On St Kate’s Day 2025 we had the pleasure of welcoming the Revd Mark Nam for a talk on communion, heritage and belonging.
‘Now, you may have noticed I’ve brought my Kit-Kat mug. Not exactly the most majestic item to appear at this lectern — in a school known for its dignity, class, and impeccable standards — but on St. Kate’s Day, this mug suddenly means something. It becomes a symbol. Because all across the world today, the Hel Cats are eating Kit-Kats, and so are you. A small, humble object… woven into a much larger story.
And that’s the thing about stories: they often hide inside the ordinary: A tiny object. A simple ritual. A name.
So, when Revd. Hyde invited me here — on a day dedicated to honouring saints and embracing heritage — I felt deeply moved. Because what you’ve asked me to do is to share a story. My story. My family’s story. And perhaps the best way to begin, is simply to ask this question:
How did someone like me — a British-born Chinese kid who often felt out of place in church — become one of the first British Born Chinese priests in the history of the Church of England?
This picture (see a the bottom of the article) was part of a six-month exhibition at the British Library in London on Chinese-British history. It drew more attention than I expected. People wrote to me saying, “I had to stop and look — I’ve never seen an English vicar with a Chinese face before.”
For some, it was surprising… even jarring. A reminder that the story of Britain is always larger — more colourful, more layered — than the version we sometimes tell. But before I explain how I became a priest, I want us to think about Saints for a moment.
1. Why Saints still matter today
Who are Saints? To be honest, they can seem distant — frozen in stained glass, halos around their heads, heroic, the kinds of people who never had bad hair days or identity crises. But truth be told—Saints were real people. Young, often uncertain, living through complicated times. You see, what sets saints apart is not perfection. It’s courage. Courage to stand in who they were called to be. Courage to live truthfully. Courage not to shrink. That’s why saints matter today — they remind us that identity is not something you perform. It’s something you inhabit. And sometimes that means inhabiting a story older than you…
2. My Grandfather and the unintended beginning
My story begins with my grandfather — a young man from southern China, holding a letter from his brother in Chicago that said: “Little brother, Come join me in America. A new life is waiting.”
And so, my grandfather made his way to Shanghai, shining shoes and tailoring clothes, to raise enough money to pay a sailor to grant him passage on a boat. After months at sea, my Grandfather was eventually told to disembark the boat—but instead of being in America—he discovered that he had arrived in a place called Birkenhead, Liverpool!
One wrong continent. One wrong arrival. One misunderstanding that became the beginning of my family’s story in Britain. He never saw his brother again.
And at immigration, when he gave his name in the traditional Chinese way — surname first, given name second — the officials reversed it and our family surname vanished into the paperwork. A small misstep. A small loss. A lifetime of consequences. It’s incredible how fragile identity can be. One misheard name, one mistyped form, and an entire family story shifts forever.” And that kind of dislocation doesn’t just affect one generation. It travels. It lands in the laps of children and grandchildren who never asked for it.
For years I wrestled with the gap between my Chinese heritage and my British nationality — never quite sure how to hold both without feeling I was losing something of each.
3. Growing up with a silent question
I grew up in Wales. Had a typical upbringing and my family used to go to church, But being Chinese-heritage in the Church of England was not easy. There were no Anglican leaders or priests who I could identify with—who looked like me. No examples. No mirrors. And so, I’d do my best to try and fit in by conforming as much as I could. I honestly wasn’t sure if my Chinese-heritage had a place within the church, and so I learnt to deny that aspect of myself and leave it outside the door. I would try and assimilate by hiding parts of me. Not because anyone told me to. Simply because I never saw it welcomed inside. Have you ever felt that? That some parts of you fit easily… and some parts you quietly tuck away?
For years I lived with that silent question: Where do I truly belong? And is all of me welcome? So again, how did someone like me, become the first British Born Chinese vicar in the Church of England?
4. A dream, a doorway, and the Saint who found me
Well, before ordination was ever on my radar, I enrolled at Trinity College as an independent student — safely out of Anglican reach, or so I thought. I just wanted to study theology.
Emma Ineson — my principal, now the Bishop of Kensington — gently suggested I explore ordination, the process of becoming a priest. The Diocese that I lived in at the time—Bristol—did too. However, that wasn’t what moved me. It was a dream. Dreams have a habit of ambushing me. This one did again.
“In the dream, I was an old, retired vicar. It was graduation day at Trinity, and among the graduates was a young British-born Chinese woman being interviewed. When asked why she wanted to be a priest, she said: “There was an old, retired vicar and his wife — I can’t remember their names — but they were Chinese, like me. Knowing he found a place in the Church of England inspired me to apply. And here I am.”
When I woke, I realised something profound: that God — or life — could use me not because of what I do, but because of who I am. For someone who had learned to hide parts of myself in church, this felt like a revelation. Not about being busy and “doing”… but simply “being”, and inhabiting who I am, who I believe God made me to be. My history, my heritage, my hair, the shape of my eyes, the food I like, and so on. And then the day after that dream, whilst I was in my college library, I discovered that the first woman to be ordained a priest in the Church of England was Chinese, and her name was Florence Li Tim-Oi.
In 1944, towards the end of the Second World War, Britain couldn’t get priests into Macau, because of Japanese occupation. But the Bishop of Hong Kong—Reginald Hall—wrote to the Archbishop of Canterbury in England and said, let me ordain this Deaconess called Florence, she can do the work of a priest in Macau if you let her. And so the Archbishop did, making her the first ordained woman in the history of The Anglican Church. Reading her story, Florence became to me what saints are meant to be: a doorway, a path-maker, someone who walked so others could follow—I like this photo of her standing in front a doorway, opening it for people like me to walk through, even after her death And in that moment, I realised: that in the same way that Florence led the way for women to become priests, perhaps I might lead the way for others with Chinese-heritage to become ordained in The Church of England.
