Remembering Rightly

I have sort of an ambivalent relationship with Memorial Day. Memorial Day here in the States is one of the holidays that we observe every year that is focused primarily on the military. It is intended to honor those of our military personnel who have died in combat (as opposed to Veterans Day, which honors those veterans who are currently living). Its observance among the general populace seems to be more an occasion to kick off the summer season of grilling, beach-going, and other sun-centric activities than it is an opportunity for remembrance and reflection. This I suppose is to be expected in a culture whose attention span makes remembering to walk the dog challenging - reflection is what one sees in the mirror rather than something one does actively and regularly. And I fully admit to doing little reflecting of the sort myself, although some of that is theological in nature as opposed to just plain old laziness. More on that in a moment.

I do think there is a value in remembering, in particular remembering times of trial and suffering and danger, if only to make us perhaps a bit wiser. But that, to me, is the catch - remembering in and of itself is neither good nor bad. What is in question is the purpose to which we put our memories; to what end do we remember? This may be on my mind of late because I've recently finished Volf's excellent The End of Memory. Volf offers some profound thoughts on the role and purpose of memory for the Christian - more on this also in a moment.

Memorial Day, then, is neither good nor bad - hence my ambivalence. Or, more precisely, I think it's wise and fitting to remember those who have died in warfare, to mourn their loss and to perhaps hope for something better. My ambivalence comes from the way that such memory has been co-opted into a vehicle for fueling current struggles. The sacrifices of yesterday are used to justify the sacrifices of today and to pave the way for the sacrifices of tomorrow. This is profoundly unwise and I believe dishonors those who we remember. No amount of memory of the past will turn present conflicts into just wars, and we are fools to participate in such nonsense.

I sat through one of the most profoundly disturbing Christian worship gatherings that I have ever attended yesterday - and I use the term "worship" loosely. I was visiting my parents this weekend, and my family attended their church on Sunday morning. I knew I was in for a long morning when I saw the prominence of the American flag on the stage upon entering the sanctuary - and I wasn't disappointed. From the singing of America the Beautiful during the worship to the sermon which was full of rousing support for the war on terror to the prayer in which we ostensibly asked God for victory to the video featuring numerous photos of soldiers to the soundtrack of "In Christ Alone" - the irony almost killed me - I felt as though I was being assaulted. I've seen some strange stuff in the arena of American civil religion masquerading as Christianity, but nothing has come close to the astounding display of "patriotism" that I witnessed yesterday.

I just sat in stunned silence. How can a Christian worship service address the question of war and never mention anything of peace? The word didn't show once, and I do not exaggerate. There was no talk of reconciliation, of love for the enemy, of the end of war in the Kingdom of God, or of the way of the Cross. None of the redemptive themes that make Christian reflections on war, well, Christian. Just an unquestioning embrace of current American foreign policy and the unspoken but very real implication that to disagree with said foreign policy is sinful.

Memory, for the Christian, is not about fueling and funding conflict. It is not about getting even; it is not about encouraging violence; it is not about celebrating death. Memory looks in two directions at once - it looks back to the past, while also looking forward to the future. And the future, for the Christian, is about the end of death and the reconciliation of all things. Remembering, for the Christian, fuels hope for the time when war itself will cease. It should, in other words, be redemptive. Should we remember those who have died in conflict? Absolutely - but let us remember all who have died, not just Americans, and let us do so mindful and hopeful of a time when war will be no more and death itself will die and fade to nothing.

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." (Rev 21:1-4)

Technorati Tags: Memorial Day, theology

Worship in a Storied World (p. 2)

I mentioned in the comments on my last post that I had an interesting experience this weekend as well. I attended my parents' church, which is a large Pentecostal church in rural Pennsylvania. For the record, I don't have anything in particular against Pentecostal or Charismatic churches - I consider myself something of a post-charismatic myself, to borrow a term from RobbyMac. And this is a fairly typical evangelical church, from what I can tell - I doubt that what I experienced would be much different from what many folks from any number of traditions experience on any given Sunday. At any rate - as I mentioned late last week, I've been mulling over this question of worship for what's now over a week. I openly admit that it's a bad, bad idea to go into a worship gathering already pondering what the experience will be like - it's distracting, and it makes it darn near impossible to actually participate in the worship gathering yourself. I don't recommend it. Still, it did highlight for me again some of the concerns that I had last week, about getting lost in the whole "personal" aspect of the gospel, while missing the cosmic thrust of the Story.

