Last year, I was speaking on a Christian campus at the morning chapel services. I was preaching/speaking/talking using Mark 5: 21-33 as my text. I love this passage about Jairus, his 12-year-old daughter, and the bleeding woman who had been bleeding for 12 years.  I have part of the passage tattooed on my right forearm as a reminder of what Jesus does for this woman.

I used the words menstruation and menstrual blood because this is why the woman was bleeding. As a woman who was taught to be ashamed of her body and the things it did in order to one day bring forth life just like Mary did for Jesus, I believe it’s important to be beautifully explicit. I joked that it was probably the first time a chapel speaker talked about periods. I didn’t get much of a laugh. 

As I was wrapping up, I talked about a few things that are broken in this country, things that break my heart and make me desperate for Jesus. I mentioned the mass shooting that had just occurred in Aurora, IL and the arrest of an 11-year-old boy in FL who had refused to stand for the pledge of allegiance.

That’s when things got tense. 

I believe my wording was along the lines of: “An 11-year-old was arrested for refusing to stand for the pledge of allegiance. I don’t know what you thought about Colin Kaepernick, but an 11-year-old being arrested breaks my heart.”

And then a male voice from the audience yelled back: “That’s a lie. He made terrorist threats!”

I have never felt so unsafe as I did in that moment. 

In a split second I had to decide if I would respond to the man (I did not, rather I paused, caught myself and went on) and decide if I felt safe enough to stay on stage or trust the school would remove me from stage if someone else felt like I was in danger. I stayed but learned someone had moved quickly to get to me just in case.

And then I went back up and did that same talk two more times. But I did it differently because, after the first talk, I was pressed about the Florida boy’s arrest by faculty. I was asked how I was feeling and if I was ok, but the conversation quickly shifted to the news story with one response being to point out that, technically, the boy was not arrested for refusing to stand for the pledge. No, technically, no one can be arrested for that because it isn’t illegal to sit during the pledge. The point was indirectly made clear that the particular example was now in question.

READ: #RAISEYOURVOICE MOVING BEYOND THE ‘IMPOSTER SYNDROME WILDERNESS’

I wrote a book about raising your voice and speaking up about the things we are most passionate about, and I am writing this as an example of when I chose to back off. I decided that for the next two talks I would not use the example of the 11-year-old being arrested, in part because his refusal to stand for the pledge angered the substitute teacher. I decided that I could not count on the school supporting me, a paid outside speaker, if and when concerned students, parents of students, and alumni emailed the school.

I decided that even though the man yelling at me was lying (the boy in Florida did not make terrorist threats) I didn’t want or need to put myself in that situation. 

I’m not sure what I said the next two times I got up to preach/speak/talk. I did not feel great or even good about what I said and how I said it. I was unnerved, shaken, and scared. I did not know where the voice was coming from or if that young man was going to approach the stage. It didn’t matter which school it was, which state I was in, what the laws are. I didn’t know.

As a woman of color who talks publicly about things that are considered political (Jesus should get under everyone’s law-and-order skin because he didn’t care that the woman broke the law by being in public while she was bleeding and unclean), I am not new to controversy. For all of the public speaking events I have done, I have never once asked about crisis protocol, but this experience got me thinking about what I now needed to be asking event planners in the future.

It also got me thinking about imposter syndrome because, in that moment of fear, there was also the fear that I had failed and couldn’t do the whole speaking in public thing even though that was exactly what I was doing. I told a friend of mine later that I felt like a failure, that as a WOC I can’t just be good enough or average. I have to be better than my best because so few of us get invited to preach/speak/talk that I feel like if I mess up, event planners will be less likely to invite me again and less likely to take a chance inviting another WOC they do not know or are less familiar with than, say, a white man or woman who has more platform than I. Does that sound absurd? This is what imposter syndrome operating in white supremacy sounds like. It tells me and other WOC that we have to actually be better than the average white woman or man to have a chance because we don’t get the same chances to build platform and audience.

It also made me angry. I have been asking for the past 10 years for an additional plane ticket to public speaking events so that I do not have to travel alone. I would’ve loved having a friend or my husband with me to pray with and cry with after this was all over. There were good people on campus with whom I could talk, but no one with whom I could just be completely honest and vulnerable. I held it together like a professional Christian and waited until my husband greeted me at the curb. Then I cried. 

