The Case for Relational Activism

by Alan Guo (PO ‘23)

But in spite of the countless tragedies and calls to action over the past year, in a time where unified social activism is more important than ever, I noticed I still had a sort of apprehension, a sort of fear of the activism world. This fear led me to ask, why?

I remember a conversation I once had with a few high school friends in the summer of 2019, right before we were all about to head off to college. We were discussing the “model minority” myth — someone argued that as Chinese Americans, we were inherently privileged, that we had little to fear in our predominantly-white America. He claimed that aside from a few snide remarks, Asian Americans were safe from blatantly racist attacks.

My friend responded, “At the end of the day, we’re still a minority. All it takes is one small thing for that security to evaporate.”

It’s hard to believe that that conversation was nearly two years ago, and that more than 14 months have already passed since we last stepped on campus. But in the past year, quarantined at home, I couldn’t help but revisit that conversation once again.

With the tragedies of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Ahmaud Arbery, among too many others, in addition to the growing anti-Asian American sentiment epitomized by the “Wuhan virus” epithet, this past year has truly exposed the broken state of race relations in this country.

And then, in March of 2021, a self-proclaimed Christian terrorist targeted three massage parlors in Atlanta, leaving eight dead — six of whom were Asian-American women. This tragedy in Atlanta was a final wake-up call: a call for me to reflect on what it means to be an Asian American, and what it means to be a Christian in the United States.

These events led me to think about activism — or more precisely, why I still felt an aversion to it. But in spite of the countless tragedies and calls to action over the past year, in a time where unified social activism is more important than ever, I noticed I still had a sort of apprehension, a sort of fear of the activism world. This fear led me to ask, why?

And I knew I wasn’t alone in this sentiment. From talking with friends, I learned that many others felt the same way, that we were all scared to step into the world of activism. This prevalent apprehension was further exposed to me during my time as a mentor in Pomona’s Asian American Mentorship Program (AAMP): when deciding committees for the spring semester, I noticed that the activism committee was the only one that almost nobody signed up for. In fact, it was one of the only committees that had to pull people (myself included) from other groups in order to fill its ranks. Everybody voted for its inclusion, and yet nobody was willing to serve on it.

These experiences begged the question: Why does activism carry this baggage of fear, this aura of inaccessibility?

Activism, at heart, is good — pooling individual effort in pursuit of a common goal of social change. As a Christian, I know that the Bible champions activism, calling us to fight for justice and equity (Proverbs 31:8–9, Isaiah 1:17, Proverbs 21:13, Isaiah 61:1–11). So what is it about modern activism that causes it to be feared, rather than celebrated?

In my (limited) experience with activism, I believe it seems unapproachable to many due to two key reasons — the prevalence of jargon in woke culture, and the pervasiveness of call-out culture amid a demand for perfection.

For example, it was confusing for me to find that the “Defund the Police” movement doesn’t necessarily mean fully defunding and abolishing the police, but rather diverting excess funding from them towards other initiatives like police reform and community support. Other common terms are intimidating if you don’t have prior experience with them: e.g. microaggression, appropriation, intersectionality, heteronormativity, and so on. This language makes it hard for newcomers to even understand the conversation, much less contribute. Furthermore, these newcomers can be cancelled for simply not being educated on what these terms mean — the stakes are high for saying something “wrong”, regardless of one’s good intentions (such as being called out for tone-policing).

This brings me to my second point, on call-out culture and the demand for perfection within activism. Perhaps the biggest reason why activism seemed so unapproachable to me was because of this expectation to do “more”; I’ve even hesitated to simply repost a social media post, out of the fear of being condemned for performative activism. I understand that these actions are all well-intentioned. But due to these high expectations of work and contribution, I was afraid to even begin.

The funny thing is, I’ve come to realize that these issues aren’t unique to modern-day activism. As a Christian who was raised outside the church, I noticed these very same issues within my experiences with Christian evangelism. In fact, “Christianese” is just as confusing (and even damaging) as social justice lingo — I know I’ve had many past experiences of people accosting me in the name of Jesus, when I hardly knew who that was. Needless to say, these encounters did not compel me to investigate who this Jesus was. Continuing along these parallels, mainstream evangelism is just as guilty of call-out culture. I’ve seen Christians accuse others of not devoting their whole lives to Jesus, question each other’s faith by their taste in music, fashion, and other media, harass each other for differing opinions regarding social and political issues — all of which only served to deter me from the religion.

So, this connection led me to reflect: How did I become Christian, despite the repelling forces of mainstream evangelism? What succeeded where mainstream evangelism failed?

For me, I came to find Christ through my friends. They invited me to come to church during my junior year in high school — so, I decided to give it a shot. As I began spending time in fellowship, I came to realize that the Christ I learned about in the youth group was vastly different from the Christ that popular culture presented, that the Christian God was one of forgiveness, of grace, of love — not one of scorn and contempt. And from the grace and kindness I experienced from my friends in church, I felt compelled to truly seek out Christianity for myself, without fear of judgement or shame. I didn’t become Christian through popular media or commercial evangelism — I discovered it through my relationships with friends, and learned more about the gospel through and from these relationships.

This, to me, is the essence of “relational evangelism”: intentionally reaching out to a friend that you trust, and nurturing them in their faith journey by building vulnerable dialogue and discussion. In doing so, not only did I learn so much more about the gospel — I found myself truly curious about God, free from worry and self-doubt. Consequently, I found relational evangelism to succeed everywhere mainstream evangelism could not.

So, this reflection made me consider: If relational evangelism can curb the failures of popular Christian evangelism, then can a similar approach help activism prosper?

This thought reminded me of something else that happened during my AAMP training. I was in a breakout room, discussing privilege and race by reading a past proposal for the creation of a Caucasian ethnic affinity group — Caucasian American Mentorship Program, or CAMP. Deep down, I didn’t quite understand why “CAMP” was a bad thing; while the proposal was pretty funny to read, I was confused as to why people were so outraged by it. Within the comfort of that breakout room, I found the courage to simply ask.

There, a friend patiently explained to me exactly why this “CAMP” proposal was preposterous — since ethnic affinity groups originated as spaces for solidarity in a predominantly white society, this concept just couldn’t make sense for Caucasian people. Following the discussion, I came away with a newfound perspective, and a newfound curiosity about this historical and racial lens to analyze the world: “critical race theory”.

In retrospect, I realized this conversation echoed my experiences with relational evangelism. I received a different perspective from people I trust, I was able to freely ask questions I had, and they responded patiently and graciously, giving me space to learn and grow. And after the breakout room discussion, I was left feeling curious to learn more — a stark contrast to how I felt about mainstream Twitter activism. This relational approach was effective in drawing me in, inspiring me towards the cause my friends were passionate about.

These stories weave together my main proposal: that perhaps focusing on relational activism, reaching out to friends about causes you’re passionate about, is a much more effective way to get more people interested and grow a movement. Because in these spaces of mutual trust, instead of immediately going on the defensive, people tend to lower their guard, be vulnerable, and open their minds to a different perspective. I don’t believe we can change the culture of activism overnight. But what we can do is show our friends why that culture is misleading.

For me, my ideal vision for activism is that breakout room during AAMP training, that random conversation before heading off to college — my ideal vision for activism is mutual dialogue shared between friends, everyone encouraging each other to learn and improve.

So, to my fellow activists, don’t solely look to repost Instagram posts and #blm/#metoo/#stopasianhate tweets — if you can, reach out to your close friends, and tell them about what’s going on. Share with them your burdens, your struggles, your dreams, and show them how they can be an advocate alongside you. Show them that activism isn’t something to shy away from — it’s something to embrace.