Beyond Visibility: The Unfinished Work of Asian American Theology

By Jonathan Tran in conversation with David Chao

Nov 06, 2024

In a recent conversation, Dr. David Chao interviewed Dr. Jonathan Tran, Associate Dean for Faculty in the Honors College and Associate Professor of Theology in Great Texts at Baylor University. Dr. Tran’s work on race, theology, and Asian Americans has significantly shaped contemporary discourse on race, theology, and Asian Americans. Our conversation explored the current state of Asian American theology, its challenges and opportunities, and the ways it interacts with broader theological discussions.

Assessing the Current State of Asian American Theology

David Chao: Jonathan, your work on race and Asian Americans has been deeply influential in my own reflections about Asian American Christianity. Given the significant scholarly investment in this area, such as your book Asian Americans and the Spirit of Racial Capitalism (2022), Daniel Lee’s book Doing Asian American Theology, and the 2015 Baylor University Press volume on Asian American Christian Ethics edited by Grace Kao and Ilsup Ahn, how do you assess the state of the field of Asian American theology today?

Jonathan Tran: It certainly feels like a new moment in terms of the presence and publicity around Asian and Asian American Christianity and theology. But I am still trying to gauge the nature of this moment. It might feel significant to those of us inside the conversation, but I’m not sure I see the concepts, arguments, and presence of Asian American theology in the wider theological discourse just yet.

For example, since the publication of Asian Americans and the Spirit of Racial Capitalism in 2022, there’s been a lot of discussion. The book regularly comes up in terms of academic and analytic impact—it’s cited in publications, and students engage with it in their writing. I have done dozens of campus visits, maybe around 40 by now, and they continue. But I am not sure I see the ideas penetrating ‘regular’ theology. Asian Americans still aren’t a reference point in most theological conversations. The racial discourse remains largely framed by the white-black binary, at least in the theological sphere.

I have noticed that even when my book is discussed, the focus tends to be on my analysis of race and racism through the lens of racial capitalism. Rarely does the Asian American aspect of the book come up unless the audience is specifically Asian or Asian American, like in the event Melissa Borja and I did at Stanford. Outside of these spaces, the Asian American dimension often goes unmentioned.

So, while it is true that Asian American theology has gained some public recognition, I don’t think it has fully translated into broader theological conversations. On the other hand, there’s no denying the impact of things like my book, the work of PANAAWTM, APARRI, and the presence of Asian American scholars at national and international conferences. Scholars like yourself, K.C. Choi at Princeton, Grace Kao, and Kwok Pui Lan are widely known. So, something is happening—it is just not clear yet how this emerging presence relates to the broader conversation.

Navigating Institutional and Conceptual Boundaries

David Chao: In reflecting on your earlier comments about Christian theology, the academic guild, and race discourse from a religious perspective, it seems clear that Asian Americans often get sidelined in these broader conversations. This exclusion is a significant takeaway for me. Let’s continue by looking at how Asian American theology operates within larger academic and professional networks like the American Academy of Religion and the Society of Christian Ethics.

Now, within the sphere of Asian American theology itself, there has been noticeable internal evolution. For instance, thirty years ago, the field relied heavily on cultural idioms to explain Christian belief systems and doctrines. Then, perhaps we saw more emphasis on post-colonial power analysis. I am curious how you see these internal shifts—whether they’re merely reflective of broader academic trends or if there is a porous boundary between Asian American theology and these larger systems. How does Asian American theology relate, or fail to relate, to the broader discourse?

Jonathan Tran: That is an excellent way to set things up. One way to think about Asian Americans' influence on American religion, religious studies, and Christian theology is to imagine two circles. In the dominant circle, you have institutions like the American Academy of Religion, the journal Modern Theology, and publishers like Cambridge and Oxford—along with the key voices speaking at these venues. Then there’s a distinct, smaller circle, often viewed as separate from this dominant one.

Earlier, I mentioned that I have not seen much penetration from the smaller Asian American circle into the larger one. But that might be a backward way of thinking about it. This assumes that the larger circle is stable, but it is not. In fact, it is rapidly shrinking. Ted Smith’s book, The End of Theological Education, is something you and I have discussed before, and it addresses this shrinking circle—both due to sociological changes and because of its problematic legacy of abuse, domination, imperialism, and racism. We are all much more aware of these issues now, and they have contributed to the decline of that larger circle.

So, the strategy might not be for Asian Americans to try to penetrate the big circle. Instead, the future of theological education might lie in focusing on the smaller circles. A case in point is Ted Smith himself, who not only wrote this challenging and important book, but is also a brilliant administrator at Candler School of Theology at Emory University. At Candler, they have made tremendous strides precisely because they have chosen not to focus on the shrinking big circle. They have good sociological, institutional, and moral reasons for this. Rather than trying to give marginalized communities access to a circle in decline, they have decided to focus on other circles—while maintaining allegiances where necessary, such as their ties to the United Methodist Church.

