In honor of Asian Pacific American Heritage Month, ELCA Racial Justice Ministries invited Pastor Jill Rode to reflect on this topic. For more information on AAPI Heritage Month, visit Asian & Pacific American Heritage Month.

Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month brings me pride but also a complex mix of emotions. As a Korean American adoptee raised by a white Midwestern family, I have always felt my sense of culture, identity and belonging to be layered and, at times, uncertain. Though I celebrate this month, I also wrestle with where I fit within the broader Asian American narrative.

I was raised in a distinctly Midwestern way—rooted in traditions such as hot dish, a strong work ethic and the Lutheran Church. My parents were open about my adoption but didn’t actively explore or celebrate my Korean heritage. Not until I was in my 40s did I visit South Korea for the first time. That experience awakened something profound within me: grief, longing, connection and a growing sense of wholeness. Traveling alongside other Korean adoptees, I felt truly seen for the first time. Returning home brought a sense of reverse culture shock and marked the beginning of a deeper journey into my identity.

As an adopted Korean American, I often feel caught between worlds. In my family, church and community in Minnesota, I am perceived as Asian but feel culturally American. In Korean or Asian spaces, I share an ethnic identity but lack the language, cultural fluency and lived experience. This “in-between” identity can feel isolating.

That sense of being an outsider resurfaced during recent immigration enforcement activity in Minneapolis-St. Paul, where I live. Despite having been a U.S. citizen for nearly my entire life, I found myself double-checking my adoption paperwork and carrying my passport—reminders of how fragile belonging can feel.

In such moments, I turn to my faith. The Bible and church history are filled with stories of people shaped by adoption, migration and the search for home—people who lived in-between identities. These stories remind me that there is space for everyone, including me.

My path as a Korean adoptee may not be traditional, but it is meaningful. My in-betweenness is not a deficit—it is a bridge between cultures, a testament to resilience and an invitation to keep learning and growing.

During this Heritage Month, I choose to engage more intentionally with my roots. I plan to attend cultural events, connect with other Korean adoptees and seek out stories that reflect my journey. I celebrate the richness and diversity of Asian and Pacific Islander communities, recognizing that my story is one unique thread in a larger tapestry.

Ultimately this month reminds me that identity is not fixed—it evolves. I can honor both my Korean origins and my American upbringing while embracing the path adoption has shaped for me. I am grateful for the chance to reflect, connect and grow, and for the hope that all adoptees can find belonging and pride in their stories. In faith, I believe there is a place for all of us at God’s table.

Jill Rode (she/her) is a lifelong Lutheran with more questions than answers. She currently serves as co-pastor of St. Anthony Park Lutheran Church in St. Paul, Minn. As a Korean adoptee who has only recently started to untangle her adoption story, and as a queer female, she is interested in the intersections of the various identities we each hold and what those intersections can teach us about God’s character.

For more information on ELCA API Ministries, visit:  Asian & Pacific Islander Ministries in the ELCA and About | Association of Asian and Pacific Islanders of Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, AAPI-ELCA

From Rev. Teresita “Tita” C. Valeriano, Program Director, Asian and Pacific Islander Ministries

API Ministries Second Quarter 2026

In honor of National Day of Awareness for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Girls, and Relatives (MMIWGR), which is observed on May 5 each year, ELCA Racial Justice Ministries invited Isabell Retamoza to write on this topic.

Source: MMIWGR Toolkit Socials

Truth, Honor and Remembrance: MMIW Awareness Day in the ELCA

By Isabell Retamoza

On May 5, communities across the United States will gather in remembrance and solidarity to honor missing and murdered Indigenous women (MMIW), girls and Two-Spirit people[1].

The alarming rates of abduction, disappearance and murder of Indigenous women, girls and Two-Spirit people represent one of the most devastating and ongoing injustices facing tribal nations and Indigenous communities. On some reservations, Native women experience murder rates more than 10 times the national average.^[2] Two-Spirit individuals face exceptionally high levels of violence, with studies indicating that between 78% and 85% have experienced gender-based violence, sexual assault or physical violence.^[3] These disappearances and deaths are frequently connected to domestic and dating violence, sexual assault, stalking, sex trafficking and other longstanding harms impacting Indigenous communities. Nearly 96% per of the time the perpetrators of this violence are non-Native men.[4] 

To honor and remember those lost, many people wear red or paint red handprints across their faces as symbols of visibility for those who have been made invisible. But MMIW Awareness Day is not only about remembrance; it is also a call to truth-telling and advocacy.