For all the conservative values around women, ministry, and marriage, you’d think I would’ve gotten at least one additional plane ticket in 10 years; but maybe it’s because I’m a woman or a WOC with a smaller platform and less pull? Whatever. I’m still mad.

The man was removed from the auditorium. I was told that it was swift, and I didn’t hear or see a commotion. I’m grateful. Rumor has it, he was told that he should know better than to use the words “terrorist threats” these days in an auditorium, but the young man most likely would never be considered a terrorist, maybe a lone wolf at worst.

I’m grateful I’m safe and that he was removed without incident. I’m grateful he didn’t have a gun. I’m angry that I have to worry about this. I’m angry that I felt like my choice of words were in question and would not be supported. I’m angry that people may think this happened because of the specific campus or state. Nope. It’s all broken, it’s heart breaking, and it makes me desperate for Jesus. 

It took two months for the university to officially respond, an entire month after the student responsible for the interruption posted a YouTube video defaming me, while my Twitter and Blog comments became inundated with students and parents calling me a racist, coward, and false prophet. Just because an organization or institution is lead by Christians or calls itself Christian doesn’t mean the systems and structures reflect and act with those values. Many of us have seen this in our churches, and close friends of mine have brought to light similar institutional and leadership failures in Christian publishing and conferencing.

Sometimes the failures are blatantly racist and other times they are “racially charged” which is a longer way of saying racist. Sometimes the apology and “fix” don’t ever come, not in a way that actually brings about learning and restoration. Sometimes an apology comes a decade later, but it can’t undo the damage nor are tangible steps taken to ensure those same mistakes won’t happen again. Kaitlin Curtice’s very recent experience shows the perpetuation that happens when an institution or culture mistakes having conversations and listening for repentance and change.

I’m not sure what’s next. I do know there aren’t any chapel talks or public events for a while. There is time to cry some more, rest some more, pray some more.

That man doesn’t represent the whole of the community, but he does represent a part of the community. His part of the community patted him on the back and will use it as an example. What will we do with that knowledge now and when it happens again as it has happened again? How will we love and correct siblings like that? And for that matter, this man isn’t just on a college campus. He’s in our churches and communities, and there are more like him. Readers, how will we be love and correction, how will we leverage our power and platforms when some of us are put in risky situations? How will thoughts and prayers cover us unless we are working to become the answer to those prayers?

I’m a Korean American married mother of three with no advanced degree living in the suburbs in the middle of a midlife crisis, wondering how or if my twenty years of vocational ministry can transfer into a different vocation. I write infrequently. I speak even more infrequently. I have been told that I’m a prophetic voice, but I cringe at that description because biblical prophets are lonely and cranky, and I want to be perceived as fun and warm. Oh, and did I mention that I’m a woman of color in ministry?

Almost ten years ago, I supervised a ministry staff team that worked with four distinct student populations with a reach of about three hundred active students. I learned that a group of local Asian American pastors were meeting periodically to talk about ministry and leadership and pray for one another — but I never received an invitation to those meetings.

A few years later, I hired a graduating student leader, a young Korean American man, to join my staff. He fairly quickly received an invitation to attend the pastors’ gathering. Holding back tears, I told him that I had never been invited to attend those meetings. Still, with a mix of frustration based on my experience and hope for what he might experience, I told him that I wanted him to go, learn, and speak into that group.

It took him a moment to realize what the significance of the invitation was for him and what the lack of an invitation meant for me. Ten years of ministry wasn’t enough credibility to overcome the fact that I am a woman.

Moses struggled with credibility as well. It’s almost comical to read God’s assurances in Exodus 4 when you realize that Moses is just as insecure as the rest of us. God goes to great lengths to build up Moses: he gives superpowers to Moses’ staff, he shows Moses a cool cloak trick involving leprosy, and teaches Moses how to turn water from the Nile into blood. Yet Moses says, “Pardon your servant, Lord. I have never been eloquent, neither in the past nor since you have spoken to your servant. I am slow of speech and tongue” (Exodus 4:10). And if that wasn’t enough, Moses then says, “Pardon your servant, Lord. Please send someone else” (Exodus 4:13). This is when I want to laugh at Moses. Who does he think he is?