Candler has done exceptionally well in supporting Asian and Asian American students. The school itself is increasingly constituted by these smaller, emerging circles. They have built strong partnerships with local churches in Atlanta, a city that now has about 140,000 Koreans in North Atlanta alone. With scholars like Helen Jin Kim, Roger Nam, and Kwok Pui Lan, they offer outstanding coursework and co-curricular programs for these students.

Everything they are doing is a response to the shrinking big circle. Rather than trying to turn back the clock, which is what many seminaries are tempted to do, Candler is moving forward by focusing on the smaller circles. The data set is small—only about five to seven years of this approach—but the results so far suggest significant success.

The Promise and Peril of Contextual Theology

David Chao: Given the evolving nature of Asian American theology, what do you see as its promise and peril, particularly for young scholars deciding whether to focus on traditional theological topics or to engage with Asian American theology?

Jonathan Tran: For young scholars, there is often a sense of being at a fork in the road. They might think, ‘Do I try to get into the big circle, the mainstream theological discourse, or do I focus on the smaller, contextual circle of Asian American theology?’ If they choose the former, they might gain broader recognition but risk sidelining their own identity and experiences. If they focus on the latter, they might be pigeonholed as the “Asian American scholar” and not be taken seriously within the broader theological conversation.

For example, Asian American theology is not even at the center of what I do—my main work is in the philosophy of language. I am writing a book with Vincent Lloyd, and another with Stanley Hauerwas, but I know I’ll probably always be known for Asian Americans and the Spirit of Racial Capitalism. My dream book is Why Words Matter: A Natural Theology of Language, but I expect the Asian American book will always define my public profile.

So, for scholars navigating this terrain, it can feel like choosing one path necessarily excludes the other. But, if we return to a power analysis where structure and form meet, we see that those in the small circle often have a clearer sense of how things are constructed. The big circle takes its own structure for granted, assuming continuity with the majority voice, without needing to acknowledge or reflect on how that structure came to be. In contrast, those in the smaller circle understand their marginalization and have to navigate that awareness methodologically. They recognize the limits of the conversation, while those in the center assume they are the conversation.

The promise, though, is that if theology is fundamentally speech about God, then Asian and Asian American voices offer a unique utterance of God in those contexts. Wittgenstein’s concept of linguistic holism reminds us that concepts carry continuity with one another. So, when these scholars think about God, the Spirit, scripture, and tradition, they do so alongside their lived experiences of identity, immigration, racism, and the model minority myth. These concepts cohere, and they utter their understanding of God through these realities.

This awareness—that theology is always incarnational and contextualized—is not a loss. In fact, it is a gain. It might be one of the most important philosophical and sociological contributions Christianity offers: the incarnational claim about truth.

But there is a peril here. If you develop your concepts exclusively within the small circle and define them in opposition to the big circle, you risk missing out on the broader conversations and resources that the big circle offers. For example, many see the big circle—steeped in the history of racism, imperialism, and European Christianity—as already corrupted. But if you dismiss it entirely, you might lose valuable theological concepts that could enrich your own work.

Whither Systematic Theology?

Jonathan Tran: This is especially the case with systematic theology. What is the state of systematic theology in America today? Not many people are doing systematic theology anymore. At Princeton, you are probably one of the last bastions that still takes systematic theology seriously.

When I talk about systematic theology, I am referring to the coherence and continuity of theological speech with the broader Christian intellectual tradition, including tradition, scripture, reason, and experience, and collateral commitments like how we understand God, salvation, and the church. There’s a lot of weight and depth here that we lose if we define ourselves solely by what we’re against. As Kevin Hector argues (see Christianity as a Way of Life: A Systematic Theology), systematic theology is about integrating diverse theological claims into a coherent whole. If we abandon systematic theology, we risk losing the capacity to speak about God in a way that makes sense of all of life, not just the fragments we find ourselves in.

Moreover, there is a broader historical dimension to this discussion. Take for example Karl Barth and Thomas Aquinas, who, as systematic theologians, considered theology to be the queen of the sciences and thought about God in relation to everything. If we are going to talk about God, we need to be able to talk about everything. If we abandon engagement with these resources in favor of a purely contextual approach, we risk losing the richness and depth of the Christian theological tradition. We are left with a kind of disjointedness where theological speech lacks coherence and continuity with the broader intellectual history of the church.