MMIW Day of Awareness calls us to:

• Honor the lives of missing and murdered Indigenous women, girls and Two-Spirit people.
• Raise awareness of the disproportionate levels of violence experienced by Indigenous families and communities.
• Support community efforts of grassroots advocacy and organizing to change laws, policies, protocols and resource allocation at the tribal, federal and state levels.
• Share and discuss the history of state-sanctioned violence perpetrated by the U.S. government against Indigenous people and communities to better understand the roots of this crisis and drive meaningful legal reform.

This crisis is neither isolated nor random. It is the result of centuries of state-sanctioned and structural violence. Rooted in colonization and genocide, U.S. policies forcibly removed Indigenous peoples from their ancestral lands, fractured families and kinship systems, and devalued Indigenous culture. These harms continue today through jurisdictional failures, underfunded services, extractive industries built near tribal lands, and systems that repeatedly fail to protect Indigenous women, girls and Two-Spirit people or that hold perpetrators accountable.

For the church, MMIW Awareness Day is also a moment of moral reflection. Christian institutions were often complicit in the systems that enabled this violence, including forced assimilation and boarding schools. Honoring this day meaningfully requires more than acknowledgment; it calls us to recognize the truth expressed through action, solidarity and sustained commitment to justice.

Honoring MMIW Awareness Day in Your Congregation

ELCA congregations can mark May 5 in meaningful and respectful ways, including:

• Wearing red (T-shirts available from the ELCA) and taking pictures.
• Using social media to raise awareness. Use the hashtags #MMIW, #NoMoreStolenSisters, #TruthandHealing and #ELCA 2.
• Organizing a prayer vigil (with this resource).
• Including MMIW in your congregation’s prayers for the day.
• Saying the names of MMIW (especially meaningful if you research and identify MMIW specific to your region or locality) and lighting candles for them during worship.
• Inviting (and compensating) a local Indigenous expert to share on this topic as part of your educational time.
• Inviting (and compensating) local Indigenous musicians to play or sing during worship.

As members of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, we are called to bear public witness to truth, even when that truth challenges us. On May 5, may we commit ourselves not only to remembrance but to action that honors Indigenous lives.

For more information on how your congregation can get involved and honor MMIW Day of Awareness on May 5, please visit the ELCA website and download the MMIW Toolkit.

Isabell Retamoza is a citizen of the Cherokee Nation, a law student at the University of Illinois Chicago School of Law and is a member of St. Andrew Lutheran Church in San Diego.

[1] “Two-Spirit is a term used by some Indigenous people to describe roles, responsibilities, and identities that exist outside colonial understandings of gender and sexuality. For many, Two-Spirit is interrelated to expression, language, tradition, and/or ceremony, often carrying inherent responsibilities to the well-being of the land and community.” Understanding The Term ‘Two-Spirit’ — Wabanaki Two-Spirit Alliance, https://w2sa.ca/two-spirit-library/understanding-the-term-two-spirit.

^[2] National Indigenous Women’s Resource Center, www.niwrc.org/mmir-awareness.

^[3] Balsam, Kimberly F., et al., “Culture, Trauma, and Wellness: A Comparison of Heterosexual and Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Two-Spirit Native Americans, Cultural Diversity & Ethnic Minority Psychology, 2026, vol. 32, issue 2 (April), doi.org/10.1037/1099-9809.10.3.287.

[4]   The National Congress of American Indians Policy Research Center, Key Statistics | NCAI, https://www.ncai.org/section/vawa/overview/key-statistics.

In observance of Arab American Heritage Month, ELCA Racial Justice Ministries invited Dr. Ryan LaHurd to share his thoughts on this topic with our readers.

April is Arab American Heritage Month. As an Arab American, I might be expected to write about all the great things Arab Americans have contributed to our culture. But as I think about anti-Arab attitudes in the United States and the massive destruction of innocent lives in the Middle East, I must focus on something more substantial.

We used to hear that Inuit people have hundreds of words for snow. The later correction is that they have dozens. But the principle remains: people have words for things that are important to them. In the U.S., we have no useful word for prejudice against Arabs. Some people speak of “anti-Arab racism.” But Arabs are not a race. Arabs are a cultural group from many different countries whose primary language is Arabic. Others describe such prejudice as “orientalism.” But that term denotes anti-Arab stereotypes from early colonialism: the belly dancer, the “camel jockey.” People uneducated, uncultured and unclean.  Since 9/11, we have heard about “Islamophobia.” This word refers not to Arabs but to the religion of most Arabs. Unhelpfully, using it reinforces a common misunderstanding that all Arabs are Muslims and that all Muslims are Arabs. In fact, an estimated two-thirds of Arab Americans are Christian.

