Somos Todos Juan Diego (We Are All Juan Diego)

I was never a Roman Catholic. I only remember a handful of experiences in a Roman Catholic church, all for the baptism or confirmation of friends. As with most Puerto Ricans I know, my faith heritage was Pentecostal-Protestantism.  We were the legacy of Azusa street. Evangelists like Nicky Cruz and Yiye Avila were the heroes of my father. My abuelo was there in New York standing precisely on the corner where David Wilkerson first preached the gospel while balanced on a fire hydrant. These were the legends passed on to me with pride and faith. They shaped more than my beliefs; they shaped my identity. I associated the boldness of these preachers with being Puerto Rican. As a theology professor, I continue to discover other treasures I inherited, women and men like Elizabeth Conde-Frazier and Orlando Costas. These now sit among the many European, African, and Middle Eastern believers from church history that form the cloud of witnesses surrounding me. Yet, among all these greats, the legend of Juan Diego now stands out as one I failed to appreciate rightly.

Mexican hermanos y hermanas will know immediately the story of Juan Diego, but for many Christians, particularly protestants, he is an unfamiliar witness. Today, December 12th, is a holy day for Mexicans as they remember Señor Diego and the first appearance of La Virgin in America. According to legend, ten years after Spanish colonizers took central Mexico in 1521, the apparition of Mary appeared to Juan Diego, an indigenous farmer and laborer. The brown-skinned Mary revealed herself to him on a hill which was formerly the site of an Aztec temple and sent him to the bishop to command that a church be built on that site. The bishop, of course, dismissed Juan Diego demanding proof of his encounter with Mary, the mother of God. Days later, Mary revealed herself to Juan again, providing the proof he needed in the form of her image miraculously painted on his tilma (a kind of hood), which can be seen in the Basilica of Mexico City to this day.

My experience with Latin-American students of a Roman Catholic heritage is that they now maintain a sharp boundary between their protestant faith and their catholic upbringing. They prefer to keep their distance from all things catholic because they have seen the heavy catholic influence on Latin American culture keep many Latinos from really considering a relationship with Jesus. This boundary is significantly reinforced from the other side of the fence. Many of my students tell tragic stories of their families rejecting them for their conversion to Protestantism. Since my experience of Roman Catholicism is limited, I do not have the same anxieties about rituals, legends, or holy days associated with it. I recognize that my lack of these experiences colors my view of Juan Diego, yet I see great value in honoring the truth implicit in his legend.

How protestants choose to engage the legend of Juan Diego is a question of contextualization. If we move too quickly to critique the legend as pagan worship of an idol, we miss the opportunity to affirm a significant treasure hidden in the story. Juan Diego was an indigenous laborer. He was not part of what Justo Gonzalez refers to as the hierarchical church that was an arm of the Spanish power. That church had no place for Juan Diego, nor did it preach a message of hope and life for people like him. The astounding twist of Diego’s story is that he was sent to speak a revealed word to the bishop. “Thus the Virgin of Guadalupe became a symbol of the affirmation of the Indian over against the Spanish, of the unlearned over against the learned, of the oppressed over against the oppressor.”[1]

The story of the appearance of Mary to Juan Diego brought millions of Mexicans to the catholic church. Laura G. Gutierrez of the University of Texas at Austin’s Department of Mexican American and Latina/o Studies says, “The fact that Our Lady of Guadalupe appeared as a brown-skinned woman speaking Nahuatl to an indigenous peasant is an important part of the narrative.”[2] The power is in the details. Mary appears with a sash around her waist, indicating she is pregnant. She is brown-skinned and speaks with one of the people in their language. She meets Juan Diego on a familiar worship site, making clear to him that he is encountering the divine. As Father Johann Roten, director of research, art, and special projects at the University of Dayton said, “You don’t have to be Catholic to respond to the affirmation, affection, and security that she offers. These are central values that go all the way back to the first appearance of the apparition.”[3]

As I consider the legend of Juan Diego today, I think it is important to affirm the truth therein that God is indeed a God for the weak. I do not worship Mary, yet this story of her revelation echoes a truth about Jesus. God made Himself knowable by taking on human flesh. He is a Jewish man from Israel. Luke, one of the writers of the gospels, emphasizes that Jesus’ arrival turns the world upside down. The first to hear of His birth are lowly shepherds like Juan Diego. Repeatedly in his account of Jesus’ life, Luke shows Jesus as concerned for the religiously hated, the unclean, and the despised. He did more than spend time with the Diegos of the ancient world, Jesus took their place, becoming despised that they might have new life. On a hill, like the Mary of this legend, Jesus reveals the love of God for the lowly. His story gives shape to Juan Diego’s legend by providing the central themes that resonate so deeply with the Mexican identity. Others have recontextualized the legend of Mary. All these retellings recognize the inherent beauty of a God who reveals Himself in recognizable ways to a poor people in need of His rescue. Somos todos Juan Diego. We are all Juan Diego.