The discipline of systematic theology itself is in decline. No one is writing systematic dissertations anymore—PhD students feel pressure to focus on contextualized or constructive theology tied to specific, often marginalized, communities. While there’s something just and right about this shift—acknowledging that all theology is contextual and provisional and defeasible—I worry that we’re leaving too much on the table. We have become so critical of tradition, scripture, and history that we may be discarding critical resources that could still serve us well.

Difference All the Way Down? The Search for Commonness

David Chao: Let me put on my phenomenological hat from G. W. F. Hegel. One formation of consciousness you have identified is the macro circle’s unconsciousness about its own limits. Those within it often do not consider structure and form because they are the majority voice. But there is another formation of consciousness that recognizes the importance of structure and form because it arises from a specific space and time, a specific racial and gendered embodiment. These formations of consciousness are often set against each other as though they are mortal enemies, but what I hear you suggesting is that we do not have to accept this binary opposition. Instead, our positionality as Asian Americans can help us challenge these false dichotomies. Could you expand on how language and concept use might help dissolve these binaries?

Jonathan Tran: If we go back to Hegel, we can see how his reception by the Adorno School, Cornel West, and Jeff Stout reflects different attempts to grapple with this issue. It’s less about gathering all strengths and weaknesses and synthesizing them; rather, it is about the principle of time—recognizing that we inherit the past. One temptation, when becoming self-conscious about the problems of the past, is to disregard them or barricade oneself from them. But, as Adorno and West would argue, you can’t do that. It is both immoral and impractical. Toni Morrison’s Beloved shows this brilliantly—you may think you’re done with the past, but it’s not done with you.

Proper synthesis retains what West calls black striving in a twilight civilization. It motivates and energizes the movement forward. The future is opened by embracing a relentless past that will not leave you alone. We are not going to beat the past; better to make friends with it. This principle is vital for understanding how difference and commonality interact.

During the postmodern period, some philosophers argued that certain language is inherently violent and should be abandoned. But this led to incoherence. You can not reject a language of tradition and still communicate meaningfully within it. The idea of pure alterity—where one voice is completely other to another—is a fantasy. We all share common linguistic and conceptual frameworks that allow us to communicate meaningfully about God, even from different cultural standpoints.

Kierkegaard wrestled with this in Fear and Trembling. If God were completely other to Abraham, with no continuity in his life with the Hebrews, Abraham would not even understand what God was asking of him when he was commanded to sacrifice Isaac. Nor could he have faith that God would come through. This is the problem with total alterity: without shared language or concepts, genuine communication and understanding are impossible. Asian American discourse cannot be this completely “other” thing. It is not. There are conventions of speech within every culture that are shared across cultures. To deny that is to deny what it means to be an animal—human animals, or however you want to put it.

This relates to my work in natural conventionality, biolinguistics, and Stanley Cavell’s philosophy. Humans, as linguistic creatures, are not isolated from the rest of creation. Our language and conceptual systems have developed through shared natural histories and biological continuities. This is what makes communication possible, not just among ourselves but across different cultures and even species. Difference, therefore, is not something that goes all the way down; difference is a discovery of commonness. And that commonness, for a Christian theologian, is rooted in creation itself. God created us with shared capacities for language, for relationship, and for understanding. The very fact that we can talk about God in different contexts is evidence of our participation in the divine life.

Difference Presupposes a Shared Life

David Chao: I think this perspective is powerful for understanding what is shared across differences, especially in Asian American family and church life. You are suggesting that despite generational or cultural differences, there are underlying commonalities—be they in experience, political and economic structures, or even racial capitalism—that bind us together. This is even a profound theological point here: the triune Creator, Redeemer, and Reconciling God is what is shared across our differences. This is a vision of a shared reality that can be articulated and lived out in the everyday. How does this account impact our understanding of intergenerational Asian family life and church life?

Jonathan Tran: That is a great question. There is a recent book from Oxford by my colleague at Baylor, Natalie Carnes, titled Attunement. It offers an account of feminism that argues what we as Christians mean by feminism is actually in continuity with the Christian tradition. Natalie, being primarily a patristic scholar, traces figures like Gregory of Nyssa to ongoing conversations about the agency of women.

Philosophically, she is influenced by thinkers like Rita Felski and Bruno Latour, who argue that networks of articulation—whether in the church or academy—are highly integrated. Latour’s argument in We Have Never Been Modern suggests that modernity’s attempt to clearly distinguish and separate concepts, such as God, the state, and the individual, was a flawed thought experiment. It never reflected the actuality. Natalie makes a similar point about feminist discourse: it’s not something separate from traditional confessional Christianity but is internal to it.

