A Gospel for the Suburbs

To bring this series to a close, I want to reflect briefly on a question posed by Steve McCoy over at Reformissionary. Steve asks:

Do you think the suburbs are so difficult because by their nature they are a salvation from something else, a gospel delivering people from "sin," poverty, homelessness, interruption, filth, etc? In other words, when we try to give them the Gospel they generally won't listen because they already have one in the suburbs?

This is a great question. In fact, it's probably the most important question to ask. My purpose in taking up this series in the first place was to construct a framework in which to think about exactly this, and Steve states the question about as succinctly and accurately as anyone I've seen. Unfortunately, there isn't an easy way to make the answer nearly so succinct. This is a question that cannot be casually dismissed - it's the sort of question that we need to invite to become a part of our rhythms of life, a part of our narratives and practices both personal and communal.

One of the significant challenges that we face in answering this question is simply defining what, exactly, the gospel is. For my part, I see the gospel as an integral part of the biblical narrative - in other words, any framing of the gospel that doesn't make sense in the context of the whole of the Story is at best incomplete. In order to grasp the gospel, we need to begin to inhabit the biblical narrative, allowing it to define the problem to which the gospel is the solution. And we need read no farther than Genesis 3 to discover that any description of the problem that doesn't include our fractured relationships with God, each other, and Creation is woefully inadequate. This narrative grounding is what sets the Christian story in context; sin is tragic at least in part because of its scope. It's not just about me - it encompasses the entire cosmos.

But if we define the problem in a smaller way, so that the problem is my personal contentment and well-being, then a "gospel of the suburbs" becomes an easy remedy. And this gets to the heart of Steve's question. The "gospel of the suburbs" is tenable only when we've defined the problem in a way that fits such a response. But, I must ask, how small is that leap from the gospel as often articulated in twenty-first century American evangelicalism? If the gospel is personal, spiritual, and eternal - as opposed to cosmic, holistic, and present - then, I'd suggest, we've left a lot of room for other answers to the problem. The gospel of personal relationship is really no threat to the gospel of suburban existence - they can coexist peacefully, as should be patently obvious to anyone paying attention. So I can enjoy the pursuit of happiness now, so long as I don't offend God, and get to heaven when I die. It's the perfect suburban life.

I don't know another way to say this - we should be disturbed, profoundly disturbed, that this telling of the Story has such a grip on American Christianity. God's actions through the biblical narrative are always about calling a new people to practice redemptive living - to participate in a new way of being human, in opposition to the ways defined through sin and curse. How we tell this story makes all the difference - I can't emphasize this enough. Part of what we need to be doing as missional people is creating dissonance and dissatisfaction among our friends and neighbors so that we can realize together that the problem is bigger than can be solved by a nice house and an SUV. The gospel of the suburbs is ultimately a hollow one - but that realization is a stretch for many of the folks with whom we live and serve. In truth, it's often a stretch for me. Only through continual retelling and reenacting of the Story can we free our imaginations from the suburban ethos enough so that we can begin to truly live in the ethos of the Kingdom.

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, suburbs, gospel, narrative

A Theology of the Suburbs (p. 10)

I have one final post on a theological response to the suburban ethos, and then I think there's something of a wrapup post floating around in my head with a few concluding thoughts and some questions for further consideration, if anyone wants to take me up on that. ;) This has been a fascinating series on a personal level, as it began with a few guys from my MDiv cohort sitting around over lunch one Saturday afternoon trying to get a group project pulled together. I hadn't intended to keep it going this long, but there are so many elements to bring to the table in this discussion that it's not something lightly abandoned. I still feel as though I've only scratched the surface on this, so I wouldn't be surprised to see myself come back to it at a later point.

At any rate - the last bit that we discussed in relation to the suburban ethos was the fruit of isolation and rootlessness. When I wrote the original post, I was thinking largely in terms of geography, or about the suburbs as locations without a sense of place. We work in one place, we shop in another, our kids attend school in yet another, and our church is in still another. Geography has simply ceased to serve any sort of unifying or cohering function in suburban life. This results in dislocation, isolation, and what I'm choosing to call rootlessness, or lack of connection to our own homes and neighborhoods.

This presents a formidable challenge to any attempt to bear witness to the gospel. I want to suggest what might seem a surprising narrative response, followed by two significant practices. The narrative resource that we can offer in the face of isolation and rootlessness is, I believe, the hope of New Creation. Eschatology gets a bad rap these days, and frankly, for good reason. Most of what seems to get attention anymore sounds like horoscopes and tea leaves - and I think I'm being quite generous with that description. And let's be honest - Left Behind is an eschatology for the suburban ethos, marketing machine and everything. Why are we surprised that a theology that's all about escape and comfort - let's be honest here - should appeal to such a large segment of American Christianity?