---

Footnotes

[1] Justo L. González, Mañana: Christian Theology from a Hispanic Perspective, Reprint edition edition (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1990), p. 61.

[2] “‘Our Lady Signifies a Lot’: Here’s Why We Celebrate the Virgin of Guadalupe on Dec. 12th,” NBC News, accessed December 11, 2019, https://www.nbcnews.com/news/latino/do-you-know-about-our-lady-guadalupe-here-s-why-n828391.

[3] “‘Our Lady Signifies a Lot.’”

Is God Really Hiding In The Woods? Reflections on Urban Spirituality

“What man has not encountered, he has not yet destroyed.” ”

— Wendell Berry

In two short weeks Christmas films will release in mass. Husbands, boyfriends, and fathers will grimace, or secretly join in, while their wives and girlfriends, daughters and grandmothers turn to the Hallmark channel while decorating for the holidays. A timeless plot will follow; a big city business girl gets stranded in a small town and finds faith (and a handsome man in plaid), all before Christmas Eve. Disillusioned by life in the city, the main character will inadvertently experience a life pause. Her pause will take place, of course, in front of a snow-capped mountain, or along a reclusive shoreline, where she finds herself and God. This pivotal moment in nature becomes the climax, which restores the heroine’s hope in humanity and ultimately opens her heart to love. It is a story we know well, because many of us have experienced the same sense of restoration outdoors.

When feeling lost and needing to refocus, our culture, both in and outside the church, sends us to the woods. In the popular memoir turned movie, Wild, Cheryl Strayed’s wilderness journey is one of personal and spiritual transformation. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty shows Ben Stiller’s character Walter traveling to the furthest corners of the world in the pursuit of the meaning of life. Moses found his calling while on a mountain herding sheep. Christ himself prepared for ministry through the testing of isolation in the wilds of Israel. Today, countless of adults and children seek to find God in nature. Churches, rural, suburban, and urban alike, plan getaways to lakeside retreat centers. Young adults take journeys by hiking or biking across countries or continents, Instagraming their way with deep, spiritual reflections on encountering God. In pursuing these experiences, few stop to question the practical theology implicit in this means of experiencing God’s presence. If pivotal spiritual experiences happen in the woods, where does that leave God’s people when they find themselves dwelling among the sidewalks?

If we reframed this question to ask: “Does location matter when seeking to experience God,” I believe most would answer, in the most general sense, no. One can experience profound moments with the Lord when driving to work, as when in Sunday worship, as when vacationing in the Rockies. The ability to acknowledge this is rooted in a correct theology of the person of the Holy Spirit, whom indwells believers, testifying to their union with Christ, and therefore God the Father.[1] Yet, a prevailing sense within church culture (and the world) is that God is found in the quiet, open space, and therefore, outside the city limits. I remember feeling this way when I moved to Chicago. Coming from a valley with rolling hills and broad mountains, I grew to adulthood accustomed to the security and vastness of something other than and greater than myself. After moving to Chicagoland, I frequently sought out the openness of Lake Michigan when disoriented and desiring the presence of God.

In his doctoral dissertation with Liberty Theological Seminary, Philip Joseph Parker examines on a closer level why and how people encounter God through His creation. Parker defines encounter as: “an awareness of being in the presence of someone else whether that individual is another human being or God. This includes those experiences in which there is a sensory interchange involving, for example, hearing and seeing, as well as those instances in which a person is simply aware of another’s presence.”[2] Parker correctly explains that people often have a greater awareness of God in nature; the sights and sounds provide a kind of sensory experience of His presence and work in the world.[3]

Does it follow that these encounters with God are not happening within the city? In contrast to nature cities are an engine that incubate and intensify the production of human culture.[4] What we encounter in more densely populated areas is not a lack of the presence of God, but the intensity of the human spirit and what it creates. This intensity is alluring, drawing many to dwell in cities, seeking after the energy which drives the activity. This intensity is also, in the broad sense, human-driven activity, which overtime exhausts the human spirit. The answer then, for many, is to withdraw from the populated setting to a setting perceived to be more God-driven, more untouched by human enterprise. So we step outside of the activity, the hurry if you will, and the spirit of humanity, to breathe and listen to a voice beyond the echo of our own.