Oh, wait. Kathy, meet Moses.

Before taking the ministry staff job, I was struggling with what I still struggle with — managing work and family. I was a mom to one preschooler and two grade school children. My internal script screamed, Who do you think you are trying to lead and grow ministry and develop a staff team while raising three children and being a good wife? I have kids who get sick and want me at their Valentine’s Day parties. Please send someone else.

I suppose if I had kept that thought to myself, it might have been a little different, but instead of talking to God or a burning bush or my backyard fire pit, I shared this internal script with my staff team. I tried to paint a picture of how and where I thought ministry could grow on campus while also externally processing my personal insecurities. I would remind the team, “I am just part-time, so I can’t fulfill all of my job responsibilities; also, I have to leave to pick up my sick kid, so I’ve asked my predecessor to lead the rest of the meeting.” Yes, I actually said those things out loud, which doesn’t set up expectations well for anyone. My years managing the team weren’t my best as a leader, but I learned a lot about imposter syndrome. It can kick your ego and paralyze you.

God knows that Moses has impostor syndrome but essentially gives him no room to back out. God enlists the help of Moses’ brother Aaron as a wingman, reminds Moses that his shepherd’s staff has superpowers, and pushes Moses out of the wilderness. The rest of Exodus reminds us that just like Moses, whether or not we carry a shepherd’s staff, we don’t know the power of using our voices until we try it.

Called Out by God

As I sat there in the conference leadership meeting that last night, my mouth was covered but I knew the questions had to be asked. I felt the heat of shame in my cheeks and could feel my heart pounding in my head. I moved my friend’s hand off of my mouth, took a deep breath, and continued to speak.

We are silenced by someone else or sometimes by ourselves. Women of color who speak up tend to face swift backlash with labels of being an angry (fill in race or ethnicity) woman. Words are powerful and can be used to free people from captivity or to sentence people into captivity. God created humans to communicate with one another, not so that we would use words and actions to hurt and destroy one another but to be a blessing to one another. God used words to assure Moses of his identity as one beloved and known by the Creator, and then asks Moses to go out and speak up on behalf of the Israelites.

Likewise, we are seen by God and called out of our impostor syndrome wilderness to proclaim freedom and good news to the world. God asks you to raise your voice.

Excerpted from Kathy Khang’s new book:  Raise Your Voice: Why We Stay Silent and How to Speak Up (InterVarsity Press, 2018) All rights reserved. Used with permission.

I don’t know about you but this year is turning out to be a discouraging, deadly year.  I am afraid to turn on the news, read a newspaper, or look at my Twitter feed.

In July, I opted to watch the Republican National Convention. Strange as it may sound, it was a spiritual discipline to watch and listen. Speakers talked with nostalgia about an America I have never known nor am I familiar with. It was challenging to sit and listen and not roll my eyes at every other phrase or promise of success. It was particularly difficult to listen to people who claimed the same faith as I have in Jesus and hear them paint a reality that seems very different than mine.

Listening is one way everyone, but particularly my dear white readers, can begin the very hard and good work of dismantling privilege. Listening requires we shut our own mouths and the internal commentary long enough to allow the words, stories, and heart of someone else be the vessel of the Spirit to identify prejudices, biases, racism, sexism, ableism, homophobia in our hearts.

Listening is an act of loving submission and partnership, a ceasing of my mouth to allow another person space to verbally communicate and express whatever it is that needs to spoken, yelled, or ugly cried between the two or more of us present.

As a Korean American woman I learned as a little girl my place in the world was the listen. To speak only when spoken to. To stay silent and stay out of trouble. I spent a lot of time listening to the world around me, which to this day is so often comprised of white men and women. Their stories, their words, their interpretations of life and scripture became the norm and everything else became secondary and optional.

And as I listened last month I heard many white men and women who are afraid that no one is listening to them anymore. That sharing space and power means losing. I heard people who have been so accustomed to being the only voice screaming louder and louder in hopes of remaining the only voice.