I'm suggesting that we recover a true, robust, and deeply Christian eschatology, one that has its roots in the Old Testament promises of a New Creation and looks forward to mercy, justice, and shalom reigning forever. I want to hear about death passing away, about all things being made new, about oppressive empires being toppled and the poor and oppressed being lifted up. I want to hear about the restoration of the Image of God in humanity and about our final return to our true purpose. I want to hear about the restoration of right relationships between us and God, each other, and Creation itself. I want to hear, not about our escaping to some home far away in the clouds, but rather about home coming to us, right here, in the middle of the mess that we've made, when God takes what is broken and restores it to what it was intended to be all along. Christian eschatology is not about escape - it is about the Kingdom's fullness finally breaking into the present, resulting in the restoration of all things as they were always intended to be. And that's a narrative that makes the other version seem all pale and hollow, a pretender masquerading as something grand and glorious.

Why this narrative response? I contend that isolation and rootlessness had their origins in Genesis 3. More than anything else, Christian eschatology is about the final defeat of the power of the curse, the power from which isolation and rootlessness spring. And, in truth, we fool ourselves if we believe that anything less than the fullness of the Kingdom can bring them to an end. They find their source in our own brokenness.

To conclude, I offer two practices for consideration. The first is hospitality. I won't say much on this point - I'll instead point to an excellent bit of thought by David Fitch here on the subject. My thoughts are simply that I cannot think of a better way to live incarnationally in an isolated context than by making connections and by taking the startling steps of opening our lives to our neighbors.

The second practice is one that I think is fitting to bring these thoughts to a close. A recovery of a robust theology of the Eucharist would do much for churches that minister in suburban contexts. It has to become more than crackers and grape juice to us. The Lord's Table represents so much of what suburban culture does not. It celebrates our unity in a way that specifically critiques a culture of isolation. "Because there is one loaf, we, who are many, are one body, for we all partake of the one loaf," Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 10, and we would do well to remember that and celebrate it. In addition, more than any other element of our shared practice, the Eucharist is an eschatological tradition. It is a simultaneous looking back - "we proclaim the Lord's death" - and a looking forward - "until He comes". We are not, in truth, a rootless people. We are instead a community, bound together in hope, looking forward to the renewal of all things. And that, I believe, is a perspective that the suburban ethos can never offer.

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, suburbs, eschatology, hospitality, Eucharist

A Theology of the Suburbs (p. 9)

We've discussed the question of the primacy of the economic domain in suburban contexts, as well as the emphasis on the pursuit of happiness. I next want to take up the central praxis of suburban life, which I take to be the exercise of control-through-choice. This, I remain convinced, is a power dynamic that enables the suburban ethos to exist and to flourish. How are we to think of this dynamic in terms of the Kingdom?

First, I want to be explicit about one thing - there is nothing inherently wrong with choice, or even with power exercised through choice. It is a tool, nothing more. I am glad that I can choose - I can choose where I work, how I spend my leisure time, how and where I worship, and how I will spend my money. These are great things. Oppression, in some sense, is the removal of such choices; it is the removal of the freedom that is in some sense present even in the Creation narrative, where man and woman are granted the authority to act in God's stead to order Creation. What I think should concern us as those attempting to bear witness to the Kingdom in suburban contexts is the way in which we exercise choice. Choice is power, and as I've discussed elsewhere, the Kingdom demands of us a particular way of approaching power. We can exercise power in service of self, or we can choose to use power in the way of the Kingdom, by giving it away and using it to both serve and empower others.

For our narrative grounding, we need look no further than the Cross. I see no need to expand on these words from Paul:

Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death - even death on a cross! (Phil. 2:5-8)

I suggest here two practices that should work in tandem. The first is simplicity. In a context where happiness is defined as bigger-better-faster-more, a Kingdom ethos will instead look to live more responsibly. Rather than submitting to the will of the Market in its incessant drive for production and consumption, we should instead look to be economically responsible, being content with less, and seeking to use our resources in the way of the Kingdom - not in service to self, but in service to others. That, naturally, leads to the second practice - generosity. Besides being a practice deeply rooted in the Christian faith tradition, generosity can become the means by which we share our power in service to others. We give away the power of choice by enabling others to do the same, and in doing so, we identify more closely with the generosity demonstrated by Christ towards us.