This desire to step away and reconnect with God is a healthy one. We are reminded of this as the psalmist laments the condition of the world and comes to a clearer understanding when he “came into the sanctuary of God.”[5] We see another example in Christ who removed himself from the crowds to pray to the Father. This concept of hurry and rest is also currently being addressed in evangelical writings. John Mark Comer’s recent book, The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry speaks to just that. Comer, along with countless other Bible teachers and theologians, are tapping into the exhaustion and distracted nature of the human spirit in today’s world. However, an issue arises when a change of locality becomes an essential pattern to spiritual refreshment, a lens by which we view the working of the Spirit in ourselves and in His people. In the development of the doctrine of retreat, I wonder, have we have forgotten the point is to pause?

I propose that we have for too long focused on the location and space of our encounters with God, rather than the heart posture which facilitates these occurrences. The problem then, is not our locality, but our willingness to stop and humbly open our eyes to see the greatness and goodness of the One who is other than us. Cities display a kind of intricate beauty and tragedy that the natural world—mountains, rivers and plains, cannot. While nature, a creation of God, reminds us of His character, cities express God’s very image. Both in humanity and in the work of humanity, the image of God is showcased every moment. Sadly this showcase, a living stage play of God Himself, is flawed—often quite ugly, violent, tired, and tearful. It is no wonder that it is said of Abraham that “he was looking forward to the city…whose designer and builder is God.”[6] This is why we, as the Church, look forward hopeful and sure. Eager to take part in the restoration of all things, we live now with creative hands, active minds, and interested hearts, ready to join in God’s work of making culture.

World Outspoken exists to equip the Church to make culture. We as God’s people embody the redeemed human spirit on earth, adding to the intensity a holiness which creates a new kind of beauty, a fresh form of flourishing. In attempting to retreat from humanity, are we diverting our eyes from God’s presence around us each day on the sidewalks?

Just last week something made me look up. Sitting crouched over my phone, headphones blaring on a bursting rush hour train, I lifted my head to see the lights. As I gazed out over the Chicago river and took in the sparkling skyline of the city, my heart paused. If anyone had been watching, they may have been puzzled by the sudden smile which filled my face. In that moment the noise of the world quieted, along with my cares and uncertainties. Surrounded by the complexity of God’s creation (mankind), looking out at something bigger than myself (high-rises), my heart rested, humbled by the greatness and goodness of God. This spiritual refreshment, available to us consistently through the presence of the Spirit, merely awaits our attention and willingness. I am here to say, that even without a mountain, God can be found.

About Emily C. Alexander

A first generation college graduate of a rural working class family, Emily C. Alexander recently completed her undergraduate degree in Ministry to Women at the Moody Bible Institute. Emily lives in Chicago where she enjoys long walks admiring architecture and pondering theological and sociological issues. Her hope is to impact the lives of women and the flourishing of the church through thoughtful theological engagement.

---

Footnotes

[1] Romans 8.14-17.

[2] Encountering God Through Creation https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/58821668.pdf

[3] Due to the space and scope of this article, how unbelievers experience God in relation to creation will not be addressed.

[4] https://worldoutspoken.com/idea/babylon-by-choice/

[5] Ps. 73.17; Here, the psalmist doesn’t leave the city; he steps into the heart of it. The temple had significant garden imagery, reflecting an echo of the Garden of Eden (see Bible Project Video). This should challenge us about the importance of making beautiful church buildings that reverberate with a different voice, the voice of the Lord and His cloud of witnesses that went before us.

[6] Hebrews 11.10

En La Sala and All Along the Way

En La Sala and All Along the Way

Welcoming the Next Generation into Faith Through Storytelling

“See, a long time ago, there was this family.” ”

— Miguel Rivera, Coco

Family always begins with a story. Grandma, eyes shining, recounts how Grandpa made a fool of himself asking her out. Dad remembers how hard life was that first year in America. Auntie laughs at the mistakes she made the time she changed the rice recipe. While cultural artifacts—a photograph, blanket, or dish—spark the telling of a story, the words themselves, repeated by a loved one, trace familial origins and teach values. The act of remembrance through story—an often unidentified ritual—binds subsequent generations together in shared experience.

Disney Pixar’s 2017 film Coco begins with the story of a family. A happy, music-loving family forever altered when the beloved Papa never returns home with his guitar. Miguel, a young boy and the protagonist of the film, cannot change the fact that his great-grandfather abandoned the Rivera family for a music career, leaving his great-grandmother to survive by starting a shoe business. Though extreme, we are not surprised to learn that the Rivera family now hates music, a fact often repeated as a concluding value of the family story and highlighted alongside great-grandmother’s resiliency. As the evening of El Día de los Muertos (The Day of the Dead) commences, the story of the Rivera family comes alive for Miguel, as he enters the world of the dead in search of not only his family, but validation of the values passed down to him. Miguel’s journey is one of remembrance, which solidifies his identity as a Rivera.