My friend Kristi suggested the following in the comments on the last post:

yes, modern worship songs are in part a result of the American/Western Evangelical church's focus on a gospel consisting solely of a personal salvation message, but also a result of a postmodern generation in search of relationship. Lasting relationships, that is. Our generation longs for commitment and dependibility, and darn it if "Jesus-as-my-girl/[boy]friend" doesn't resonate with that longing.

I agree with her assessment - I agree that what's attractive about a personal, spiritual, eternal gospel for many, many folks is the prospect of spending eternity in relational bliss, finding meaning and connectedness in a divine relationship that will always endure. And there's nothing wrong with that - that is a good thing. But it's myopic. I wonder, though, if what we're really after isn't relationship at all. Or let's frame it slightly differently - those of us who identify with the emerging church talk a lot about community, and I hear a lot of folks talking about how people are looking for a sense of community and belonging in our current context. But I'm not sure that's really it, on either level. I think what many folks want - to be honest, what I often find myself wanting - are the trappings of community and relationship without all that cumbersome baggage. I want the benefits, but I don't want to pay the dues. I want commitment and dependability - meaning, I want someone (or Someone) to be committed and dependable for me. But don't ask me to commit. That's a pain in the tail.

So I was mentioning the worship gathering at my folks' church on Sunday. It was a fairly typical evangelical-type worship set, lots of songs about how I love Jesus a whole lot, and how He loves me too. Fortunately, no Jesus-is-my-girlfriend songs - there's something to be said for that, I suppose. Then they started singing some songs about how, one day, Jesus is going to come back and take us home to be with Him, and won't it be just swell? And the sermon talked about how God can meet all of our needs, and how miracles don't exhaust God's bank or something like that, and how God wants to give miracles to people today, because He loves them a whole lot. And then folks came up to pray that God would give them the miracle that they need. And then we went to lunch.

And the thing that bugged me about the whole thing wasn't that it was wrong. I mean, I don't think there was a single thing in the whole service with which I'd really take issue, theologically speaking. Even the miracle stuff, even though it sounded a bit hokey, a bit like a televangelist, was ok - I do believe that God still works miracles, and there wasn't any sort of peddling of God's power like you see on TV, so I think that was just a tragedy of language being coopted by snake oil salesmen, so that now when anyone says "miracle" what people hear is something more like "send cash to the address at the bottom of the screen".

What I didn't like about it was that it was...small. The whole gathering felt like the Story wasn't much of a story. It was as if the narrative world of our grand tradition was collapsing in on itself, until it was a sad, pale, hollow shell of a thing. It wasn't the Story of God's redemption of all creation. It wasn't about the triumph of mercy and justice and the restoration of shalom. It wasn't even about God's formation of a new people, a new community in whom His redemptive work can be displayed. It was about how Jesus loves me - which isn't wrong, not at all. But it needs the context of the grand Story of God's redemptive purposes to make it meaningful and beautiful.

Physicists talk about black holes, about massive stars that, at the end, are defeated by gravity, so that they collapse and form an object so dense that not even light can escape. I wonder if that's what we've become - little black holes, all crushed in on ourselves, with no light to be seen because it can't escape the tragic collapse of our narrative world.

Technorati Tags: worship, narrative, story

Worship in a Storied World

One of my more interesting experiences at the retreat I attended last weekend was unexpected. It was actually a small thing, in a sense, but I haven't stopped thinking about it. The format of the retreat centered on several group sessions that were comprised of a lecture preceded by a short time of singing. One of the sessions included the song Draw Me Close, which is practically a classic among some branches of evangelicalism (for what that's worth). I've heard this song probably hundreds of times now and, while I don't find it particularly worshipful, I've never really been bothered by it until this weekend. What happened? About a minute into the song, something clicked in my brain, something entirely unexpected and completely irreversible. I heard the words being sung by Peter Cetera, backed by mid-eighties era Chicago. It was profoundly disturbing on so many levels, not least because it was completely plausible.

