the collision of faith and Asian American culture
This is pretty funny, but with all the racism that’s been discussed on the blog lately, consider this a moment of comic relief before I start cueing up the James Cone stuff.
Ricky Gervais is wickedly funny, and although it may not be your cup of tea, should prove to you that you’re racist. Here’s a scene from his hit show, “Extras”:
Do church youth programs kill faith?
Apparently, from the link (h/t Peter Ong), it can at least cause depression among our youth. That alone is a terrifying thought.
Is the segregation of adult worship services and youth worship services really conducive to understanding what worship is? Is the presentation / proclamation of the gospel necessarily different based on age?
Asian American churches seem to really make sure this division is in place, no matter how small the congregation is. In fact, most Asian American churches spread out according to the cultural narrative: men congregate with men; women gravitate towards one another; and children find each other. At the very least, adults separate from children. They reconvene when it’s time to go home.
I understand the problems. There are language issues and culture issues, but is it fair to say the hierarchy being lived out under the roof of the church has caused the disenchantment of the youth to the point that when kids become adults, they see no reason to go back under that roof?
I see this as a convenience and comfort issue. But the costs are pretty huge. Ethnic identity requires a sense of history. Language is verbalized culture, and we lose access to our own tongues with every passing season we spend in separate congregations. And this sense of separation means that we are more estranged to a key source of the combination of ethnic and spiritual formation, our parents. And this has the dual result of making our parents’ churches ignorant of issues that would a real and relevant edge to our faith, and again culturally orphaning the next generation. This split does more to explain the silent exodus than anything else, so the question remains, why do we continue to do this?
Walter Kitundu, one of this year’s Macarthur “genius grant” winners, creates amazing hybrid instruments (see the phonokoto to the left) and teaches at-risk students about tabla, turntables and invented instruments.
This is a beautiful quote about what this intimate connection between music, creativity and identity has done for the students in this program:
Our young people have a chance, through the lens of another culture, to reflect back upon who they are and what they can be as citizens of the planet.
As Asian American followers of Christ, we are constantly reflecting through different lenses. Unfortunately, that liminality often leaves us feeling a sort of spiritual homelessness. Living as people who are neither here nor there definitely takes its toll, and the natural temptation is to retreat. In many ways, church culture has become our refuge, instead of, as the psalmist says, God. Sometimes we just want to sit and mindlessly consume the religious goods and services someone else can offer to us, like watching a couple of hours of television to unwind.
However, it seems clear from many of our church experiences that this enclave mentality has failed: it does not promote sincerely following Jesus, nor does it actually provide much of a refuge at all. If we can find that creative spark (ignite it, if you will) perhaps we can forge a deep sense of identity — “both/and” instead of “neither/nor.” Music, creativity, the arts — perhaps these lenses can cause us to reflect on who we are and what we can be as citizens of the Kingdom.
Kitundu’s music is strange and beautiful (and, really, isn’t that what the church is called to become?):
A helpful video on how to address race and the language issues. Focus on what matters – Thanks Ill Doc. I’m a fan.
Third installment on AsianWeek is out.
While I have freedom to write on any topic, the limiting factor is 500 words. This time I wrote on something that I’ve been wrestling with for the past few months at the same time I have become a father, and that is to lose my father-in-law. That’s him on the left holding our newborn, his third grandchild. It’s a cherished photo in our household.
Although I am not altogether unfamiliar with death, this is as close as its come to my door, and well, to be quite honest has made me sober about the time I have left and the people in my life. It reminds me that faith is concerned with the most profound feelings, joys and griefs in the human experience. While my father-in-law did not share the same religion, I prayed for him and earned his blessing to marry his daughter, which I can assure you, was no small feat as my wife is a beautiful, gifted and accomplished person. I have grown to respect my father-in-law who came from a small village in India with $6 in his pocket and carved out a life here. He has many accomplishments to his name and a family that misses him, which in my mind, is your greatest accomplishment. Rest in peace, Rama Iyengar.
The proverbial phone call in the middle of the night visited us in May. We found out that my father-in-law had passed away during his visit to India. Death came suddenly, in the middle of a conversation. They told us that his brother was talking for a while but noticed a lull in the conversation; my father-in-law never responded because his heart had stopped.
Few things set an Asian American family spinning out of control faster than the death of the father. Nobody quite knows what to say or do next. Who does mom stay with? How could this happen? Then the questions slowly turn inward: Did I say everything I wanted to him? Is there more I could have done? What do we do now? What about my own father? What about my own daughter?
When a father dies, it suddenly hits you that not just anyone can die, but the one who gave you his dimpled chin, your laugh, your sense of humor can die. The fear of death seeps in like a low-grade fever or a sixth sense. You notice death and dying everywhere. The scarcity of life becomes more apparent, and the reverence that comes with religion seems appropriate, even if we don’t consider ourselves to be religious….
Read the rest, if you’re interested, at AsianWeek…
And may you live boldly, for no one has promised us tomorrow.
