What is the Theologian's Task in an Age of Fear?
How my Lola Inspired Me to Study Theology and Race
I was born and raised in the Philippines, where my lola (English: “grandmother”), Mama Lilia, taught me how to do theology. Though she did not live with my family, she would visit multiple times a year during my childhood. And every time she visited, she would garden the soil of our front yard and water the plants, after which she would intently read her Bible and pray for hours with soil-stained fingers and a cup of morning coffee.
One day, I saw her with shears in her hands, pruning dead leaves. With every snip, Mama Lilia spoke to the plants (yes, she spoke to them), saying, “I’m sorry, my darlings. I’m sorry. I know this hurts, but I am doing this for your own good.”
Perplexed, I wondered why she spoke to plants. They had no ears to hear nor eyes to see. They could not receive her words of comfort, nor did I think they felt the pain of Mama Lilia pruning their dead leaves.
She saw me perplexed. With a smile, she gently corrected me, “Yanan, you need to listen closely.”
She added, “The plants breathe like us, too. Like us, they can feel pain.”
After saying these things, she continued to garden. And as she finished, she followed her daily liturgy and spent time with Jesus during their allotted time together every morning. She listened for his words in the scriptures, and prayed intently for her friends, loved ones, and the many needs of the world.1
But, what does this short anecdote have to do with race and theology?
Mama Lilia once told me, “Yanan, you need to listen closely.” In all my life, I have never heard wiser words. When studying theology, it is very easy for the theologian to hide behind thick curtains, writing many pages and words with little to no attention to the needs of their neighbors and the world around them.
Theology ought not to be an abstract or impersonal discourse. What I mean by that goes back to Mama Lilia’s daily liturgy — specifically, the ways in which her nourishing work of gardening and her devotion to Christ are deeply entangled. Her love-made-extravagant through gardening is precisely informed by her daily encounters with Jesus, while her time spent in the Word and prayer bring her back to the garden with “ears to hear” and “eyes to see” (Matthew 13:16). This is why she is able to hear things that I was not able to hear. Because, though I had ears, I was not listening.
How many theologians today continue to study theology and write theology without listening? How many theologians today continue to “preach” and “proclaim,” yet turn a blind eye to the voices of those who are marginalized and silenced among us? How many theologians today know the biblical languages by heart, and have written countless books and essays for academic journals, yet choose not to heed the voices of their Black, Brown, Asian, Indigenous, and Latinx neighbors — the racism, oppression, and fear they face on a daily basis?
Indeed, are we listening? And are we listening close enough?
Mama Lilia’s call to “listen” and to “listen closely” resonates with me when I think about the task of the theologian. Today, race and racism pervade worldwide as Indigenous lands and peoples continue to be exploited by fast fashion; as industrial pollution ravages many Majority World countries through storms and typhoons; as Black people and other people of color continue to live in fear of police brutality. How are our theologians today responding to these global crises? Where are the voices of the exploited and silenced in our theologizing? And even creation itself… where is the voice of the land, of plants, of animals, and all kinds of creatures, as they all “groan” for liberation from “bondage to decay,” and thus long to be “brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God” (Romans 8:18-25)?
This is why race is so important. It is because the logic of race continues to dictate the lives of multitudes of people and their lands for the profit and benefit of the wealthy few. The tragedy is that many theologians today are not only ignoring these racial realities, but actively advocating for the oppression of the poor, as has been felt with the rise of Christian nationalism through January 6. Reckoning with January 6’s theological undertones, theologian Tish Harrison Warren asks:
So what are we to do? How can we move forward as Christians when it seems our very churches have become the epicenters of post-truth? How can we walk in the way of Jesus when his illumination has been traded for conspiracy theories and apocalyptic scare tactics? How do we embody beautiful orthodoxy—truth and light—under the long shadow cast by a cross draped in a MAGA flag on the Capitol lawn?2
These questions are important. It has been two years since the Capitol was besieged by white nationalists, but the story is not over. Many people continue to write about January 6, analyzing the implications of the symbol of Jesus’ cross “draped in a MAGA flag on the Capitol lawn.” The story of race continues, and as we have seen and continue to see, theology is not separate from this conversation. Instead, theology is very much embedded in this discourse. And we need theologians who can shed light on the complicated and perplexing situation of race.
I’ve tackled a lot in this week’s piece on the task of the theologian. But I want to return to Mama Lilia, whose wisdom illuminates for me the theological necessity to listen — to broaden our perspectives to see and to hear, and thus to listen to the voices among us who have been silenced amid the clamor of modern politics and the noise of news feeds. Yes, are we still listening to both the voice of Jesus and the voices of those around us?
Faith and work are not separated in the person of Mama Lilia. This is precisely because she knows Jesus, she walks with Jesus, she hears his voice, and she follows his voice back to the garden; back to her family, to her loved ones, to friends, to strangers, to neighbors, and to foreigners — all of whom she has consistently provided for and prayed for her entire life.
Her faith leads to action, and her actions are informed by faith. There is no dualism, no binary between her identity in Christ and her identities as a Filipina gardener and farmer, family matriarch, and provider for many. Her Christian discipleship is simultaneously a call to action — it is a call to provide, to love, and to love extravagantly. In many ways, Mama Lilia’s life is a testament to the Great Commandment that Jesus gives:
“Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”
Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”3
Mama Lilia is now 84 years old, and her faith continues to enliven generations of family members — her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I am indebted to Mama Lilia, who has taught me to listen closely to the voice of Jesus — that in the silence and chaos of life, I might be able to hear him and follow him. She has also taught me to listen to the voices around me, those whose voices have been silenced, so that they might be uplifted.
Silence can be deafening. But silence does not mean that all hope is lost. Maybe like my Mama Lilia, who is able to hear in silence the voice of God, maybe we can finally listen to the call of the Spirit to enact justice in the land. Remember the story in 1 Kings when Elijah fled Israel in fear, when many in Israel resorted to violence and evil. Seeking God for comfort, God revealed to him the sound of the Spirit’s voice — a voice so silent, as a whisper, a still small voice:
Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind, and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake, and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire, and after the fire a sound of sheer silence.
When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then there came a voice to him that said, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”4
Yes, what are you doing here, Elijah? Do not be afraid, for I am with you even in the silence. It is time to go and do something about what you have heard. It is time to do the prophetic work that I am calling you to do.
It is time to enact justice in the land of Israel.5
I wrote an article on Sojourners about this anecdote, expounding on how Mama Lilia’s wisdom informed my formation into postcolonial theology and eco-theology: “My Lola is Decolonizing the Garden of Eden.”
For more on January 6, read Warren’s full article for Christianity Today, “We Worship with the Magi, Not MAGA”.
Matthew 22:36-40, New International Version.
1 Kings 19:11-13, New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition.
This final paragraph is my creative interpretation and paraphrasing of God’s command to Elijah to appoint Hazael as king of Aram, Jehu as king of Israel, and Elisha as prophet, so that God’s justice in Israel might be fulfilled and upheld in an age of evil, horror, and fear.