So what to do with such a disturbing image? I've been pondering the question of worship all week - what it is, what it isn't, and what makes something a good example of it. And I'm fairly certain that Jesus-is-my-girlfriend sort of worship isn't really cutting it. Lots of folks have offered better and more nuanced critiques of current worship than I, so I won't dwell on this point. But I think it's fair to ask what else we should expect when the gospel is reduced to a spiritual, personal, otherworldly sort of message. What other form would it take? Doctrinal statements set to music, perhaps? Equally bad, I'd suggest. Neither engages the sort of worship that we find pictured for us in the biblical narrative.

For context, let's consider Exodus 13, which tells of the institution of the Passover tradition among the people of Israel. God in this text tells of the purpose of the celebration, and in the process I think gives us a picture of what it is that worship does for us as a community:

On that day tell your son, `I do this because of what the LORD did for me when I came out of Egypt.' This observance will be for you like a sign on your hand and a reminder on your forehead that the law of the LORD is to be on your lips. For the LORD brought you out of Egypt with his mighty hand. You must keep this ordinance at the appointed time year after year.

Take note here of what is happening. This is a fascinating description of the worship tradition of the people of Israel, centered on their most important feast of the year. The Passover experience was absolutely not about a personal experience or encounter with the divine - although it would certainly engage each individual who participated in it. It was also absolutely not about articulating abstract doctrinal statements - although it certainly formed the basis for much of the belief system of the Israelites. So, in other words, while those two elements are in play, they're not the primary purpose. The worship tradition here is much more about serving as the memory of the community. It's about telling the story of what God has done, of how He has acted on behalf of His people within the pages of history. It also, by extension, calls attention to how He will continue to act in the present and future. In fact, the Psalms often present this in the framework of, "Remember your people, Lord, whom you brought out of Egypt."

Worship, then, is story telling. It is about shaping our imaginations by continuing to tell the Story of God, about calling each other to remember it and inhabit it, and encouraging us to find our collective place within that Story. It's about learning to trust what God will do because of what He has already done, and about remembering and telling that Story together as a community.

Technorati Tags: worship, narrative, story

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

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 - Restatement

I feel as though I need to pause for breath here, to summarize what I'm proposing as descriptive of the suburban ethos. I want to do this so as to frame my coming thoughts succinctly and to provide some structure for this. The reality is that, from this point, there are many directions that I desire to take. A part of me wants to continue this particular thread - there are elements that I haven't touched that desperately need addressing. A few that I would dearly love to tackle:

• Pace - The tempo of suburban life is one of continual acceleration. This deserves a response. I'm going to forgo this for the moment, because one of the books on my stack right now is Carl Honore's In Praise of Slowness, which I suspect will provide a better framework for approaching this question than I currently have.
• Networks - Although I believe isolation to be a significant force in suburbia, it is tempered by the transition from neighborhood to social network. What was once geographic and local is now something else - relationships are increasingly structured more like networks, with hubs around common interests or life situations. They also seem to be more ad-hoc and mobile. This has significant impact on how we approach any sort of incarnational ministry.
• Technology - much of the suburban ethos is predicated on a particular approach to technology. I have a lot to say on this one too, but I'm again going to punt until I get an opportunity to discuss The Hidden Power of Electronic Culture by Shane Hipps, which I'm currently finishing.

And I could go on - but I want more to begin to tackle the constructive work of building a response. So, with the caveats that this is incomplete, provisional, and certainly a generalization, here is the framework in which I'm approaching the question of the gospel in suburban culture. First, I'm suggesting that 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. I'm also suggesting that the dominant sphere in suburban contexts is economic. People in suburban contexts look to the economic realm for the stories, metaphors, values, and symbols through which meaning is assembled. This economic lens means that the pursuit of happiness is accomplished through the exercise of control-through-choice, resulting in a power dynamic in which the ability to choose and to shape the choices of others is the chief form of power. The power of choice exercised in pursuit of happiness has resulted in an increasing isolation, as happiness becomes defined in terms of economics, namely the ability to pursue safety and comfort through the acquisition of goods and choice of environment / neighborhood.

More could - and should - be said, but this should be sufficient to begin. I realize that much of what I've stated thus far has slanted towards the negative, even when I've tried to present things from as neutral a perspective as possible. This may make it seem as though I don't find much of redeeming value in the suburban lifestyle. I hope that, as we walk through the next few posts and begin to construct an approach, the redemptive possibilities will begin to become evident.