If I am to take my last post seriously, it is to understand, acknowledge, and confess that I myself am a racist. Not intentionally so, not even willing really, and still growing in my awareness of the extent of my racism. And I even though I rationalize my distaste for others because of what I have experienced and what people like me have experienced, I cannot avoid the realization that I am a racist. Sure, I was spit on, made fun of, beat up, threatened, and even to this day, get the occasional “ching chong”, “Chink” or “Gook” I am ashamed to admit that these experiences have not helped me to not hate others, even passive aggressively. I don’t know how not to be offended. I have trouble forgiving. I have problems forgetting. I don’t know how to de-sensitize myself. And there are days and times where I excuse myself for thinking it is silly to think that I could be neutral, as though I could be perfectly objective. Race literally and figuratively seems to color my world. And I don’t like it, but I think the cure for racism must begin in this acknowledgment that I, a victim of racism, am a racist. I am involuntarily an oppressor-in-waiting. If my rage and anger were ever legitimated or actualized, I would have blood on my hands. I know I would. Living in the South, I know I would. I have felt the heat of hate and it burns me from the inside. My only hope is to confess that I’m a racist.
And unfortunately, if I were to be even more honest, I must confess that I’m sexist, ageist, a genderist (if that is a word), and I am an elitist. And even coming to this realization, I hate myself. I am a selfist. I am at odds with who I am and how I have been formed. Who I would be angry about these things, I do not know. I cannot escape me and because I cannot, I have to hate the Other, the you, the world. And even though I can see this sometimes, I don’t see how to act in anyway to counter this except to antagonize others by passing you by, pushing you down, or to lift myself up. or at the very least, make sure that you remain you, and I remain me. I cover up nicely though, or at least try to, so much so that few people would consider me more than race-sensitive or Asian-centric, and maybe a little too consumed with this Christian thing. You might label me a hypocrite, self-righteous and self-interested, but let’s be honest, unless you lived a life resembling Mother Teresa, you would have to admit that we’re all mostly self-interested. Or maybe I say that to make myself feel better.
And if I understand my faith properly, it is to first acknowledge that I am just as antagonistic to God. And that’s the beginning I suppose. To think that I could be neutral or that I could objective when it comes to God. I don’t know how to do that. Perhaps, as Peter Rollins suggests, the atheist is closer to God than the religious. Perhaps we would better off to confess and acknowledge how antithetical we are to our own selves so that there would be no disillusionment that we are good, open-minded, justice-seeking people. We fool ourselves. I am not enlightened. I am as backwards as I thought others were. I am not as holy as I know God is. I don’t know how to be any other way. But I want to love others. I want to love God. I want to love neighbor. I want to love myself. I just have to let all those parties know….I’m a racist and I say that because I’m laying it down.
I recently remarked to some friends that having someone refer to me as an “Oriental” was as offensive as the N-word is to a Black person. It’s an involuntary, visceral response. I cringe, I wince, I can’t help but think that the person who said it either wants to cause a fight, has nobody but White friends, or has not left the house since the 1970s, or perhaps all of the above.
The moniker of choice is Asian at the least, Asian American if you’re in the know, and Mr. Asian American if you’re nasty.
My wife asked me if I think the word, Westerner is offensive. And I said, No. She asked, What if White people took offense to that. I said, I don’t really care. She said, You know you have a double standard? I said, Yes. After all the names I’ve been called, I hardly consider Westerner an insult. She said, I don’t think White people know that Oriental, which means Eastern, is offensive. They just don’t know.
And she’s probably right. She usually is. And that’s what I think offends me even more: White people don’t know. It’s like the bully who forgot they pushed you around or the girl who can never remember your name. It’s insulting. It feels even more dehumanizing that they simply don’t know or can’t discern what to say when. When White people justify it by saying, but they use the word Oriental in Hong Kong, or Black people call each other the N-word, it’s even more aggravating. Because the fact of the matter is, Asian and Asian Americans are still trying to self-differentiate, to collect ourselves and forge an identity of our own, and the issues of colonization and wanting to be White without knowing it and emulating all things of the dominant majority are issues that we face. So there is a lot of internal dialogue that needs to happen and a great deal of inconsistency as to what Asians understand as racism vs. self-hatred. And it’s patronizing and annoying to have White people who simply don’t know assume they can continue to define us or label us as they used to when the sun never set on the British Empire. Those days are over.
So when the conversation about the N-word came up on the View, I thought it was obvious. That’s their word. And they are negotiating it when and how it can and should be used by others, if at all. And when they decide that, they’ll let you know. And none of this means that we are less American or less patriotic or less Christian. It simply means that we want to be really who we are, without being defined by the White majority. And as far as I’m concerned, you can’t have “Oriental” back, unless you’re looking for a particular type of rug.
But here are some glimpses into how that internal dialogue and reconstruction takes place.
Julian Curry, a poet on the word
Smokey Robinson, you are a lot badder and harder than your falsetto voice would divulge.
And if you know me by now, you know that I’m a huge fan of Beau Sia, and you can hear how “CHINK” is equally off-limits (his poem, “Hip-Hop” here. So yeah, there’s no chink in your armor, it’s a weak spot.
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