Transforming Confused Asian Americans into Unique Spiritual Ambassadors

Philadelphia on the night of May 31, 2020, reminded me of Los Angeles in 1992 after the beating of Rodney King—a Black motorist violently assaulted by white police officers after resisting arrest. The LA riots that followed left 58 people dead, resulted in 17,000 arrests, and caused an estimated $785 million in property damage (LA Times). What happened in 2020 was similar, though on a much smaller scale.

I mention this only to highlight the stark contrast in how the children of Korean merchants responded to these two moments. In 1992, many took up arms to defend their parents’ stores. In 2020, some defended the rioters who destroyed their parents’ stores—even as they tried raising money on GoFundMe. I remember thinking: What am I seeing here? Not justice warriors, but confused Asian Americans—socially elevated, culturally anxious, and unsure how to reconcile their lived experience with their desire to stand with the marginalized.

Of course, this tension over their ethnicity is nothing new. Even Asian Americans born here are often treated as perpetual foreigners. While white Americans are never praised for ‘speaking good English,’ Asian Americans often are. As one college senior once put it: “I’m an American, though I’ve spent my life proving it. My parents are Korean, but I was born here. Yet if you’re not chocolate or vanilla, people question you. I’ve been praised for my English and asked how long I’ve lived in the States. This second‑class treatment makes many Asian and Latino Americans ashamed of their heritage. My little brother can’t pronounce his Korean name—and he’s proud of that.”

Experiences like these take a toll. Among Asian Americans, three unhealthy responses often surface:

• Dissociating from one’s ethnicity: distancing oneself from cultural heritage, gravitating almost exclusively toward white peers, and interpreting discrimination as the failure of minorities to assimilate properly.
• Retreating into an ethnic enclave: withdrawing into the comfort of one’s subculture, avoiding engagement with mainstream society, and resigning oneself to discrimination as an unchangeable reality.
• Adopting an identity of the “oppressed”: claiming a status that does not reflect their lived reality, and then uncritically endorsing whatever actions identity‑based movements (racial, sexual, gender, etc.) take.

None of these responses leads to wholeness. So is there a better model? Yes—and it is found in the life of Daniel. What Asian Americans lack is not cultural strategy but spiritual identity. And that is why Daniel matters.

Daniel was taken from Judah as a teenager, separated from his family, given a new name (“Bel, protect his life”), and reeducated in Babylonian language, literature, and customs. Yet he rose to extraordinary prominence, serving as a top official under at least three emperors—Nebuchadnezzar, Darius, and Cyrus—across two world empires. Despite his success, Daniel never severed himself from his spiritual heritage, which for the Jews was inseparable from ethnic identity. He continued to pray toward Jerusalem three times a day, even when doing so meant facing a lion’s den.

Was Daniel a blind patriot—a zealous nationalist—who ignored the sins of his people? Hardly. His prayer in Daniel 9 is so honest and repentant (“we have sinned and done wrong”) that any Jew reading it would bow in shame. Daniel neither idolized his ethnicity nor rejected it. He neither assimilated uncritically nor withdrew in fear. He entered the mainstream not as a Babylonian, nor as a Judean nationalist, but as a servant of God. That is why he had the courage to tell his boss, King Nebuchadnezzar—whom he served faithfully—“Renounce your sins by doing what is right, and your wickedness by being kind to the oppressed” (Dan. 4:27a).

His life shows that identity in God frees us from spineless assimilation, fearful isolation, or performative pseudo‑oppression. This is the model for minority Christians in America. When we enter the mainstream, we do so not as “white wannabes,” nor as members of a pseudo‑oppressed class, nor as people who stay out of the public square for fear of being marginalized. We enter as followers of Christ whose identity is rooted in God’s valuation of us. John 1:12 declares: “To all who received Him… He gave the right to become children of God.” If God calls us His children, why should we feel shame because of what people—infinitely less significant than God—think of us?
We need not perform to please some nor hide in fear from others. In God’s economy, there are only two categories: sinners and the forgiven. Therefore, instead of being intimidated by whites or any other group, we should boldly bear witness to Christ and His way among all peoples. As 2 Timothy 1:7 reminds us: “God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but of power, love, and self‑discipline.”

In closing, the same confusion we saw in 1992 and 2020 becomes an opportunity for gospel clarity. Perhaps Asian American Christians—situated uniquely between whites and Blacks, Republicans and Democrats—are especially equipped to speak with sobriety and objectivity into America’s wounds. We can help the hurting on all sides and, most importantly, point everyone toward reconciliation with God through His Son, Jesus Christ.