Lastly, a word about method. I'm interested in a model that is functional as well as theoretical, that is holistic and imaginative, and that provides its own opportunities for revision. As a result, each of the following posts will contain two proposals: the narrative approach, and the resulting spiritual practice. The idea is to suggest a true suburban praxis in the technical sense, which is a dialectical engagement of reflection and action - in other words, acting reflectively and reflecting on one's actions, to borrow from Bevans. First up: imago dei as critique of the Market.

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, suburbs

A Theology of the Suburbs (p. 4)

I believe that, when I think of suburban life, what I think of more than anything else is rootlessness. If control-through-choice is at the core of the ethos of the suburbs, rootlessness is its fruit. Disconnection, isolation, transience, impermanence - all of these characterize suburban life; all are symptomatic of a culture that has no connection to place, no connection to history, and no connection to the other.

I do want to pause here and mention that, as James rightly noted earlier, some of these things aren't going to hold true in a particular context. I think of a neighborhood near my home that is an honest neighborhood, with local businesses and front porches - the whole package. And it's not just surface, or at least not all of it - I have friends that actually know their neighbors and the folks who own the businesses they frequent. On the other hand, a group from my cohort at Biblical sat around a few weeks ago and talked about all of the ways that we, and the folks in our faith communities, experience isolation on a daily basis. Just noting that the average commute (one-way) for American workers in 2003 was 24 minutes (just over 30 in Philadelphia) should tell us something about this (source).

I don't want to oversimplify this. I think it's complicated and multilayered. But I think that, for many in suburban contexts, isolation is a reality. More and more, the thought of "settling down" sounds hopelessly quaint - there seems to be an increasing expectation that a family will live in several different homes over the course of their lives, "trading up" as the family grows in both size and wealth. Speaking personally, my family has lived in our current home for almost eight years. In that time, we've had at least four different neighbors in the home on our left, and three on our right. But, truth be told, I can only remember some of them - by and large, we simply never connected with the people who lived literally next door. And, this summer, we're also preparing to move. At least in my area, this is not unusual - it is, rather, the norm. But at the end of the day, it's a phenomenon that results in a disconnection from our neighborhood - there simply is nothing tying us to this particular area, other than preference and convenience. And I don't think I'm alone in my experiences here - I know too many folks who simply assume this to be the way things are, a sure sign to me that there are particular values in play here.

By and large, the suburbs seem to me to be places without a sense of place. It's a context in which the question, "Who is my neighbor?" isn't really all that rhetorical. Practically speaking, this is a challenge for those of us who want to embody the gospel in our communities. For one thing, it completely rearranges our metaphors - for example, we simply can't speak of "home" in a theological sense in the same way that we could in the past. But there's a bigger challenge - how do I demonstrate the love of God in a context where I'm challenged to even know the name of the person next door, especially when the turnover rate for residents in my community seems to be a scant few years? To put it more succinctly, how does one embody the gospel as a part of a community in a context where the very idea of community seems more a quaint anachronism?

I think it's about time to start synthesizing some of this - more to come...

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, suburbs

Church and Power

Scott L asked in the comments on my post on The Boy's Club, "Is the Church, and any authority within the Church, about power? Should it be a discussion of power? Should our discussions of male and female roles and any differentiation that should or should not be therein center around the issue of power?" It's an excellent question, one that deserves a full post of its own. First, though, we should no doubt define our terms. When we talk of "power", what do we mean?

Power, at its most basic level of meaning, is simply the ability to act or to produce a desired effect (Webster). On the surface, this tells us very little. But juxtaposed with the idea of community, the idea becomes much more robust. Power in a group setting is the ability to act within the group. Sometimes, of course, this is defined as influence or authority, but that's nuancing the definition a bit more than our present purposes require. Suffice to say that at its most basic level every social structure is in some way about power, about the ability to act in the context of the group, about defining what uses of power are permitted or not permitted and then enforcing those boundaries.

The gospel, by its very nature, is about power, in the sense that it is a call to a new social reality. What I mean by that is that the gospel is the message of the coming of the Kingdom and about the call to enter that Kingdom and become a part of the people of God. It's less about personal, eternal salvation (although it includes that) and more about the formation of a new people, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, to borrow from 1 Peter. And what is significant about this new people is less ideological (although it includes that) and more a new social dynamic that is rooted in the love of God poured out in Christ.

