My sister, Mary, and I—both naturalized American citizens—with the Olympic rings in Whistler, British Columbia, the site of the 2010 Winter Olympics.
I’ve been thinking a lot about two things lately: the Olympics and immigration. They don’t seem connected—but in my life they are.
Watching athletes march behind flags has a way of stirring pride—and also stirring questions. Questions about belonging, about identity, and about who gets to wear a country’s colors and who is forever asked to explain themselves.
Somewhere between the opening ceremonies and the nightly news, those two worlds have been colliding in my head.
I’m a naturalized American citizen—but I didn’t take the test. My parents did. They filled out the forms. They stood in the lines. They navigated the system so I wouldn’t have to. My citizenship was inherited before it was understood, and respect for authority came with it.
Growing up as the only Asian kid in my elementary school, authority meant structure. Structure meant stability. And stability meant safety. My parents always told me to keep my nose out of trouble and not to make waves.
So yes, I stand for the anthem. I feel pride when the flag goes up.
But while we’re counting medals and celebrating national pride, immigration has been dominating the headlines again—raids, protests, tension, fear. And it’s made me uneasy in a way that’s hard to articulate.
Part of it is personal.
I joke sometimes—half joking—that I’m probably next on the list to be hauled away by ICE. It’s said half in humor, half in recognition of something many immigrants understand instinctively: that possessing the paperwork doesn’t always erase the perception.
Citizenship may be official, but belonging can still feel conditional.
And that’s where Olympic pride and immigration collide.
Let me say something plainly.
Criminals—especially violent criminals—should be deported. Who wants thugs around? Wanting safe streets doesn’t make you heartless. Communities have the right to protect themselves.
But immigration isn’t just a policy debate. We live it daily through personal relationships. There’s something different about the nanny who watches your kids. About the workers on the horse farms who show up before dawn and leave without applause. About the people who do the jobs no one else wants.
They aren’t abstractions. They’re faces and voices woven into daily life long before anyone asks where they’re from—or how they stay.
When I see immigration stories unfold, I don’t just see arguments. I see people who look like me. People who have been asked, “Where are you from?” enough times to know the follow-up is never innocent.
Citizenship didn’t erase that feeling. It just gave me the official paperwork.
Talking with my civic-minded friends has sharpened the tension. We look at the same issues and see different threats. I talk about order. They talk about liberty. One of them told me, “Protest is how liberties survive. If people don’t push back, they disappear.”
That sentence makes me uncomfortable. Because you can disagree with protest, debate enforcement, argue law and order endlessly. But at the very least, we should be able to agree on this: no one deserves to die for speaking up.
This is where the Olympics quietly teach us something.
Every athlete marches behind a flag, but the stories that move us most are personal ones. Refugees competing without a country. Athletes born somewhere else, representing a nation that gave them a chance. People who crossed borders not for glory, but for survival.
National pride, at its best, celebrates excellence without erasing humanity. At its worst, it tightens into something ugly and brutal.
Jesus lived under an empire that loved banners and authority. He respected order—but He never confused it with righteousness. He didn’t issue policy papers. He noticed who was hurting. He touched people others avoided. He stood with the vulnerable even when it complicated the story.
Christians don’t have to choose between loving their country and loving their neighbor. But we do have to choose which one shapes our tone.
I can believe criminals should be deported and still see dignity in the people who hold up daily life. I can stand for the anthem and sit with those who feel unseen. I can feel pride and practice humility.
My parents stood in line so I could belong. Others are still standing—sometimes quietly, sometimes fearfully, sometimes invisibly.
As flags rise and medals are awarded, maybe the most faithful posture is this: to hold pride and compassion in the same breath.
Jesus is still asking the same question—Olympics or not:
Who is my neighbor?
I love this country, and I’m grateful to stand for its flag.
But a nation worth standing for is one that still knows how to kneel.
Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. He currently serves as a columnist for Nolan Group Media and invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. His latest book is Whining For Posterity, available on Amazon.
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