“Where are you from?” she asked as we chatted on the elevator. I was so jarred by the question that I stuttered and responded, “uhh, from here?” to which she replied, “No, like where are you from from?” For many, this conversation is familiar. In the United States, if you are not white, more than likely, someone has asked you a version of this question. As one who is both not white and quite ethnically ambiguous, I have spent a lifetime fielding various versions of her question. And I never know how to respond because most people aren’t looking for the real answer.
The real answer is that my mom was born and raised in Nagaland, but because many have never heard of it, more explanation always must follow. In sum, Nagaland is now a state in India made of indigenous tribal people. But, due to European colonial powers getting involved in regions not their own, and because they liked redrawing borders not theirs to draw, Nagaland was forcibly incorporated into India by the British and Indian governments. Therefore, as a people Nagas have little to no ethnic or cultural similarities to India yet are nonetheless “Indian” by national identity (at least in the eyes of those not Naga). Even more, if one does genetic DNA testing (which I have done), Nagas are classified almost entirely as “Chinese.” So, for clarity, my mom is culturally Naga, nationalistically Indian, and, apparently, genetically Chinese. Plus, my grandfather is Lebanese on my father’s side, and while my grandmother has mostly European roots, her line also includes my great, great-grandfather from Chile. As you can imagine, I have no idea how to answer the “where are you from from?” question.
If all that is not enough, the hodgepodge of my family’s background crafted a face familiar to those from South East Asia, the Middle East, North Africa, Central and South America, and some parts of Mediterranean Europe. As a result, I regularly disappoint my Chinese-speaking, Arabic-speaking, and Spanish-speaking neighbors when I only speak English. And living in East Harlem, I regularly have to say, “Lo siento, mi amigo. No hablo Espanol.”
All that to say, I don’t think the woman on the elevator was looking for that answer. She simply thought, “hey, something about you is different, and you don’t seem like you’re from here.” As I reflected on that interaction and the many others of my past, I kept returning to the biblical notion of exile. That is, when we feel the otherness of our surroundings and when our very presence raises questions, the biblical notion of exile becomes more tangible.
Both the Old and New Testaments emphasize the theme of exile. For instance, in 1 Peter 2:1–12, Peter continues the imagery of exile from the beginning of his letter (see 1 Peter 1:1–2) as his dominant metaphor for the Christian life:
So put away all malice and all deceit and hypocrisy and envy and all slander. Like newborn infants, long for the pure spiritual milk, that by it you may grow up into salvation— if indeed you have tasted that the Lord is good. As you come to him, a living stone rejected by men but in the sight of God chosen and precious, you yourselves like living stones are being built up as a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ. For it stands in Scripture: “Behold, I am laying in Zion a stone, a cornerstone chosen and precious, and whoever believes in him will not be put to shame.” So the honor is for you who believe, but for those who do not believe, “The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone,” and “A stone of stumbling, and a rock of offense.” They stumble because they disobey the word, as they were destined to do. But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light. Once you were not a people, but now you are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy. Beloved, I urge you as sojourners and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul. Keep your conduct among the Gentiles honorable, so that when they speak against you as evildoers, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day of visitation. (1 Peter 2:1–12, ESV)
Peter uses several images to paint a portrait of the church. Two speak to the church as a community: the church as a spiritual house in verse 5 and as a chosen people in verse 9. Of course, these two images would have been of great significance for first century Jewish-Christian readers. “A spiritual house” alluded to the temple where God’s presence resided, and “a chosen people” referred to Abraham, through whom God established a people who would bless the nations.
Yet, Peter now uses the term “spiritual house” not as a localized place of worship but now as a temple made of living stones—a group of people. Likewise, he uses the designation “chosen people” not as an ethno-religious group but now a religious group of many ethnicities—Jew and Gentile. The point is clear: Peter argues that there is a new community, a new people, neither localized around a physical temple or location nor centered on a single ethnic or cultural group. Instead, in context, followers of Jesus, Jew and Gentile together, are cumulatively the Temple and People of God. And now, as a result, God’s kingdom includes a staggeringly diverse group of people.
While this is a slight side note, we should pause and consider how unique this reality is to the Christian faith, as it is the most diverse group of people the world has ever known. Most other world religions or philosophies are dominated by a particular cultural expression or geographic region. Even secularism is based largely in Western culture, especially white Western culture. However, the Christian faith does not possess these cultural and geographic restrictions, nor a particular language Christians must share. In my own story, I have family from Central Asia, Southeast Asia, the Middle East, Europe, and South America. And we are worshiping God in Nagamese, Tagalog, Hindi, Arabic, English, and Spanish. Even more, each group weaves their culture into their worship of God. Some expressions are more Western, others are more Eastern, and yet, through it all, regardless of the differences, we are all one people built into one spiritual house.