As the burden of proof is on me to demonstrate that I'm not just making this stuff up, let's think through Jesus' interactions with his followers in the gospels. Over and over again we see the normal social patterns turned upside-down in the Kingdom. Jesus' followers are to love their enemies and are not to seek vengeance. In the Kingdom, the first are last, and the last first. Those who are in need, who are oppressed, who are powerless, are the ones who are honored in the Kingdom. The rich and the powerful, on the other hand, are the ones who find it hard to enter the Kingdom. And, in the Kingdom, the greatest are those who are the servants of all, as exemplified by the God of all Creation who stooped to honor children and washed the feet of his disciples. In short, Jesus' life was full of the use of power in the way of the Kingdom - giving it away, empowering others, offering dignity and grace and hope where there is none.

This is, I'd argue, the framework that we must first enter before we can discuss questions such as gender roles. If we can't approach the question with the humility of Christ and the stance of a servant, then I think we have no business taking part in the discussion. Too much of this discussion revolves around the question of who gets to call the shots - and, frankly, I mostly see men focusing on those questions. But the way of the Kingdom is the way of empowerment and of service. To be sure, that's not to say that anything goes - I'm not an advocate of some sort of spiritual anarchy! But what I am saying is that power - the ability to act - is used, in the Kingdom, in the service of others and not in the interests of oneself.

Technorati Tags: emerging church, power, Kingdom, gospel

The Boy's Club

Rachelle has a challenging, troubling post here about her experiences as a woman attempting to minister in Seattle in the shadow of Mark Driscoll and Mars Hill. I'm not going to attempt to summarize it - go and read it. It's deeply moving and deeply troubling.

I'm a day late on this, but I hope I can still chip in. There are many things I want to say about this. I could talk about bringing the resources of contextual theology to bear on this question. I think it needs to happen; I think it is happening. I think that it's naive, incredibly naive, to say that the complementarian position is just a straightforward reading of the text, as I mentioned in the comments over at Bob's blog. The bottom line is that all theology is as much a product of its context as it is a product of its content. I think that the challenging thing is to be able to hear what the Spirit is saying to the churches, to do the hard work to determine what scripture meant and what it means. Culture is so much a part of meaning that simply extracting any of the texts about women and men and who can do what, where and when, and assuming that those texts say the same thing now as they did back then is, frankly, more than naive - it's dangerous. And besides, we don't do that anyway, except when it's convenient. I mean, when was the last time that you heard a sermon on circumcision? But for Paul in Galatians, it was the very antithesis of the gospel. For some reason, we don't really wrestle with that issue so much anymore. If I were a cynical man, I'd ask why that is. And I'm cynical, so I'm asking.

But I don't really want to talk about contextual theology.

I also could talk about a biblical view of gender, about what it means to be created female and male, about why it's significant that we're created in the image of God. I could recommend Middleton's excellent book The Liberating Image and suggest that we absolutely need to begin with image when we talk about this - but I'm going to save that one for when I get around to Middleton. I could talk about how hierarchy and patriarchy are a pattern rooted in the fall, as I've done here. I could also talk about how the gospel is at its core a call to a new social reality, to be a new people practicing new ways of being people together, and that as a result Paul isn't just talking about getting into heaven when he says that in Christ there is neither male nor female. Which is, I hasten to add, not to diminish the fact that we are gendered persons - rather, it's to recognize that we contribute to the Kingdom precisely as gendered persons, and that those of us who are of one gender should not hinder those who are of the other from being full persons in Christ. That is, after all, the gospel, and part of what it means to be "in Christ" in the first place.

But I don't really want to talk about biblical theology.

What I want to say is this: first, as a male, I want to offer my apologies to my sisters on behalf of my brothers. We have not treated you like sisters. We have not done what is necessary. For this, I am sorry. There are a few of us who have things together, but most of us live oblivious to our own privilege. And theologies of privilege must be torn down, like all idols. The fact is that, while a lot of us express sympathy and support for you, it's not tangible. It isn't a matter of constant prayer. It isn't something that we actively struggle against by your sides. We've casually participated in the systems that exclude you, and offer our condolences from inside the circle. It's something that I think we rarely consider, and even more rarely act to change.