So my dear readers, listen. If you are truly looking to dismantle privilege (that elusive white privilege some are screaming doesn’t exist but their screaming about loss and fear and destruction begs otherwise), listen. Listen to those of us who are not surprised it has come to this. Listen to those of us who have been trying to tell you that racism is alive and well and never died. Listen to some of the political speeches for the code switching. Listen to the screaming and yelling about building walls and past greatness.

What do you hear?

Editor’s Note: This post is part of the Red Letter Book Club, featuring Bruce Reyes-Chow’s latest book: But I Don’t See You as Asian: Curating Conversations About Race.

Too often conversations about race never happen. Americans will talk about or around race, much like we did after the non-guilty verdict came down in the shooting death of Trayvon Martin. Tweets, Facebook comments, and blog posts go up at a furious pace, but there are too few opportunities for people to slow down, sit down and talk about the gap of experience, language and understanding outside of a 24-7 news cycle. By the time this review goes live, George Zimmerman’s not guilty verdict will be old news.

Too bad we didn’t have Bruce Reyes-Chow’s book a few weeks ago.  Too bad the jury, the judge, the commentators, and the lawyers in the Zimmerman case didn’t have the book as a reference point and as a guide for conversation and culture.

But now the rest of us have no excuse. We should be prepared to dialogue at a deeper level the next time race takes center stage because Reyes-Chow gives us an accessible book that can serve individuals looking for honest, down-to-earth talk about race and work for groups hoping for a guide to deeper conversations across the racial divide.

Reyes-Chow’s chapters are built around phrases that can catch people of color and White majority culture people off guard because the former often are left hurt, confused, annoyed, angry, or offended and responsible for managing both unknown intentions of the latter. The latter often don’t see where there was even a chance for misunderstanding. These landmines are just under the surface of a “safe” conversation, and as someone who has been on the receiving end of too many “Where are you really from?” and “ Your English is really good” comments, you just don’t know what kind of explosion is waiting. Sometimes it’s a pained, fake smile. Sometimes it’s a full-on offensive. I’m thinking of carrying this book around in my digital cloud so that I can pull out the respective chapter and read it with the offender.

Yes, offender because words offend, even if the intention isn’t to do so.  And that is really why I appreciate Reyes-Chow’s voice so much. He speaks from that middle place of neither black nor White, Christian but not Christian-ese. He affirms some of my experiences as an Asian American Evangelical Christian who has been told to forgive hurtful, racist words. I have been told that in Christ we are One and that my race does not matter, that I care too much about race and differences, but even in the Trinity there are distinctions between Father, Son and Holy Spirit – unity in diversity. When I am told by a predominantly White-lead North American Church that my race does not matter, it is a version of being asked, “Where are you really from?” and then expected to make myself at home by adjusting to the ways of the host.

Thankfully, Reyes-Chow acknowledges what so many of us people of color have experienced – our feelings are trumped by the majority culture person’s fears of being called a racist. “Free speech does not protect people from the consequences of their words; neither does merely claiming a reality make that reality true, ” p. 142.

As a Christian author, words are the way in which God speaks to me and I communicate God’s love and transformative power to my audience. Our words, meaning and context are shaped by our experiences, which are all shaded and shaped by the world around us. That world nor the words we use with one another are not in a vacuum but affected deeply by the brokenness and gift of race and diversity. Reyes-Chow helps us understand the power dynamic of the words we use with one another across race.

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Kathy Khang is a regional multiethnic director for InterVarsity Christian Fellowship/USA, overseeing multiethnic training and ministry development in IL and IN. She is one of the authors of More Than Serving Tea (IVP, 2006), and continues to blog at www.morethanservingtea.wordpress.com and Sojourners about life as a Christian Asian American married woman with children (or whatever gets her riled up or collides with her passions) when really she should be sleeping.

Kathy and Peter Chang have been married for 20 years and live in the north suburbs of Chicago. They are honored to be the parents of Bethany, Corban and Elias, who will one day take over the world.

Read more reviews, an interview with Bruce, an excerpt from the book, and find out more about But I Don’t See You as Asian: Curating Conversations About Race in the Red Letter Book Club