All this said, Peter does not simply call Christians a people, but rather an exiled people, a people who never quite feel at home. As stated earlier, the notion of exile is a pervasive biblical theme. Exile begins in the garden when Adam and Eve are expelled from that garden, their truest experience of home. Since then, all humanity has consistently lived in exile, longing for that home. Then the people of God would enter a state of exile while in Egypt. As enslaved people, their homes were not their true homes. They lived in but were not part of Egypt, instead a distinct people amongst the Egyptians. Of course, Israel eventually became a people with a home, a land, and a temple. Yet, because of their idolatry, they lost that home. They would end up in exile in the pagan city of Babylon. Once again, they were a distinct people living amongst another people, longing for home.
Drawing on those experiences, the Apostle Paul further develops the notion of exile in Philippians 3, arguing that the Christian’s ultimate citizenship is not in the nations where we live but in heaven. Christians are a distinct people whose ultimate loyalty is not as citizens of earthly kingdoms but to God’s Kingdom. And until we all recognize that we were made for that Kingdom, we will never experience the truest sense of home that we all desire.
If the above is true (and it is), the question becomes: how will I respond to this experience of exile? Tension arises between these two biblical truths. Christians are a distinct people called to live faithfully in the nations of the earth, yet also a people whose ultimate loyalty is not to those nations but to God’s kingdom.
Failing to appreciate and live out that tension has created extraordinarily problematic consequences as Christians engage our world. We fail to live faithfully as exiles either by over-emphasizing our heavenly citizenship, thus forgetting our earthly involvement, or by over-emphasizing our earthly involvement, thus forgetting our heavenly citizenship.
Concerning an over-emphasis on their earthly citizenship, someone once said that Christians can be so heavenly-minded that they have no earthly good. In other words, Christians can focus so much on the reality of a coming experience of heaven we forget to be faithful in the present. Consider Israel’s exile in Babylon. The people of God were in a land not their own, and the temptation was to reject and ignore all that occurred in the place they lived—Babylon. But God did not call them to seclude themselves, but rather, as many have emphasized from Jeremiah 29, God told them through the prophet, “Build houses, marry and have children and give them in marriage, plant gardens, seek the peace and prosperity of the city and pray to the Lord for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper.” As God’s people, they were to work for the flourishing of the place in which they lived. They must not be so consumed by a desire to return back to their homeland that they care nothing for the land in which they live.
However, while the temptation to be overly heavenly-minded is a concern, one that at times has dominated expressions of Western Protestantism, for those in the affluent West today, the opposite temptation is often harder to resist. Being too earthly-minded or assimilating may be our bigger current danger.
The alternative, opposite danger for Israel—and for the church, the new Israel—was to cease being distinct and to become like the Babylonians. This is what Peter warns against in verses 11–12: “As foreigners and exiles, to abstain from sinful desires, which wage war against your soul. Live such good lives among the pagans that, though they accuse you of doing wrong, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day he visits us.” In other words, we must live lives distinct from those around us.
In many ways, an over-emphasized attention to the present leads not to life as a distinct people but rather to assimilation. Consider, again, the context of the woman’s question in the elevator. For many immigrants, like those in my family, the main goal in life is assimilation. Many immigrants constantly ask, whether consciously or subconsciously: what must I jettison from my cultural heritage; how must I capitulate to the dominant culture; what is the pathway to the greatest acceptance; what choices will establish the least amount of resistance in this new home? Some strike a healthy balance, embracing enough of their new country to call it home while also maintaining enough of their cultural heritage to feel connected to it. However, for various reasons they many never find that balance; instead, they altogether jettison their cultural heritage as the path of least resistance.
Frankly, such a necessity is often a heart-breaking reality that I would like to unpack more fully one day. But what strikes me about that experience, as it relates to the biblical idea of exile, is that Christians are not free entirely to assimilate into this world’s norms, customs, and priorities. While the immigrant experience might sometimes necessitate such assimilation, even with the immense loss involved, the Christian experience of complete assimilation—the desire to pursue the path of least resistance—is unfaithful.
And as a Christian, but also as a pastor who meets with people regularly, I see that pursuit is a constant temptation:
- When Christians claim ultimate loyalty to a King of righteousness, but then swear allegiance to earthly rulers who lack any form of integrity to achieve political or social ends, we have assimilated. We need a reminder that we are exiles in a foreign land. (And, I should add, this is not a one-sided political comment about the upcoming American election. I see this across nations, cultures, and political allegiances.)
- When Christians claim ultimate loyalty to a creator God who determines what is good, right, and true, but we then capitulate to the worldly perspectives about what is good, right, and true, we have assimilated. We need a reminder that we are exiles in a foreign land.