Second, I want to say this to my brothers in Christ: if we have been complicit in this, it must end. We need to renounce our membership in the Boy's Club. We need to walk away, and to not do so quietly. A friend of mine who is intelligent, articulate, and deeply spiritual once told me that, as a woman, there were things that she could say that would never be heard. She can struggle against this system from the outside and be quietly ignored. Things will only change when we stop lending our tacit support and speak out as men on behalf of our sisters in Christ. Not because they are unable to do so for themselves - far from it! The women I know are overwhelmingly more than capable of speaking out eloquently, intelligently, and coherently. But, unfortunately, their voices will never be heard by some, simply because they are women. That is, frankly, appalling. It's a denial of the gospel, and we need to recognize it as such.

I can't do much. But I can do small things. I can, for one, begin asking seminaries that I consider if they support ordination of women, and refusing to attend if they do not. It's a small thing; it feels minuscule. But it's what I can offer.

I can lend my small voice.

Grid blog for International Women's Day: Find the posts here

Technorati Tags: Grid blog for International Women's Day, egalitarianism

Good Theology

I'm all over the map lately. I'm working on yet another book that's prompted a few thoughts. This one is Clemens Sedmak's book Doing Local Theology, which is a nice little volume talking about how this contextual theology stuff actually works in practice. (Anyone getting sick of this yet? My class is over in only four more weeks... ;) Anyway, Sedmak proposes three criteria for "good theology" that I thought were just fascinating. He writes this:

What is "good theology" according to Jesus? As we have seen, theology is not exclusively an academic endeavor. It is about personal and communal transformation, based on a relationship with God....Jesus emphasizes the practical consequences, the fruits. He emphasizes the spirit with which theology is done. He emphasizes the need to care for the people and to be with the people.

He goes on to discuss his three criteria for good theology:

• Realness - Realness means that the theology is true to life. Reality also serves as a check to our own thinking, to constructing systems that are intellectually coherent but practically unworkable.
• Fidelity to the founder - In his own words, this means being "faithful and honest to the mission and message and person of Jesus".
• Practical consequences - What is the fruit? What are the practices that naturally flow from the theology? Again, in Sedmak's words, "Theology is a way of following Jesus."

True to reality, true to Jesus, and resulting in true praxis - what more can we ask? I think that's as fine a definition of good theology as I've ever read. If what I write and dream and think and live could fit those three criteria, then I think I would count myself successful.

Technorati Tags: books, contextual theology, Sedmak

Culture as Meaning - p.2

One of the challenges of talking about culture is that it's so much a part of who we are that it's functionally invisible to us. We typically only notice a small part of what makes up our culture - much of our context only becomes apparent in contrast with another context, where the differences illustrate our own cultural patterns. A case in point that Hall discusses is the way in which many of us in western cultures approach time. The notion of time is completely contextual - even trying to define "time" is extraordinarily difficult. We can only grapple with its meaning by assigning context to it through the use of units and measurements. But even these are somewhat arbitrary, and the importance we place on those segmentations is a matter of context. Most of us in western cultures are used to dealing with time in a linear fashion. Each moment is perishable and unique - once it is past, it is unrecoverable. Consequently, we value our delineations of time and place a high priority on adhering to schedules and being mindful of days, hours, minutes, etc. But other cultures may not approach time in this same way - time might be viewed as cyclical rather than linear, and units of time as arbitrary. In some cultures, schedules carry far less weight than they do in mine - I have difficulty grappling with the implications of that, but it enlightens me to an aspect of my own culture which otherwise would be invisible.

Now, to get back to the question of meaning and its relation to context, let's consider this from a different angle that Hall also touches on: space. Spatial relationships and orientation is also a contextual concern - the use of space carries particular meanings in some contexts that it does not carry in others. The best way that I can think of to approach this is by way of example. A few years ago, a friend and I were discussing the arrangement of the worship gathering at our church with the pastor and another member of the church. At the time, we were meeting in a high school auditorium. The pastor was expressing concern that the worship team led from the stage, while he preached the sermon from the floor in front of the stage. Here is the significant point - the meaning that he assigned to the spatial location of worship and preaching was that we were demonstrating that we valued worship over scripture. I argued the opposite - by locating himself closer to the people, we were conveying that we valued scripture, and in particular that we valued it as a community.

