For a moment last spring, after vaccines appeared, it looked like we might be able to return to each other, in the world outside of our homes and pods, after a seemingly interminable shelter-in-place. Then, March 16th happened. On that day, two shootings in Georgia resulted in 8 deaths. Six of the victims were Asian American. Seven of them were women: Delaina Ashley Yaun, Xiaojie Tan, Daoyou Feng, Paul Andre Michels, Hyun Jung Grant, Soon Chung Park, Suncha Kim, Yong Yue, and survivor, Elcias Hernandez-Ortiz. Following on the heels of a deadly attack against Vicha Ratanapakdee, murdered less than a mile from our parish, the shootings sent me into depths of anger, sorrow, and terror.
After a year of keeping a stiff upper lip, I was shaken every time footage of another attack against someone who looked like an aunt, an uncle, or a grandparent accompanied yet another report of AAPI hate. I was thankful for the mask I wore outdoors—not just because it protected me and others from the virus—but because it helped conceal my face, which had become a target. And I sobbed for months, not just over those who were hurt or killed (San Francisco alone experienced a 567% rise in reported hate crimes against Asian Americans in 2021), but especially over how many victims, like Noel Quintana and Vilma Kari, were attacked in front of bystanders who failed to intervene.
Nearly a year later, I realize that seeing my beloved parents, their siblings, and the grandparents I never knew in the faces of all those hurt by anti-Asian racism has allowed me to understand one part of the Gospel that always confounded me. When Jesus says, “Truly I tell you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields, for my sake and for the sake of the good news, who will not receive a hundredfold now in this age--houses, brothers and sisters, mothers and children….” (Mk 10:29-30), he is not asking us to leave behind those we love the most. Rather, Jesus is inviting us to see in every person we encounter our parents, children, and ancestors—to expand those whom we understand to be our family, whom we feel beholden to care for and to protect, and whom we recognize love us everlastingly.
As we journey into Lent and commemorate those who were killed in Atlanta last March 16, let us accept Jesus’ invitation to truly appreciate what it means to be part of God’s magnificent and ever-expanding family. Let us understand not just the comfort this brings, but the duty we have to not just stand by when we see a sister or brother physically, emotionally, or spiritually injured by racism. Let us find the courage and spirit of sacrifice needed to protect and heal each other, so that together we can all thrive and experience hope.