So what’s the problem with our having no word for such prejudice? Back to linguistics. We have words for things that are important to us. No word = not something we care about. Furthermore, studies have demonstrated that we notice the things for which we have names. For example, study participants who spoke Russian — which has separate words for blue, light blue and dark blue — were much more likely than English speakers to distinguish lighter or darker hues on blue-colored paint chips.

Prejudice against Arabs and Arab Americans tends to be ignored — except, of course, by its victims. But it exists, and, like all ethnic and racial prejudice, it matters. In the U.S., such prejudice goes back to the earliest Arab immigrants, considered nonwhite and from “inferior” cultures. For example, my family name is transliterated from the Arabic as “Lahoud” (rhymes with “the food”). It means “the one who stands alone” and refers to Jesus, identifying our family’s roots in early Christianity. My grandfather had so much trouble getting jobs because of anti-Arab prejudice that he changed our name to “LaHurd” to make it look and sound French.  He got jobs but lost our history.

People whose lives we do not see, attend to or care about are much less likely to be considered the neighbors Jesus commands us to love and are much more easily dehumanized.  We have seen the tragic effects of such dehumanization recently in Israel, Lebanon and Palestine, where tens of thousands of innocent people, mostly children and women, have died and where millions more lives have been disrupted. Israel encouraged such dehumanization when it built walls and passed laws that eliminated contact between Jews and Arabs. Studies have unfailingly shown that having even a single personal connection with someone of another religion, race or ethnic group significantly reduces one’s prejudice against that group. Social psychologists call this the “contact theory.”

So I urge you to meet an Arab American, preferably a recent immigrant, and to hear their story. If that’s not possible, read such a story. Just be sure it’s a story written by an Arab. In his book The Message, U.S. writer Ta-Nehisi Coates argues, “If Palestinians are to be truly seen, it will be through stories woven by their own hands — not by their plunderers, not even by their comrades.”

As the great 12th-century Muslim philosopher Ibn Rushd wrote: “Ignorance leads to fear, fear leads to hatred, and hatred leads to violence. That is the equation.” That word “equation” reminds me of one last thing — Arabs invented algebra! We’re awesome.

Ryan LaHurd is president of the ELCA’s Association of Lutherans of Arab and Middle Eastern Heritage (ALAMEH). He retired as president of the James S. Kemper Foundation in Chicago. Previously he was president of the Near East Foundation, an operational foundation doing development work in the Middle East and Africa.  From 1994 to 2002 he served as president of Lenoir-Rhyne University in Hickory, N.C.

For more information: please visit Arab & Middle Eastern Ministries in the ELCA

The following reflection is cross posted from the Minneapolis Area Synod of the ELCA blog. The original post can be found here.

By Bishop Jen Nagel

“When the day of Pentecost had come they were all together in one place . .  . Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them.”  – Acts 2 

May 25th marked the 5-year Angelversary of the murder of George Floyd. That Sunday evening, as part of the Rise and Remember Festival and at the invitation of the ELCA Racial Justice Ministries, I joined a number of you for a fabulous concert featuring Sounds of Blackness and a moving vigil. We gathered beforehand on the steps of Calvary Lutheran Church, just a block south of George Floyd Square. ELCA Racial Justice Director Jennifer DeLeon grounded us for the evening, reminding us that people come to this event holding both memories and hopes, lament and a call to action. If you haven’t been to George Floyd Square lately (or ever), consider making a pilgrimage and ask for a community guide to share this sacred space with you or your group.  

Photo credit: Pastor Melissa Pohlman

The sun was low when the concert ended. Theologian and community leader Jeanelle Austin stepped onto the stage to prepare us for the vigil. Volunteers quietly distributed candles. Now, let’s be clear: These were not the smaller candles we often hold during a Christmas Eve candlelight service, candles that flicker through a few verses of Silent Night and are soon extinguished. Instead, these were large tapers, ready for the long duration of the vigil and all it would include.  

Austin described the plan: With candles lit, Brass Solidarity would lead us north past the spot where George Floyd was murdered, past exhibits and memorials filled with the names and stories of BIPOC individuals from around the country who have been victims of systemic racism and violence. We would turn west and go a block to Say Their Names Cemetery where over a hundred symbolic headstones bear the names of Emmett Till, George Floyd, Philando Castile, Jamar Clark, and dozens more. Anticipating the moment, Austin explained that we should move down into the cemetery and find a headstone where we would “hold space” as the youth and young adult musicians of Kamoinge Strings played several pieces, and then we would close with a prayer.  