In both arguments, the meaning that we assigned to the location of the preacher and the worship team was limited by our context. For the pastor, the meaning was a function of an unstated understanding that elevation conveys significance. For me, the understanding was different - proximity conveys significance. Now, bear in mind that neither meaning is inherently correct - both are contextual projections onto spatial arrangements. The question, though, that must be answered is this: which meaning is in play?

The pastor's decision was to move the preaching to the platform and to teach the reasons that we were doing so, to instill an understanding in the community that we were demonstrating significance through elevation. Here's the problem - the community didn't share that underlying assumption. The range of meanings that could be assigned to the spatial orientation was limited by context, and that meaning simply wasn't available. No amount of communicating would change this - instead, what happened was that a disconnect was created between what was said and what was done, with competing messages coming from word and deed. By distancing himself spatially from the people, he instead created a relational distancing as well - a very slight one, to be sure, but it was present nonetheless and exacerbated other concerns related to his exercise of authority.

The implications for this are huge. If we approach a context with forms already established, we risk actually damaging the message. This is why, on some level, describing the emerging church as concerned with "coffee, candles, and couches" is simultaneously both accurate and dead wrong. Forms in and of themselves are absolutely unimportant - that's why they are critically important. In other words, what is important about form is not the form itself, but what the form communicates, specifically in a given context. Forms should be seen as fluid and ad-hoc, able to change at need to convey the desired meaning in a given context.

Technorati Tags: contextual theology, Edward Hall, culture, meaning

Bevans's Models and the Emerging Church

I've put off posting this for a bit because I'm sorting through the implications of Bevans's categories as I think about the emerging church. I think I have a framework I'm comfortable with, so I'm going to throw out some thoughts and see where they land. Besides, I do my best thinking in process anyway. ;)

As I discussed in my earlier post, Bevans presents six models for approaching the question of contextual theology. I want to reiterate his thoughts that no model exists in isolation - all of the models are, to some degree or another, in play at all times. But by identifying a primary model that is in place in a given system, we can identify something of the shape of that particular model and also discuss its similarities and dissimilarities to other systems. In other words, this isn't meant to identify deficiencies in any particular system so much as it is to identify the distinctions and provide a framework for thinking through the differences. With that said, here are my thoughts: the emerging church is characterized, for the most part, by an approach that is rooted in praxis while many of the critics are more comfortable in a translation framework.

One of the common statements that seems to be heard when discussing critics like Carson (for example) is that the emerging church is primarily a movement of practitioners, not academics (and let's not have the movement/conversation discussion, k?). On the surface, I've always thought this sounded like a weak defense. On some level, practitioners are in just as much need of good theology as academics - more, in fact, given their close connection to the body-at-large. But I understand the concern that's being articulated, even if it could be framed better - practitioners have different concerns than academics, and, generally speaking, don't spend their time constructing airtight systems but rather look at theology from a rubber-meets-the-road perspective. And this, of course, is exactly what is described by the praxis model, as defined by Bevans - "acting reflectively and reflecting upon one's actions". Putting this into the context in which many of us serve, the movement (in a personal sense) towards an emerging theology was driven precisely by this reflection - reflection on the fact that the old formulations were inadequate, that they addressed concerns which no longer existed, and that they produced Christians who looked strangely unlike this Jesus who we claimed to follow. So we started to change our approach. I'm going to speak personally here, but the stories I've read lead me to believe that I'm far from alone in this. My context was youth ministry, and my problem was that the gospel I was preaching of what amounted to salvation through right doctrine failed to create followers of Jesus. So I began to change my approach. I swapped games for prayer, speaking for discussion, loud for quiet, spectating for participating, and entertainment for service. And I lost students in my ministry - but I gained Jesus-followers, a trade about which I have no regrets. And as I reflected on what had happened, I came to believe that somewhere along the line I had gotten the gospel wrong, and that what I thought was translation was actually something else, something distorting.

