Kimchi

A favorite Korean dish as an analogy for the Asian American experience.

By Jason Lim

Life is like a jar of kimchi. Let me explain. Being an Asian American Christian is an eclectic experience. Even now, I’m trying to find my bearings. Though I may have gained a higher tolerance for the tension that is my identity goulash, there is still a lot more to process and learn.

But I have a sense of growing ownership, perhaps even pride, in my existence. 

Kimchi provides the perfect metaphor for my experience growing up in Seattle. As a mainstay of epicurious hipsters everywhere, kimchi is no longer the abhorrent stink bomb that it once was. This now widely embraced superfood has made strides into mainstream culinary conversations. Is there a clearer indicator of universal acceptance than being sold at Costco? I think not. Plus, the word on the street is that there is some correlation between consuming fermented cabbage and lower fatality rates due to COVID-19. 

While kimchi is certainly having its moment, for the unfamiliar, kimchi can be unpleasant or even repulsive. Its essence ends up seeping into all the food in your refrigerator until even your ice cubes start to take on a faint kimchi funk. If you’re old school, you might have one or three of those mammoth earthenware clay pots for storing kimchi in your backyard, doubling as house decor. 

While lunchtime is a favorite time for many elementary school students, it was the source of much dread and trauma for me. Imagine how ripe my kimchi got by noon every day, just sitting in my Ninja Turtles lunch box at room temperature. The moment I unlatched my container, the kimchi sloshing around with anchovies, fish cake, and seaweed, my curious classmates quickly turned aghast. The opening up of my lunch was like a nightmarish version of The Hurt Locker, except it actually happened--every day. 

Whenever lunchtime came, I hit a crossroads. I was famished and genuinely loved the food that my mom so lovingly packed. But I also couldn’t handle the gawking and tacit judgement. The palpable disgust of my classmates affected me to the point where I sometimes threw my lunch away, only to settle for lukewarm corn dogs and wilted salad. 

But wait, there’s more. 

I was reared in a Christian home, and I embraced my faith as early as I can remember. But outside of the incubator that was my local church, practicing faith in a non-Christian environment as a young child was a herculean task. Yet I was convicted to live out my faith. And that meant praying for the meal. 

And so I would pray. I started out praying with my head bowed, hands clasped, and genuinely expressing my gratitude for the food. Everything seemed fine. I attracted some curious stares but nothing that affected my brittle confidence. 

Over time, however, I started drawing ridicule and polemical questions. Kids mimicked my pre-meal prayer and sometimes threw their tater tots my way. As I picked up the crisp taters from my lunch box (and furtively shoved them in my mouth), I felt a second wave of shame. My prayers became more abbreviated. I stopped closing my eyes and bowing my head. Eventually, I stopped praying all together. 

I had abandoned my faith and my culture for a hamburger and acceptance.  

Every day, I had to choose between what I loved—my ethnicity and faith—and what I wanted—acceptance and assimilation. As a second-generation Korean American, I had a less-than-ideal introduction to American culture. At one point, I hated my Korean heritage and my Christian faith. 

The beauty of kimchi is that, as it ages and ferments, its flavor profile becomes richer. For me, the funkier the kimchi, the better. It makes for a better kimchi stew and it better complements some of my favorite Korean soups. Similarly, I needed time for my thoughts and emotions to breathe, age, and ferment. 

This emergence of my self-awareness has led to redemption. God has revealed to me just how beautiful it is to be both Asian American and Christian. I realized that my value is not based on these identity markers. Rather, my value is in the fact that God created me this way. 

This realization unlocked the labyrinth of shame that I had found myself in. For years, I had pigeonholed myself into these tired tropes and neat labels. I believed in the derogatory (even racial) commentary that mainstream Americanism had applied to my people. The shame led me to throw away my kimchi and my prayers. 

But over time, through helpful conversations and redemptive and affirming experiences, my identity markers have become badges of honor. Like a plant burgeoning and breaking through a cracked sidewalk, there is a certain beauty that blossomed from this experience--a greater appreciation for who I am both as an Asian American and a Christian. Through this liberation, I feel comfortable in my own skin and can have productive discourse to help our society collaboratively grow. 

I have hardly mastered the art of seeking the delight and audience of One. But like the process of fermentation, the end goal is neither to add spice nor to pickle. The end goal is complete transformation from a lowly head of napa cabbage to a glorious piece of kimchi. 

I am not there yet. I am still learning to embrace who I am in the context where I live. But, for now, as I lift the heavy lid of my earthenware clay pot, the aroma that fills up my senses is no longer unpleasant, but fragrant. 

Photo by Jakub Kapusnak on Unsplash

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Jason Lim is an assistant pastor at Christ Central Presbyterian Church in San Francisco. He is the college and young adults pastor. He is happily wed to his wife, Christy. You can follow his incoherent and verbose musings on his blog, or read his observational humor on Instagram.