I Belong to Jesus: Identity, Ethnicity and Eternity

“Where are you from?” I am asked as I utilize every core muscle to maintain composure in the back of a yellow taxi. The arid Middle Eastern heat flows through open windows as we lurch down the road, dodging potholes, street cats and pedestrians. The taxi driver balances a cigarette and a black coffee sloshing around in a paper cup in his left hand and his phone and steering wheel in his right hand.

“I am from California. America.”

Skeptical squinting in the rearview mirror informs me that the conversation is not over. “But you look Japanese. You don’t look American.” What I’d like to request is for him to keep his eyes off me and on the road, but apparently that isn’t what Jesus meant when He warned His followers to stay salty.

As a Christ-follower, I know that my identity is in Christ. But what does that mean in my day-to-day life, specifically when it comes to nationality, race and ethnicity? The first time I heard that I didn’t look American was in East Asia. When I asked what Americans looked like, I was informed: Caucasian, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. Me? I am half-European and half-Asian. I have dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. I do not fit this description.

Trying to find where I belonged led to great angst during my adolescent and college years. I was too white for the Asian kids and too Asian for the white kids. People have assumed I am an international student simply because I am not white. I have been asked, “What’s your ethnicity?” before, “What’s your name?” I have been told, “You’re supposed to be good at math and the violin” by white kids and, “It’s okay your Mandarin isn’t very good. Your dad is white” by my Chinese teacher. I never seemed to be able to label myself correctly and fit into the box people wanted me to.

When I moved to the Middle East as a cross-cultural worker, I thought I was over those insecurities surrounding how people perceived me. However, as they teach in pre-field training, anything remotely tricky in your home context is magnified outside of it. Issues surrounding race and ethnicity are considered far less sensitive outside of the Western world. For example, one day during my beginner Arabic class, our teacher tried to have us match people to their country’s flag based purely on their physical appearance. We were quite uncomfortable, but with only the Arabic vocabulary to say, “The grandpa drinks coffee” and “The girl cuts bread,” we were not really set up for a productive ethno-racial conversation.

As I rode the waves of culture shock, I particularly resented being told I wasn’t American. I struggled to explain in broken Arabic that my dad grew up in America, my mom grew up in Taiwan and I grew up in America; therefore, I was American. Growing up in America is what made someone American. Why was that so hard to grasp? Why couldn’t these people understand? I desperately wanted to pull out my passport and yell, "How do I have this if I’m not American, huh?”

However, as I learned more about Arab culture and values, I came to understand the deep value of remembering your roots. Even if your family immigrated 500 years ago to your current passport country, you still disclosed that you are actually not from here. For them, being born in a country doesn’t necessarily give them citizenship or national identity. When Arabs told me I didn’t look American and asked where I was really from, they were generally just interested in my family history. Their denial of my American identity based on my ethnicity stemmed from their lack of understanding of immigrant nations, not malice.

With time and new vocabulary, I learned how to explain to my Arab friends why it was difficult to hear, “You don’t look American.” I explained the United State’s historic issue with xenophobia and the “you don’t belong here because you aren’t Caucasian” sentiment. I reminded my friends that Native Americans were on the continent first, and so really, Caucasians don’t “look American.” I practiced saying that my mom was Asian, and my dad was European and I was American. I learned that I didn’t have to make every taxi ride a lecture on the misconception of all Americans being Caucasian and the relations between ethnic and national identities. And I learned just how deep my desire to belong went.

I think this desire to know where we belong is a God-given longing that points us to Him. It’s part of the “God-shaped hole” we feel. In Philippians 3:8-9a, Paul writes, “Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him.” Paul knew that his earthly identity was nothing compared to knowing Christ and becoming like Him. Paul goes on to rejoice that “our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ” (Philippians 3:20).

What does it mean that my identity is in Christ? It means that my citizenship is in heaven. It means that the life I live is a gift from God, but my focus ought to be on eternity.

This is the God who has seen me wrestle with my identity through the different chapters of my life. He has seen me feel isolated because no one else on my team was regularly told they didn’t look American. He has seen my anxiety and hyperawareness when I am out after sundown in the Middle East because the only thing worse than being a young foreign woman is being a young foreign Asian woman. He has walked with me through it all.

My name is Christina, and I am from America. My mom is from Asia, and my dad is from Europe. Where I am from is not nearly as important as where I am going. My citizenship is in heaven, and I belong to Jesus.