And there, I'd argue, is the rub. Many of our critics are firm believers in the translation model, assuming that all we do is take unchanging truth and translate it into the context. And there is a sense in which they're correct; the gospel doesn't change. But the question that I confronted was whether we ever encounter that gospel outside of the bounds of a culture - is there such a thing as a disembodied, uncontextual gospel? Can we simply translate what has come before, without doing the hard work to discern if what we received is accurate and in line with our Story as told in scripture? I think that the gospel, as we tell it and receive it and pass it along, always carries along contextual baggage - our tellings of the gospel are always a mix of participation in and critique of culture. And there, I think, is the second sore spot - both the emerging church and its critics hold to a countercultural model, and hold to it strongly. The distinction lies in defining in what way we are countercultural - but that is a subject for another post.

Technorati Tags: books, emerging church, contextual theology, Bevans, praxis, translation

WWJT?

In other words, Who Would Jesus Torture?

I largely avoid political discussions here. But this is a deeply disturbing issue, no matter one's political affiliations - or at least it should be for those of us who claim to follow the Prince of Peace.

If you haven't heard, Senator McCain has sponsored a bill (more correctly, an amendment to a Defense Appropriations bill) that would establish uniform treatment standards for enemy combatants held by US troops. The bill passed the Senate with an overwhelming majority. The Bush administration has threatened to veto the bill if passed by the House. Personally, I'm horrified that this is even a matter of debate.

Sojourners has made it easy to respond. Click here to contact your representative to voice your support for the McCain amendment.

Preaching, Worship, and Community

Scot and Brad have another excellent post related to Preaching Re-imagined, and I want to play off some of their ideas with a few thoughts of my own about preaching, worship, and community. Brad says this: "What is perhaps missing in this whole dialogue is a discussion of liturgy and why the sermon is most often a speaching event. I would argue that the whole collective worship experience of the church is in a sense the dialogue that Doug yearns for. The sermon is but one small part of that dialogue."

I want to step back for a minute and think about the role of worship in the formation of a community. One of the things that I think is important to this conversation, as Brad noted, is the overarching reason or reasons why we gather for worship in community in the first place. I think the default answer is that worship is our right and fitting response to God, to His goodness, holiness, mercy, grace, and love. And that is certainly true, but it doesn't get to the question of why we gather for worship, and why worship as a communal act is a central part of the praxis of God's people in scripture. In truth, we are called to glorify God in all things, so there is some sense that to define worship in this way is to beg the question because it fails to give context to the communal aspect of worship. I think that in this sense communal worship is at least as much about shaping the imaginations of the participants as it is about anything else - the opportunity to be immersed in and shaped by the story of God, to inhabit the symbols of that story, and to engage in shared practices that reenact that story in the context of the community.

Imagine yourself a part of the nation of Israel during the time of the first temple. Your regular worship practices were specifically structured as a continual reenactment of the story of God's dealings with Israel. Your week was marked off by observance of Sabbath, reinforcing the Creation story and placing you within it. Several times a year, you would journey to Jerusalem to celebrate Passover, Pentecost, and Tabernacles - all feasts that provided a yearly recital of the story and immersed the people in it. Once a year, you would participate in the sacred assembly on the Day of Atonement, when your sins would be sent into the wilderness on the back of a goat. Story, symbol, praxis, to borrow from NT Wright, all came together to shape your identity as a member of God's people.

So where does the sermon enter into this picture? Although the forms have changed dramatically, I think it fair to say that worship should still serve to shape our imaginations as the people of God. The sermon in Christian practice typically serves as the point in worship at which God's story as embodied in scripture most openly intersects with our stories. Clearly that should happen in all parts of the gathering - but there is something special about our gathering around the story to remember it, to treasure it, to discuss it and be formed by it. The sermon tells the story of God, and it also tells the story of the community.

Here is where I find Doug's approach helpful - a sermon that doesn't give voice to God's story can't be formative in any beneficial sense. But, I'd argue, neither can one that fails to give voice to the story of the community. Navigating that intersection - what Doug calls implication - requires the one giving the sermon to be fluent in both.

The Big Question

The big question, I suppose, that I quickly encounter in reading Preaching Re-imagined is something that I think too often goes unasked: why do we preach? What is "preaching" anyway? Doug approaches this from the angle of spiritual formation and community life. Preaching needs to be re-imagined because, as-is, it's not effective in helping people to become better followers of Christ, and, on some level, it allows them to hand over responsibility for their growth to another person who is only too often willing to shoulder the load. Other traditions take a different approach to preaching. Particularly in some o