Holding space. As the sun set and night came, hundreds of us settled in around the headstones. Some people stood, some sat in the cool grass. Candle flames flickered and wax dripped. Music swelled. It was beautiful and incredibly sad all at once. I held space by the stone of a 17-year-old named Jordan Davis who was killed in Jacksonville, Florida, in 2012.  

Holding space means creating a safe — yet also brave — environment in which people, with all our emotions, can be present and remember. I keep thinking of exercise classes and how they remind me to engage my muscles as I move this way or that. Holding space means figuratively engaging our muscles. It takes time. It makes us tired. It can be uncomfortable. If we do it well, we’ll grow stronger, we’ll gain endurance. I find that holding space is often profoundly moving. It’s holy work.  

In times like these, the temptation is strong to move through these anniversaries – this pain, this trauma – passively, without really engaging. Holding space invites us into the vulnerable recognition that the world is not yet as it should be, and we are called to be present, engaged, honest to the grief and all the moment holds, and ready to be part of the change.  

This Sunday we’ll celebrate Pentecost and the Holy Spirit’s movement. We believe that love is stronger than hate, that life is stronger than death, and that together, by the Holy Spirit’s power, we can be part of God’s new creation. That was my prayer as we held space with the sun setting and the candles flickering. That is my prayer today. May it be so.  

In honor of International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination (March 21), ELCA Racial Justice Ministries invited the Dr. Robin Lauermann, Ph.D. to share some thoughts about the annual board retreat held in Montgomery, AL of the ELCA Association of White Lutherans for Racial Justice and their work to end racism and dismantle white supremacy.

Front exterior of The Legacy Museum, a civil rights museum, explaining the civil rights movement in the US, in Montgomery Alabama, United States. Photo: Equal Justice Initiative

One of the first exhibits in the Legacy Museum. Photo: Equal Justice Initiative/Human Pictures

The National Memorial for Peace and Justice. Photo by Equal Justice Initiative https://legacysites.eji.org/about/memorial/

In late January, as part of the annual board retreat of the ELCA Association of White Lutherans for Racial Justice, I moved attentively through the Legacy Museum, established in Montgomery, Ala., by the Equal Justice Initiative (EJI). With my mind spinning from its stark and stimulating exhibits, which present the history of white supremacy from slavery to segregation to mass incarceration, I entered the final exhibit hall to see a familiar face: that of Anthony Ray Hinton. My heart leaped in instant recognition, with a mix of lament and joy.

I had learned about Hinton when I first visited Montgomery in 2016 as part of a multistate civil rights tour, meeting with veterans of the movement and visiting such important sites as the EJI offices. Staff members there explained the initiative’s work challenging injustice in the legal system, through both legal representation and policy advocacy. Their remarks expanded what I had learned from the book Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption, whose author, Bryan Stevenson, is founder and executive director of the EJI.

Due to mistaken identity, Anthony Ray Hinton was wrongly convicted of two murders and spent 30 years on death row. Ultimately EJI secured his release. Most poignant to me was a video that covered Hinton’s reentry into society: the scope of the years taken from him was shown by his learning to use technology unavailable before he was incarcerated — not a cell phone, not satellite radio, but an ATM. An ATM! As soon as Hinton’s book, The Sun Does Shine: How I Found Life, Freedom, and Justice, was published in 2019, I read it and reflected anew on the challenges his story revealed about the criminal justice system.

When I saw Hinton’s face in a museum display, he gazed at me from a row of visitation carrels. He wore prison scrubs and sat in a stark room. I approached the display, lifted a phone handset from the wall and listened as Hinton briefly recounted his story, his gaze never breaking from mine. His visual state contrasted with my knowledge of his freedom, and I thought again of him learning to use the ATM.

I continued around the room, stopping to hear from others. I listened intently to Kuntrell Jackson, who shared how his sentencing to life in prison at age 14; EJI would later represent him before the Supreme Court in a case that would overturn mandatory life sentences for children. Monica Washington told me about her sexual assault by a prison guard; EJI’s complaint would lead to a federal investigation of widespread abuse and to prosecutions of corrections staff. Hinton, Jackson and Washington were just three of the people whose stories were shared in the exhibit and for whom EJI has advocated.

The retreat weekend was both intense and inspiring. In addition to the museum, we visited EJI’s National Memorial for Peace and Justice, which commemorates of racial terror lynchings that began in the South at the end Reconstruction. These visits renewed my lament at the way white supremacy has dehumanized others, disregarding their creation in the image of God. However, the visit also inspired hope, even amid backsliding government policies designed to protect the rights of marginalized communities.  Encounters with history provide us with models of courage and strategy by leaders. The work of EJI shows the possibility of contemporary nonprofit and other collective efforts to promote change. Hinton’s story likewise stands at the crossroads of two legacies: one of disregard and violence, the other of advocacy and hope.

