From Deep Dish to Coca-Cola
By Maci Sepp, Director of Vocational Outreach at Columbia Theological Seminary.
A few months ago, my family and I packed up our lives into two Toyota sedans and a 16-foot PODS container, and we caravaned from Princeton, New Jersey to our new home in Decatur, Georgia.
With all due respect to Jimmy Carter and SEC Football, I would have never imagined living in the South, at least not without kicking and screaming. I grew up in the Chicago area, where we prided ourselves on surviving the harsh cold and being a metropolitan refuge in a vast sea of cornfields and Midwestern niceties. Even after I moved to New Jersey for grad school and accidentally stayed for six years, I thought I would someday return to Chicago or somewhere like it. As silly as it sounds, I noticed many of my breaths ended with heavy sighs; sighs of longing for something that felt more like home. I missed things like the familiarity of the geography, the people—flat and overly friendly—and the proximity to beautiful architecture, incredible museums, and the best pizza—Lou Malnati’s deep dish, obviously.
While living on the East Coast certainly felt different, the South seemed like a whole other world. Sure, I had spent a few concentrated periods there hiking through the Smoky Mountains, visiting close friends in Texas, and working at a nerd camp in North Carolina. Nearly every time, though, I felt strangely aware of myself—most notably my Asian-ness and my woman-ness—in ways that made me uncomfortable. Despite having experienced more racism, sexism, and microaggressions in the northern parts of the country, there was a distinct tension that constantly ran through my body when I was in the South. This tension was most likely a fear of the unknown. But there was also a fear of what was known—a fear of gruesome truths.
Three and a half years ago, a man went on a murderous rampage through the Atlanta area, targeting spas and killing eight people, six of whom were Asian women. Their names were Delaina Ashley Yaun, Paul Andre Michels, Xiaojie Tan, Daoyou Feng, Hyun Jung Grant, Suncha Kim, Soon Chung Park, and Yong Ae Yue. I remember many people were quick to bring up concerns over mental illness and gun laws, and less so to question how the intersection of race and gender could have played a role. For months, I prayed for the victims and their families, and I asked God whether I was blowing this news story—one of many that year featuring crimes against Asians—out of proportion. Maybe it wasn’t about race or gender at all, and I was just making this tragedy about me. Yet, I would be lying if I said those six Asian women weren’t on my mind a few weeks ago as I, also an Asian woman, was driving southbound on Interstate 85 with all my possessions in tow, passing confederate flags and several pro-Trump signs, and edging closer to the scenes of the crime.
Before my cross-country move, I had the chance to worship once more with my local church community and witness a sermon on 1 Kings 19:4-8. I confess that I often breeze through this part of the Old Testament, but that day, I learned how a mere five verses written thousands of years ago can still capture the depth of human experience. In short, these verses relay the story of a man who runs off into the wilderness and is visited by an angel. Over forty days and nights, the angel provides the man with food and water and encourages him to continue on his journey. The man at the beginning of this story has given up on life, but through small acts of care and kindness, the angel helps lift him out of his despair. It’s a simple story, but upon this most recent iteration, the words “prayed for death” and “take my life” stood out to me like never before.
Knowing the greater context, I believe, made the story even more compelling. The man was none other than the prophet Elijah, who had just triumphed over the wicked King Ahab in a battle of the gods. Elijah’s God—our God—had defeated an army of Baal’s false prophets and thus been named the true God of Israel. However, this high-stakes, action-packed tale soon came to a halt, and it evolved into a far more sobering one. Right after his victory, Elijah fell into depression and became suicidal. It’s possible that Elijah was weary from the emotional and physical exhaustion of facing off against and then slaughtering hundreds of Baal’s prophets. Maybe Elijah is disappointed in himself that, even after observing a tremendous act of God, there are still people who worship Baal and demand Elijah’s death. Or, perhaps, Elijah was crumbling under the immense pressure of speaking, acting, and leading on behalf of God. Regardless, we may never understand how Elijah comes to this juncture where death is the more inviting option.
Not long after the Atlanta spa shootings, I was completing my second seminary degree when my mental health took a sudden downturn. Even though classes were back in person and I was taking fascinating coursework, I was thinking about ending my life. The previous year of pandemic living had provoked unparalleled hardships for so many, and I had spent much of that time trying to find silver linings and filling my days with healthy distractions. And then, something snapped. The factors that went into my depression were varied, but what stood out most was a profound sense of loneliness. This loneliness told me I wasn’t living up to countless unspoken expectations, and being in my own skin felt unnatural and undeserved. There were plenty of prayers and therapy sessions where I caught myself saying something to the effect of, “I’m hurting in this way, but I should be grateful.” When the suicidal ideations followed, the shame I felt was overwhelming.
Hearing Elijah’s story in church reminded me of several people in my life, including myself. Elijah attempts to escape his situation by isolating himself in the wilderness and hoping to drift into eternal sleep under a lonely bush. Many nights I spent lying in bed wishing the same thing, and I thank God that Elijah and I had angels to help lift us from the fog. Gratitude aside, what stands out most to me about the angels is not their noble acts of providing a gentle touch, fresh baked goods, and a jar of water. Rather, it is the fact that the angel must do this over and over before Elijah even gets up. Once again, I found myself sighing, but instead of sighs of longing for what was, these were sighs of empathy for what is. Depression doesn’t usually go away after one fix. For many, it’s a lifelong battle. When I got a job right after graduation and paid off my student loans, I thought the feeling would never return, at least not for a while. But it did, and it still does from time to time.
Since those initial dark days, I’m gradually learning that prioritizing my own joy is valid and finding my sense of belonging is meaningful, necessary work. It’s all too easy to be in ministry and think that it requires giving up every part of yourself—joy and belonging included—until there’s nothing left. Fortunately, I am reminded that both are key ingredients for ministry and for life itself. Belonging has many meanings, both material and immaterial. For me, it’s the comfort of a home filled with memories and laughter; it’s the excitement of meeting people who look like me and interacting with even more people who don’t; And, it’s the mutual love and respect that I crave within Christian communities and beyond them.
Moving to Georgia was, in several ways, a leap of faith, but it was also a step towards seeking out my own joy and belonging. I now live within the Metro Atlanta area up a steep hill in a little green house with a big yard and more windows than I can count. I’ve had more Coca-Cola in the past week than I’ve had in the last ten years, and I sweat all the time. Even so, I am breathing without heavy sighs for the first time in what feels like ages. I know that my depression is not gone for good and that it will take time to make Atlanta feel truly like home. The tension is still there, but the nature of it has somehow changed; it is much less fearful and a lot more curious—curious about the possibilities and how they might form me into a better person towards others and myself.
Next March—four years after the Atlanta spa shootings—the annual PANAAWTM Conference, which celebrates Asian and Asian American women and minoritized genders from around the world, will be hosted in Atlanta on the Columbia Theological Seminary campus. Who could have guessed I would move the same year that the conference would be held right in my backyard! Coincidental as it may be, it also affirms what I know to be true: we are not alone, joy is still alive and well, and I, too, have a place in this beautiful, broken world. God’s kin-dom has yet to be fully realized, but it is undeniably here, and so am I.
Maci Sepp is the Director of Vocational Outreach at Columbia Theological Seminary in Decatur, GA. Born in China and adopted into an American family, Maci grew up in Illinois where she obtained a BA in Chemistry and Public Relations from Greenville University. After sensing a call to justice and ministry, Maci moved to New Jersey and received an MDiv and ThM from Princeton Theological Seminary. Since arriving in Georgia, Maci recognizes the challenges yet strives to live out this call--socially, politically, and theologically--in her new home.