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, suburbs, simplicity, generosity, Kingdom

Huzzah!

I just submitted my last assignment for my next-to-last course at Biblical. Well, technically, I also have a missions trip in June that has some course work attached to it, but I'm not counting that. ;) I've loved this program - it's been formative in more ways than I could possibly have imagined. But I'm also ready to be finished so that I can have a semblance of a life again, maybe even get more than six hours of sleep a night.

Would I do it again? Absolutely. Say what you want about seminary education, Biblical is doing some fantastic stuff with their programs. I can't tell you how deeply this has changed the way that I think about faith and scripture and community and theology and lots more. Still, it will be nice to be able to read at my leisure and to not have coursework sucking up my time like a black hole. One course + one trip = one happy seminary student.

A Theology of the Suburbs (p. 8)

In my previous post, I discussed the centrality of the economic sphere to the suburban ethos. One question that I raised to which I provided only a partial answer was this: who is telling the stories that shape the imaginations of those in suburban contexts?

This question is critical to addressing the idea of the pursuit of happiness as the focus of the suburban lifestyle. As I've mentioned before, happiness in this context is typically defined in terms of comfort, security, and personal fulfillment. And who is it that does the defining? I'd argue that it's primarily the voice of marketing and consumption. The stories that are told that give shape to the suburban ethos are, interestingly enough, primarily stories about lack. The irony is biting - the affluent are being told that they need more stuff to find fulfillment, and the story is being accepted and owned.

I've been listening to a lecture by Walter Brueggemann called The Narrative of the Gospel Vis-a-vis the Narrative of Our Consumer Society. (Thanks Chris! ;) One of the things that Brueggemann compares in the lecture is the Exodus story and the modern rat race. He makes the point - in typical Brueggemann fashion - that the Israelites were two verses out of Egypt before they wanted to go back. They leave in Exodus 15; by 16:2 they're already complaining. Although they left Egypt, they brought it along with them. The ideology of the empire is harder to defeat than its military, it seems.

The narrative response, then, to the pursuit of happiness is the Exodus story. We need to recognize that the stories that legitimate happiness as comfort and security are being told by those with a vested interest in our ever-increasing consumption and production. We need to recognize that our stories have been hijacked by this agenda, and that we haven't truly left Egypt behind. We have much in common with the people of Israel, it seems.

I'd like to suggest two practices that can help us to recognize the stories of our culture for what they are. One is personal, the other communal. First, on a personal level, I suggest that regular practice of silence and solitude constitutes a resistance against the omnipresent stories of advertising and marketing. Silence and solitude disrupts the continual refrain of advertising that comes to us through multiple channels - print, television, radio, internet, and the omnipresence of corporate logos. While it is surprisingly difficult to isolate oneself fully from these voices, even little resistances such as turning off the car radio and driving in silence can create a space in which the voice of marketing is not welcome - and, as a result, a space in which the voice of God can be heard.

The second practice is a communal one, and in some sense is perhaps the most basic of Christian practices in which we engage as a community. I think that the regular telling of the Story can serve to reorient ourselves away from the stories of the market. We tell the Story in our worship, in our preaching, and in our shared practices such as baptism and eucharist. But I think that, often, we assume that the meanings behind the practices are known, and we fail to give attention to the larger themes of scripture in our worship and speech. We don't tell the story as Story, but as disconnected bits and pieces of disembodied truth statements that have no coherence and no greater reference. Instead, we must enter into the Story, tell it as Story, and find our place in the Story so that we can tell it as our own.

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, suburbs, Exodus

A Theology of the Suburbs (p. 7)

I'm going to endeavor to wrap this series up in short order here - I've been mulling on a lot of stuff for a while now, and it's time for me to put my thoughts in order. For a quick review of where I'm heading, my summary post is here; all of the posts can be found here. I want to begin by tackling the question of the dominance of economics in the suburban ethos.

One question that I asked previously that still keeps me up at night is this: who is telling the stories that shape the imaginations of those in suburban contexts? This question is the reason that I've chosen to begin here. The pursuit of happiness may be the central concern of the suburban ethos, but the economic sphere provides the system of meaning in which the question of happiness is asked. This means, simply, that the way in which suburbanites think about happiness is primarily defined in terms of economics. And, consequently, the stories that we tell, the metaphors that we use, the very structures of our thinking are constantly being shaped by economic forces - marketing, employers, merchants, educators, and so on. In short, human worth is derived from the ability to produce and consume. Through the surrender of our imaginations to the Market, we become little more that units of production or members of a market segment - mere cogs in the wheel of commerce.