- When Christians claim ultimate loyalty to a God of justice who created people in his image but then willingly allow or actively participate in the silencing of the abused, oppressed, or marginalized so that we might keep our power, protect institutions (even our own churches), and protect our friends, we have assimilated. We need a reminder that we are exiles in a foreign land.
- When pursuit of the American dream or a white-knuckled clinging to an “American way of life” consume our thinking, our politics, our work, and our social lives, we have assimilated. We need a reminder that we are exiles in a foreign land.
- When we convince ourselves that our political rivals are enemies to be destroyed, when we insist rival parties are tools of Satan without recognizing the ways our own party is as well, we have assimilated. We need a reminder that we are exiles in a foreign land.
Why? Because living as an exile means the patterns of this world should not be our own. Christians, as exiles, should not fit in, feel comfortable, or uncritically settle in this land. Rather, true exiles know what it takes to be faithful to another Kingdom. True exiles are willing to relinquish influence and power in politics or societally if it means standing for righteousness. True exiles are willing to stand firm on truth even though it might put them at odds with those from whom they might otherwise want acceptance. True exiles, in word and deed, will stand out, fit nowhere, yet reflect their truest home—the kingdom of God.
Why is this worth it? What motivating factor not only leads but empowers Christians to live as exiles? While Christians are a people—and an exiled people, in particular—the reason we are exiled is because we are, first and foremost, a redeemed people.
Returning to 2 Peter, we find a glimpse of how the church, the people of God, was established in verses 9 and 10. Peter says, “But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s special possession, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light. Once you were not a people, but now you are the people of God; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.”
In other words, the church was established by God: 1) by bringing people out of darkness and into light (v.9) and 2) by showing those people mercy (v.10), all of which occurs through Jesus (v. 5). The establishment of the Church as a community is solely the result of the mercy of God through the accomplished work of Jesus. It is built on him and modeled after him. And what is this accomplished work? Jesus Christ, the Son of God, had an infinite community and home with the Father and Spirit. The Triune God, in himself, has the greatest depth of community and home that can exist. Yet, the Son of God condescended from that transcendent home and stepped into a broken world bound by time and space where injustice, selfishness, and hate ravage all creation, a creation, ironically, that was created to live in perfect harmony with God. It was a creation that flourished in the Garden—a garden where a perfect communion with God existed and where we were truly home. Yet, as a result of sin, we were exiled from that communion. If we ever wonder why we often never have a real sense of rest and home, it is because we are nomadic exiles desperately seeking what was lost in that Garden.
But out of love for us, Jesus took upon himself that experience of being a nomadic exile, both figuratively and literally. Matthew 8 tells us that Jesus had no home and no place to rest his head. He experienced our restlessness. Even more, he then went to the cross and experienced the greatest loss of home the universe has ever known, as he willingly took our sin upon himself. As he cried, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” he experienced the torment of exile.
And Jesus did this to make a way for us to experience the home he willingly gave up—to bring us back into a right relationship with God. The “spiritual house” was where the presence of God resided. Jesus makes it so that the presence of God, by the Spirit of God, now comes to the new spiritual house—the house that consists of those who trust in Jesus. Jesus has taken a bunch of nomadic exiles and given us a home in the presence of God.
The beauty of such a gift is that it makes the church unlike any other type of community. Most communities require our contribution for their acceptance. We have to live in a certain place, be a certain type of person, achieve some kind of accomplishment, and then we are accepted. However, communion with God works the opposite way. God does not require us to meet certain expectations, have certain qualities, or even be a certain kind of person. Entrance into God’s people is not based on merit and accomplishment. Rather, entrance into God’s community is based on the merit and accomplishment of Jesus. No one is part of God’s community because they were good enough or accomplished enough. They are in the community because Jesus has accomplished it for them. This ought to then be both our joy amidst exile and the motivation to embrace it.
One more thought about my experience in the elevator: what is interesting about that experience is that, on the one hand, I was born and raised as an American. I know no other home. Yet, my presence and the way this woman experienced me revealed that there was something more to my story. As odd as the interaction was, she was right; there is more. Though she was not looking to hear that whole story, the story says much about who I am.
For all Christians, the same ought to be true. In one sense, we are home in the world in which we live. We are called to invest, serve, and seek the good of our neighbors. We grew up here; we live here; we are citizens here. Unless Jesus returns first, we will die here. But as we do so, people ought to experience Christians the way that woman experienced me, at least in this: our lives and presence ought to reveal that there was something more to our story, maybe something mysterious, maybe something the person with whom we speak cannot quite identify or even understand. Are they asking? After all, if no one ever asks us, literally or figuratively, “Where are you from from?” we might be in desperate need of a reminder that we are exiles in a foreign land.