Robin Lauermann holds a Ph.D. in political science and is currently completing a certificate in theological studies at United Lutheran Seminary. She teaches and researches political behavior, institutions and change in U.S. and comparative politics. Robin currently serves as a board member of the ELCA Association of White Lutherans for Racial Justice.

To honor Transgender Day of Remembrance which is observed on November 20 each year, ELCA Racial Justice Ministries invited Vicar Vica-Etta Henrietta Steel to share some thoughts with our readers.

Editor’s note: Our author intentionally capitalizes the word queer throughout. While this capitalization may not be congruent with style guidelines, ELCA RJ Ministries supports this style decision.

Each year, on Nov. 20, the Transgender Day of Remembrance is observed across the nation. Each year, the vast majority of the transgender people who are murdered are Black and brown transgender women. People gather to mourn, to light candles, to say the names of those who have been murdered. 

Each year we gather. Each year.

The Transgender Day of Remembrance is a day to call for justice for transgender people. The day of remembrance is a day to call for racial justice. The harm done to our transgender family in this nation, and across the world, is a racial justice issue. 

The transgender community is under constant and growing attack. Over half the states in the nation have enacted or are considering laws that take medical care, safety and opportunities from our transgender family (for more details, see Erin Reed’s “Anti-Trans Legislative Risk Assessment Map: September 2024 Edition”). According to Nature Human Behavior, rates of attempted suicide by youth and young adults have skyrocketed, up to 72%, in states where anti-transgender legislation has been enacted. These laws harm all of us, but the greatest harm is done to those who face multiple marginalizations, specifically BIPOC, disabled or neurodivergent people. Too often, people in America have become injured to the reality of murder and harm. Complacency becomes complicity and the horror of murder being normalized in the broader society is magnified in our marginalized communities. 

I cannot speak here of all the harm done to transgender people. It would be too much for you to read. It is too much for my heart to take. All I can do is share some of what I experience as a Queer woman who is transgender and lesbian. I am white. I tell you this because when I came out to the world, when I lost access to the privilege afforded me as one who had presented as if I were a white man, I learned how much privilege I hold, still. 

When I tell you that I have learned to be wary of police and cautious of men, do you understand that as privilege? My wariness grows from a fear that, if I am arrested, a person who carries authority in a gun will place me in a holding cell with men. I do everything I can to avoid that harm. When I travel alone, I drive the speed limit and obey all traffic laws. If I see police officers at a roadside gas station, I get back on the road and continue driving. I take precautions to make certain it is safe for me to use the same bathroom other women use. (I always travel with a change of clothes and other materials so I can avoid a stop if it isn’t safe.) Do you understand the danger we who are transgender face in this world where our right to exist is open to debate? Where we are not allowed to be present when cis people legislate or argue our fates? Where fear of our existence is sold across the nation for the political gain of those who prosper from harm? Where even people and organizations that claim to be our allies choose silence in the face of open expressions of transphobia? The need to be safe is a real concern. Also, I do not fear being shot by those same police for simply existing. It is my privilege to fear rather than experience the unjust incarcerations that are the reality for far too many Black and brown transgender women (for a more detailed analysis, see the Movement Advancement Project report “Unjust: How the Broken Criminal Justice System Fails Transgender People”). 

I write here to share that it is long past time for us all to speak with and lift the voices of our transgender family, especially the Black and brown women in our circles. The Transgender Day of Remembrance is a day of racial justice. Trans joy and trans uplift are racial justice issues. I hope that we all integrate the work toward justice for and with Queer communities, especially transgender communities, into the work toward racial justice. 

As core work toward racial justice, I urge you to follow the writing of Black transgender women who help everyone understand transgender people’s stories of pain and joy. If you don’t know where to start, I offer the leadership of Imara Jones and her work at TransLash.org. Seek out Transgender Day of Remembrance services in your communities or online. Find and say the names of those murdered each year. I pray that we all begin.

Vica-Etta Henrietta Steel is in ministry at St. John’s Lutheran Church in Madison, Wis. She is also the developer of JustBe Ministry, an inclusive ministry in the public square, rooted in Queer community with a focus toward centering BIPOC Queer voices and the voices of all who have been historically and are currently excluded. She works to lift trans joy in a world that gives us so much pain.