Our narrative response must begin here, with the recovery of a robust theology of the imago dei. For an absolutely wonderful treatment of this subject, I have to again plug Richard Middleton's The Liberating Image. Middleton suggests that the concept of the image of God in Genesis has its origins primarily in two ancient customs: the practice of kings setting up representations of themselves in distant lands to remind the inhabitants of who rules the land, and the practice of referring to those kings as the image or representation of the gods. In short, the ancient context for image was a legitimization of the divine power of kings and the subjugated nature of the people. The king, as the image of god, demanded the loyalty and service of the people, primarily in terms of their economic production. Genesis, however, subverts that view completely by stating that all people are created in the image of God. There is no divine prerogative of rulers here - all people have been granted authority to rule, to subdue and order the earth in keeping with the task assigned by God. In short, a theology of vocation has its beginnings here, with the granting of authority to continue the divine task of creation.

This, then, stands in sharp critique of the current elevation of the Market as the driving force behind suburban lifestyles. Human worth, human dignity, is not predicated on one's ability to produce and to consume. Human dignity comes from the divine task and the corresponding authority to carry out that task - the care of Creation itself. Economics - the Market - is a tool that, when used well, can help further the pursuit of that task. Nothing more.

This deserves a longer treatment. I offer these thoughts as a humble beginning of what I think is an absolutely significant and critical line of thinking that needs to be taken up by those of us in suburban contexts. But there is a practical connection as well. The Christian tradition, and the Jewish tradition from which it grew, offers a key practice that in and of itself critiques the dominance of the economic sphere. I am, of course, thinking of the practice of Sabbath keeping. Sabbath places bounds on the economic realm - it declares, on the one hand, that we are free from service to the Market, and on the other, that we are dependent on God. Sabbath breaks the rhythm of producing and consuming that defines life in suburbia and carves out sacred space in keeping with the praxis of God Himself. Is it any wonder that Sabbath is so rarely practiced, or that we who struggle to practice it are so much at the mercy of the Market? Keeping Sabbath is part of what it means to be human - to rest, to worship, and to be free from the domination of the Market.

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, suburbs, imago dei, Sabbath

A Theology of the Suburbs (p. 6)

Last week, I began reflecting on the subject of race and, in particular, how the question of the suburban ethos intersects with questions of race. I want to pick this up with some specific thoughts on the basic framework that I've proposed as a means of discussing the suburban ethos. I think it provides a helpful way to approach this discussion - we shall see, I suppose, if this proves to be true. To restate, my categories for this discussion are:

• Pursuit of happiness - the suburban context is oriented towards procuring comfort, security, and self-actualization for suburbanites.
• Centrality of economics - most suburbanites, consciously or unconsciously, approach life through the dominant sphere of economics. The primary metaphors, symbols, and values of suburban contexts are economic in nature.
• Control-through-choice - the attainment of happiness is accomplished through the exercise of choice in the market. Choice is used to control one's life circumstances; economics drive the power of choice. Power, therefore, is centered in the ability to exercise greater choice through purchasing power.
• Rootlessness and isolation - this exercise of power has the effect of insulating suburbanites from the impact of their choices. The result is a geographically disconnected world which is impermanent, transient, and increasingly isolated.

As I stated previously, the discussion of race issues intersects with this context in complex and convoluted ways. My own reflections make me wonder whether the suburbs are a cause or a symptom of racial inequality; I suspect that's something of a chicken/egg question, to be honest. If power is economic, then it follows that those who have access to capital are those with power. If power is exercised through choice, and the desired outcome is comfort and safety, then neighborhoods that begin to suffer depression and hardship will invariably begin to be abandoned by those with the ability to do so - a power dynamic if there ever was one. The result is an increase in the concentration of power (as capital) in the hands of those who are fleeing impoverished neighborhoods, and those who remain are derived of both power and choice because the capital has also left the neighborhood. And those individuals are more likely to be non-white.