What we admire most about feminism already exists in the Christian tradition, because how else would we be drawn to it if there was not a kind of shared sameness? This reflects a hermeneutical point about how we perceive the world. As Stanley Hauerwas, drawing on Iris Murdoch, says, ‘You can only see the world you’ve been taught to talk about.’ Concepts of ‘otherness’ are an achievement of living in a common universe.

Similarly, as Alasdair MacIntyre often says, a genuine argument is a moral achievement. You can only argue with those who share enough understanding that they feel offended and compelled to respond. Arguments are productive only when the participants have shared concepts and practices, ensuring that the conversation carries meaning and significance for all involved.

Revisiting the “Silent Exodus” and Asian American Family and Church Life

David Chao: Let’s bring this discussion back to the practical level. We have seen intergenerational divides in Asian American churches, especially since the “Silent Exodus” in the 1990s described by Helen Lee. It is often portrayed as a split between first and second generations. Now we have Gen Z and Alpha, and it seems like there’s even more division. But I think, as you have argued, difference does not go all the way down. There are shared experiences and structural realities that bind these generations together. Could you speak to how we can navigate these divides in our churches and communities?

Jonathan Tran: For Asian Americans, the concept of the ‘silent exodus’ emerged in the late 1990s, tracking sociological data showing large numbers of people like you and me leaving immigrant Asian churches. These churches had long served as the central staging ground for Asian and Asian American life in the U.S. Even if you were not Christian when you left Taiwan, for instance, you might become Christian in Atlanta, where there’s a church near Georgia Tech that serves the Taiwanese engineering community. There, you would learn ‘American Jesus’ and ‘Taiwanese America’ at the same time.

The silent exodus saw generations leaving along lines of difference. By the late 90s and early 2000s, we might have expected the rise of mega pan-Asian American churches, communities, and academic discourses, but that hasn’t really materialized. Instead, we see many returning to their immigrant communities, families, and churches. There’s a suggestion that these individuals never truly left in a significant way.

Back then, we might have thought the future of the Asian American church was represented by leaders like Dave Gibbons at New Song Church and Ken Fong at Evergreen Church. Yet, those churches are much smaller now than when I interned at New Song during its heyday. Even then, we could feel a certain expansion that was followed by contraction. When you define yourself over and against everything, people eventually ask: ‘What are we for?’

Natalie Carne’s idea of ‘attunement’ applies here too—naming the give and take between feminism and traditional Christianity as a relationship of love. Love has the capacity to hold multitudes of differences. Similarly, for Asian Americans, we’re seeing a reversion to first-generation immigrant churches, alongside the growth of smaller pan-Asian churches. But, like the broader trend in America, the majority have simply left church. As Ted Smith points out, that does not mean they have given up on Christianity or Jesus—it just means they’re no longer relying on the institutional church to figure things out.

Many, as our friend Melissa Borja suggests, are creating their own paths in ways that will surprise us. That’s a key part of what our Luce grant is investigating—how these communities evolve. From my perspective as a confessional Christian, I am not giving up on these communities, because I believe Jesus has not given up on them. He is that relentless ‘hound of heaven,’ seeking people wherever they are, in the byways and highways.

Conclusion

David Chao: Our conversation underscored the importance of embracing both the particular and the universal in theological discourse. Asian American theology, while distinct, is part of the broader Christian theological project. Its promise lies in its ability to speak to the unique experiences of Asian Americans while contributing to the global understanding of God’s work in the world. As we continue to develop this field, we must resist the temptation to isolate it and instead allow it to inform and be informed by the wider theological community. Asian American theology, far from being a marginal endeavor, deepens and expands theology as a whole by reminding us that all theology is inherently contextual.

In this evolving landscape, it is crucial for Asian American theologians to recognize that their work is not just for the Asian American community but has something to offer to the entire church and academy. Jonathan Tran’s insights offer a path forward by rejecting false binaries that divide marginalized voices from the broader theological conversation. Instead, he calls us to recognize the shared linguistic, conceptual, and historical frameworks that bind us together, both within the church and across different cultural and generational experiences. This vision, rooted in the theological reality of the triune God, calls for an attuned engagement—one that listens, loves, and reflects deeply on the lives and experiences of Asian American Christians in all their diversity.

For the Center for Asian American Christianity, this conversation reaffirms our commitment to fostering spaces where these critical theological engagements can flourish, where the voices of Asian American Christians are not only heard but contribute meaningfully to the broader theological landscape. As we imagine otherwise, we are reminded that difference does not go “all the way down” but rather leads us to discover a deeper commonness, one that is ultimately grounded in our shared participation in the divine life.

This, perhaps, is the unfinished work of Asian American theology: to continue exploring how our unique histories, cultures, and experiences enrich the Christian tradition, not by standing apart from it, but by embodying it more fully in our everyday lives.