Storytelling is something the Latino community does well. Chicago native Jose Gonzalez highlighted this in his standup production series this summer entitled, “La Sala: Cuentos from the Latino Living Room.” Bianca Sanchez, in her Chicago Tribune article, shares the significance of story and poetry in Gonzales’ upbringing, taking place in the living room or on the front porch, as his Nicaraguan immigrant father shared Bible passages, parables, and stories of the past. Gonzalez expressed that key to his production was: “that feel, that ambience, that you are actually at home in la sala (the living room), just listening to stories and tales as if they were from your mom, your dad, your uncle or your aunt.”[1] Familial stories and proverbs, of tragedy, hope, humor, and lessons learned, serve as a means of teaching core family values from one generation to the next. The social capital of character, faith, and loyalty extend outward from the family to the community in which they reside. Yet, as Sanchez emphasizes in conclusion, “before being told outside the home [stories] are first shared in la sala.”[2]

Storytellers Carmen Agra Deedy and Karla Campillo-Soto concur on the impact of storytelling in Latino families and the Hispanic community at large. In their interview with Stephen Winick of the American Folklife Center of the Library of Congress, Deedy and Campillo-Soto share stories from their Cuban and Mexican upbringings, including immigration and transition to the United States. As storytellers, Winick points out that these Latinas choose to focus on family stories. Deedy explains: “It’s so cultural for us, you know, the [sic] everything begins at home. And the most tragic story you could ever read, write, sing about, would be about the child who has no home. Inevitably my stories weave back to home.”[3] Storytelling is by no means specific to Hispanic families and communities, but in every family, Deedy explains, there is a storyteller. These individuals carry on the remembrance of the past, welcoming the younger generation into a living example of that which the family holds dear.

Storytelling takes on new meaning for God’s people when looking at the development and furtherance of faith in the Old Testament. Standing on the border of the land of promise, after forty years of waste and wandering, Moses looked out at a people marked by the choices and stories of their parents and spoke these words:

Only take care, and keep your soul diligently, lest you forget the things that your eyes have seen, and lest they depart from your heart all the days of your life. Make them known to your children and your children's children— how on the day that you stood before the Lord your God at Horeb… he declared to you his covenant, which he commanded you to perform, that is, the Ten Commandments, and he wrote them on two tablets of stone."[4]

God gave his people a commandment of remembrance—by recounting the stories of the past, they would invite the next generation into the continual and living story of obedience to God’s faithful love. Further instruction was given in Deuteronomy chapter six, explaining that in all of life, while sitting in la sala, while walking along the way, when going to bed and rising in the morning, parents are to teach their children the words of the Lord, with the intent of the multiplication of God’s people in the land.

And so, Jesus too delivered a command of remembrance. This command is lived out weekly as we, the Church, gather to break bread and sip wine. These physical elements of communion, like blankets and photographs, recipes and furniture, prompt the telling of the story of our faith. We remember both the physical body of the incarnate Christ, broken to allow all people into the living story of God and our personal stories of redemption. It was during this moment in a recent church service that I watched a mother give her daughter the bread and juice. Jessie is only six, but her thoughts in children’s church display an inner understanding of the gospel, as she retells the truths she learns at home when talking and praying with her mom and grandmother. Jessie is the youngest generation of the Church, being welcomed into the living story of the gospel through her mother’s faith and faithful storytelling.

On October 31st El Día de los Muertos will commence and many Mexican families will leave photos of their loved ones on the ofrenda.. On November 28th, American families will gather to give thanks, remembering the goodness of the year with food, laughter, and football. Memories will be relived, stories told. These special days are known for storytelling. But so is today. While cooking dinner or driving to soccer practice, God has given parents and grandparents the unique opportunity to welcome their children into the shared experience of a living faith. A hospital bracelet becomes a reminder of a story of God’s healing. An old journal or sketchbook an opportunity to retell a critical moment in your faith journey. Driving by my mom’s first apartment this summer, prompted her to share the powerful impact of Christian community in her life as a young adult with no believing family. A story I resonate with, living far from my own family support system. Her story welcomed me into the journey of faith we both share. Just as the elements of communion remind the older generation of the faithful love of God, let them be the spark for the words, the stories of His provision, an honest recounting of the challenges of walking in obedience. So then, as the youngest of the Church step out of the security of la sala, they will know who they are—members of the family of God.

