, not as a ministry check-in, but really ask. And then stay long enough to hear the answer.

Resilience Is Not the Same as Health

This is something I have had to learn personally. People who grow up between cultures often become remarkably adaptable. You learn to walk into new rooms, learn new rules, learn new languages, make friends quickly, leave them again, start over. Adapt. Repeat.

That resilience can be a gift. It can also become a hiding place. When everyone knows you as the person who can handle change, it becomes surprisingly difficult to admit when you cannot. I have done this myself—written openly about my struggles while being far less honest with the people standing next to me, telling people online that it is okay to need help while privately trying desperately not to become a burden. I suspect I am not the only one.

Sometimes resilience simply means we have become very good at looking okay. That should concern us in missions, because if we only celebrate resilience, we may accidentally create cultures where people believe they must be resilient enough to never need anyone. That is not biblical community. That is isolation with good branding.

What If We Asked a Different Question?

I wonder what would happen if our starting point changed.

What if, before asking a young person what they believe, we asked whether they feel safe enough to ask questions? What if, before asking a missionary about their ministry, we asked who is caring for them? What if, before asking a TCK where they are going next, we asked where they feel at home? What if, before asking someone what they can contribute, we asked what they are carrying?

These questions do not replace discipleship, evangelism, missions, or the Great Commission. They simply help us remember the people at their center.

Jesus was remarkably good at this. He did not seem particularly interested in treating people as interruptions to the ministry. He stopped. He listened. He ate with people. He asked questions. He noticed people others had learned to overlook. He cared about bodies, grief, shame, loneliness, hunger, and belonging alongside matters of faith. If we want to reach a generation that is deeply skeptical of institutions but deeply hungry for authenticity, perhaps this is one place to begin—not with a better program, not with a better marketing strategy, but with people.

Before We Ask Them to Go

I still believe deeply in missions. I believe in going. I believe in the unreached. I believe there are people around the world who deserve the opportunity to hear and respond to the gospel.

But I increasingly believe that caring for the people who go is not separate from the mission—it is part of it. The missionary who knows they are loved regardless of their productivity is freer to serve. The TCK who knows they are seen is better equipped to navigate the complexity of life between cultures. The young adult who knows they can question, struggle, and still belong may be far more willing to remain engaged with the Church. And the person who has been taught that their worth does not depend on what they produce has a much healthier foundation from which to serve others.

Maybe that is one of the opportunities in front of us with Gen Z: Not convincing them that the Church has all the answers, and not convincing them to fit neatly into systems that already exist, but becoming the kind of church where people can walk through the door carrying their questions, their cultures, their doubts, their stories, and their exhaustion—and still hear, you are welcome here.

Not because we need something from you. Not because we have identified your potential. Not because we think we can fix you.

Because you are a person. And people are worth knowing.

Before we ask them to go, perhaps we should make sure they know they have somewhere to come home to.