So, I went forward for ordination. Not knowing that within a few years, 180,000 Hong Kong BN(O) holders would arrive in Britain — the largest mass migration from outside Europe to the UK since Windrush. People I could hold a door open for in the Church of England.
6. When my name was spoken back to me, and the stole I wore
Let me tell you one more story… On the night before I was ordained, my bishop contacted me. She asked, “Can I ordain you using your full Chinese name?”
I want you to catch the significance here. One Hundred years after my family name was lost at immigration, my Bishop, was asking to welcome me into the Church of England with our family name. After years of leaving my heritage outside the door, this was not an administrative question. It was a healing one. Can you imagine how my family who were present felt.
She was my bishop. I was promising obedience to her. Yet she was asking me—her servant—for permission. Can you see the switch I power dynamics here. Something reversed. Something restored itself. When she spoke my full Chinese name aloud in Bristol Cathedral — even if the pronunciation was a little dodgy — it felt as if a century of silence found its voice. And what’s amazing is that my Chinese name, 英深 — was given to me when I was 100 days old — and it means “Deeply British.” You can’t make this stuff up! And I was 40 years old when I was ordained. In the Bible that is often a number to signal new beginnings and promise fulfilled.
To mark this occasion I had a stole made—which is the liturgical garment priests often wear—with the Chinese characters for “East” and “West” on either side, and the cross at the nape of the neck, drawing the two aspects of my identity together. A garment reconciling two worlds. A garment stitching identity together. A garment saying: You do not need to leave any part of yourself outside the door. My identity is literally sown into the fabric of my calling. I wear this when I preach in cathedrals, when I visit Downing Street… when I serve in my parish. And I’m following in the steps of Saints—saints like Florence Li Tim-Oi.
7. Liverpool — a circle closes
Now a couple of months ago, I was nominated for a National Diversity Award. It’s quite a prestigious award, but at the time, I wasn’t sure whether to go to the event— it felt too exposing. I felt those old doubts rising up within me again, saying I should hide, put my head down, and not be seen…
But then I discovered that the ceremony was being held at Liverpool Cathedral. Remember Liverpool — the city where my grandfather first arrived. Where my families story in Britain began. And I realised that going there would be like a circle quietly, beautifully closing. And so, when I found out I had won, when I took to the stage to give a speech, I didn’t speak of my achievements or what I have done. No, instead I spoke about all those who had gone before me to make this day possible. As I stood there in a suit, I spoke of my grandfather who arrived with only the clothes on his back and his hopes in a suitcase. I spoke of other diaspora communities and migrants whose stories are still being written and for those who have gone before us. Saints.
8. Why share this today?
Why am I sharing this? Because today is about saints. And saints show us that identity is sacred work. Today is about heritage. And heritage shows us that we walk in the footsteps of others. And today is about you. Your unfolding story. Your name. Your courage. Your heritage — whatever shape it takes. Which brings us to the heart of this address.
9. Three things to carry with you — honouring Saints, embracing heritage
1. Your story matters — especially the contested parts.
Some of you carry stories with sharp edges — stories from different cultures, traditions, languages; stories that feel beautiful and complicated at the same time.
Hear me clearly: Your whole story is welcome. Your heritage is holy ground. Your in-between places are not weaknesses — they are bridges.
Saints like Catherine and Florence lived “between worlds” too. They didn’t wait to be certain. They didn’t wait for permission. They simply refused to shrink or be contained.
2. Your name matters — because it carries people with it.
Some of you have names that teachers struggle to pronounce. Some of you have two names — one for home, one for outside. Some of you hide your names because you fear they won’t be understood. But your name carries the people who came before you. It carries stories. It carries hope. It carries truth. When my bishop spoke my full Chinese name, something was returned to me May you one day experience that too.
3. Your heritage is a gift — not a burden, not a test.
Some of you come from many cultures. Some of you belong to several places at once. Some of you are fluent in more than one language. Some of you wish you were. Some of you feel proud. Some of you feel pulled.
But hear this: Your heritage is never something to hide. It is never something to dilute. It is never something to apologise for. If you ever feel “between worlds,” remember — bridges live between worlds. And bridges carry others.
The landing — the emotional heart
You are part of a heritage older than this school and wider than your lifetime. A lineage of saints, ancestors, cultures, languages, and stories that converge in you. You honour your heritage not by hiding it — but by living it. You honour the saints not by imitating them — but by standing tall in your own identity. You honour your story not by shrinking — but by showing up with your whole self. And one day, you may discover that your courage helped someone else realise they, too, belong.
11. The Kit-Kat as eucharistic — a communion across time
Before we finish, let me return to this humble Kit-Kat mug. Because on St Kate’s Day, the Kit-Kat becomes almost… Eucharistic. Think about it: The Hell Cats — generations of students — eat their Kit-Kats today. You eat them here. They eat them across the world. One small act, shared across time and space. That is communion. That is heritage. That is belonging.
Some of you came forward today to receive bread and wine — symbols of unity with those who have gone before, and those who will come after. Again, a small act, shared across time and space—shared with Saints.
Every time you eat a Kit-Kat on St Kate’s Day, you participate in your own kind of communion. A remembering. A connection. A declaration that you are part of something larger than you know.
So — to all of you here, and to the Hell Cats around the world — I raise my Kit-Kat mug. May your story strengthen you. May your name steady you. May your heritage root you. And may you discover your own saintly courage — the courage not to shrink, but to stand, fully and beautifully, as who you truly are.
Happy St Kate’s Day.’