That's really abstract and sterile. If you want to see what this looks like in practice, remember the images in the aftermath of Katrina. Again, it's a complex situation. But here's what Barack Obama, Senator from Illinois, had to say in the aftermath of the disaster:

Obama, the only African-American in the U.S. Senate, says "the ineptitude was colorblind." But he argues that while...there was no "active malice," the federal response to Katrina represented "a continuation of passive indifference" on the part of the government. It reflected an unthinking assumption that every American "has the capacity to load up their family in an SUV, fill it up with $100 worth of gasoline, stick some bottled water in the trunk and use a credit card to check into a hotel on safe ground." (source)

The power of choice, predicated on economic ability and exercised in pursuit of comfort and safety, has thus far resulted in greater racial isolation and has at the least contributed to the removal of that power from those in impoverished areas, who statistically speaking are much more likely to be of ethnicities other than white. And, as Landon rightly noted earlier, any theology of the suburbs that fails to address such concerns is one that is not true to the gospel. But I'm interested in your thoughts as well - does this ring true to you? Or have I overstated, understated, or otherwise misspoken?

Next up - the Kingdom response to the suburban ethos.

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, suburbs

I'm Back

Great weekend - I've basically done nothing since Friday. And I needed it. Between my family, a full-time job, and a full-time course load, I'm actually just glad to be functional - I've been pushing myself pretty close to the edge of what I can endure lately. By the middle of last week, I had run out of steam. Fortunately, I graduate in a few short weeks, so it's basically an endurance run at this point. At any rate, I'm back up to speed now, so regular posting resumes tomorrow. ;)

The Wall

I've hit the wall this week. I'm exhausted - physically and mentally. Plus, I've been nursing just enough of a cold to make me really miserable, while not being enough to warrant taking time off. Anyway - point is that I'm not getting my next post on the suburbs finished until Saturday. The topic is too important to slop together, and I can't think straight right now. ;) Be back in a day or two.

A Theology of the Suburbs (p. 5)

A few days ago, Landon asked a question related to my thoughts on a theology of the suburbs. He writes:

have you thought of how race would intersect with your statement of "the suburban lifestyle is predicated on the pursuit of happiness, primarily defined in a sort of neo-Epicurean desire for comfort, ease, and personal fulfillment"? if not, what would a shoot from the hip thought be on that for you?

I've been mulling the question ever since. To be honest, I have been thinking about it all along - it's been in the back of my mind through the whole series. However, I'm going to be forthcoming - I wasn't certain that I wanted to make my thoughts explicit. It's not that I don't think the topic is important - far from it! It's rather that I feel most unqualified to speak here. I have rarely felt as out of my element as I do at this very moment as I write this post. I feel as though I should be asking the questions and doing far more listening here than speaking. I am a thirty one year old middle class caucasian-American male, and I am about to step into waters too deep for me.

But step I will, even if I must do so cautiously and clumsily. First, in the interests of being a good host, I feel an obligation to my guests to respond. But, more importantly, I think that part of the problem that faces us is this reticence to enter the waters, so to speak, to join in constructive dialogue and thought and reflection and repentance. And, if I may speak frankly, this reticence is symptomatic of everything else that I've been discussing. I can avoid discussing these things, because I do not live them. In other words, my thoughts on race intersect with my thoughts on the pursuit of happiness in precisely this location: it is easier to seek my own comfort while I am ignorant of the suffering of others. I know of no other way to say that more plainly. We (I) avoid the conversation simply because we (I) can. Others, on the other hand, do not have that luxury. So I enter this question with a degree of hesitancy and a consciousness of my own inadequacy, asking for patience and grace for my own halting missteps as I do so.

To begin with, I want to describe my own context and identify the ways in which this particular question hits close to home, in fact quite literally. I live in the western Philadelphia suburbs in a neighborhood that's experiencing expansion and growth. According to the latest Census data (from this widget, which by the way is a fantastic tool that combines census data with Google Maps), within 1 mile of my home the population is 91% white, with a median income of nearly $70,000 and a median housing value of over $150,000. Those numbers are five years old now so the housing value is vastly understated, but it's important for the comparison I'm going to make. Now, when I pull the data for the next zip code over, I find a significantly different picture. Within one mile of that location, the population shifts to over 40% ethnicities other than white. However, the median income plummets to approximately $40,000, and the median housing value to around $95,000. If the data were available for smaller slices than an entire zip code, I can guarantee that the numbers could become even more stark.

I'm going to pause here. I want to reflect on those numbers, and more than that, on what (and who) those numbers represent. Obviously this is a small, small picture. I could provide more data like this, but to what end? I knew what I was going to find before I ran the search - the data only proved what I already knew to be true. In category after category, the contrast between these two neighborhoods is stark. The reality is that, although they are touching on the map, they are worlds apart. And I would wager that many, if not most, folks reading this post can recognize a familiar context in numbers such as this, one that could likewise be proven with a few clicks of a mouse but which is readily identified even without.

So how does the suburban ethos contribute to this contrast? More thoughts tomorrow...

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, suburbs