Photo by Alfred Phang

By Debbie Gin

Both my ethnicity (that I am Korean American) and my race (that I am Asian American) affect my faith and its outworking.  I see God in ways that are unique, based on some amalgam of my Confucian, immigrant-family, community-centric, individualistic upbringing and values.  The way I engage my faith is particular, grounded in these same intersections of beliefs that I consider to be non-negotiable.  Though my view of God is unique and my practices of faith are particular, they are not different.  I don’t see God differently; others do.  I don’t engage faith differently; others do.

When I read the Abraham-Isaac story in Genesis 22, for example, I see God in a couple ways.  I read it frequently as a story about utter obedience by someone who believes in God’s promise, even when presented with the ultimate test — sacrificing your only son, the gift that would bring about that promise.  But I read it more profoundly as a story about pure filial piety by someone who trusts in his father’s care, even to the point of keeping silent about the non-existent sacrificial lamb.  Because the author gave him only a few spoken words, most non-Asians consider Isaac to be a non-entity — a filler character — in this story.  The focus, instead, tends to be on the conversation Abraham has with God.

Yet, my Korean American ears hear Isaac’s silence not as representative of an “extra” role but as a main character’s key illustration of trust in his father’s goodness.  Isaac doesn’t pursue the matter further because his father provided an explanation, and, as the good son, Isaac trusts in that response.  This same filial piety is illustrated in the Garden of Gethsemane, with Jesus saying only a few words to his parent, trusting in God’s goodness for the impending sacrifice.  As an Asian American, I see Isaac, and Jesus-God, as good sons.  Others typically don’t see this significant aspect of God.

The faith-life decisions I make also stem from my ethnicity.  When we first moved to Pittsburgh, we committed to taking our time to find a church home.  We took a year, visiting different churches one month at a time, in order to get a full picture of each church.  Because of the racial composition of Pittsburgh suburbs, most of the churches we visited were comprised of over 90% White members.  Our Sunday worship experiences ranged from no one greeting us, to being mistaken for some other Asian couple that had apparently visited recently, to being warmly welcomed.

One day, we happened upon a Chinese church and decided to add this to our list to try.  It was an English-speaking Chinese church, and the members were very friendly.  At a midweek Bible study, we joked all night and laughed easily about finding no dim sum restaurants in Pittsburgh or how all our shoe-backs (the part that covers the heel) were worn down because of the way we try to quickly put them on when going outside for a moment or how we always had trouble saying no to our parents.  It was life-giving, and I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed interacting with Asians after nearly a year in Pittsburgh.

Our decision ultimately came down to a lovely, predominantly White congregation near our home, whose theological tenets aligned well with ours — more moderate evangelical — and whose lead pastor was a woman, and this English-speaking Chinese church far outside our neighborhood, whose leadership is all men (and one elder single woman) and where I had no possibility of serving — even with my expertise and experience in theological education — because I am a woman and the church’s doctrine does not allow my formal contributions.  We chose the latter.  And we’re finding ways to make this work (with the help of the nuanced lead pastor and his wife).

When we were discerning, I kept thinking this was a matter of “theology vs. ethnicity.”  My sister made the decision plain when she said, “Unnee, ethnicity is also theology.”  These are the everyday practices I encounter as my ethnicity intersects my faith.  They are the norm; others engage faith differently.

Dr. Debbie Gin is Director of Faculty Development and Research at The Association of Theological Schools/Commission on Accrediting, the support and accrediting organization of most seminaries in the US and Canada.  She was formerly Associate Professor of Ministry at Azusa Pacific Seminary and Fellow for Faculty Development and Evaluation in the Center for Teaching, Learning, and Assessment at Azusa Pacific University.  She and her husband currently live in Pennsylvania.