About Emily C. Alexander

A first generation college graduate of a rural working class family, Emily C. Alexander recently completed her undergraduate degree in Ministry to Women at the Moody Bible Institute. Emily lives in Chicago where she enjoys long walks admiring architecture and pondering theological and sociological issues. Her hope is to impact the lives of women and the flourishing of the church through thoughtful theological engagement.

---

Footnotes

[1] Sanchez

[2] Sanchez

[3] Latina Storyteller Oral History, Library of Congress

[4] Deuteronomy 4.9, 10b, 14.

What Latin Hospitality Taught Me About the Gospel

Mid-stride, I noticed his home. It was out of place. No wait, the porch was out of place. This summer I lived at a busy intersection dividing Chicago’s Wicker and Humboldt Park neighborhoods. Directly on my running route through Wicker, I discovered an older gentleman who consistently sat on the patio extending beyond the tiny porch of his home. Even when his chair was vacant, the front door hung open and a water glass sat at the table waiting for his return or the arrival of a friend. It is not that Wicker Park lacks beautiful porches, it is that this gentleman’s porch is a flavor that one would typically connect to Humboldt Park—spilling into the street, extending a vibrant welcome punctuated by unconventional paint selection, flowers, statues and flags. This porch speaks of warm, Latin hospitality.

In a technology-driven era with decreasing face to face connection, the western church has recently emphasized the concept of biblical hospitality. A brief online search leads to articles and blogposts, lamenting the loss of in-home hosting and after church lunches around the kitchen table. In 2018, author and speaker Rosaria Butterfield furthered the discussion with her book, The Gospel Comes with a House Key: Practicing Radically Ordinary Hospitality in Our Post-Christian World. Butterfield calls the church to a lifestyle of hospitality as a principle means of welcoming the lost into the gospel of Christ. House church movements, such as Legacy Christian Fellowship in Chicago, are an increasing church plant model in urban areas, making church accessible to those who may not set foot in a church building. As the church seeks to live out biblical hospitality for the growth of the Kingdom of God, a valuable lesson can be learned from the front porches of the Latino community.

Urban planner and community activist, James Rojas, is a pioneer and leading thinker in “Latino urbanism” and Latin placemaking in America’s neighborhoods. Immigrating to neighborhoods planned, zoned, and built for the ambitions and lifestyle of the American working and middle-class, Rojas explains that Latinos bring into America’s neighborhoods their own view of land, people, and place.[1] Rojas calls this the “Latino vernacular.” This vernacular is not only a synthesis of cultural styles from a variety of home countries, but a visual expression of the very values and experiences of both the individual and the immigrant community as a whole.[2] Latino vernacular is not merely an architectural distinction[3], as seen in the Wicker Park patio I ran past each morning this summer. Architecturally, the build of this home and space was like every other house on its block. However, the resident chose to utilize the space in a distinct way, implementing an entirely different placemaking method than his neighbors, setting his patio apart from the remainder of the street.

The front porch of a home provides the division of the public and private spheres, keeping the home distinct from the public space, the street, on which it resides. Rojas explains that the typical American home is constructed in a linear progression of the public to the private: street to porch, living room to kitchen, and then the backyard.[4] Many American communities may remember a day when the front porch was utilized more frequently as a place of interaction: greeting neighbors, chatting with a date before saying goodnight, or sharing a piece of pie with a friend who stopped in. While graced with beautiful planters, lights, and the occasional bike, today the rocking chairs on the porches in my neighborhood sit empty, while lights flicker from the show streaming in the living room or smoke rises from the grill out back. This transitional space, the front porch, remains un-utilized.

Not so in Latino urbanism. Coming from cultures which operate around a plaza, Hispanic communities value and utilize the front porch and space in front of a home, creating a place where the public and private collide.[5] The porch becomes a happening place, where the resident interacts and engages with the community. Rojas explains: “The front porch is where Latinos become civic-minded and bond with their neighbors.”[6] It is bringing the warmth and care of home to the community in which one lives. Lynda Lopez, Chicago resident and reporter for StreetsBlog Chicago has seen the impact of Latino placemaking in her own Chicago neighborhood, Little Village. In her June 18th post entitled, “How Latinx Chicagoans Remake Public Space,” she shares how the corners and stoops of Little Village remind her of sitting in front of her grandmother’s house in Michoacán, Mexico. While walking through her neighborhood, Lopez sees the concept Rojas calls “social cohesion” at play.[7] The community, in extending their homes to the front of the house, take increasing ownership of the streets and corners as well. The household, now extended forward into public space by the utilization of the front porch, is thrust into consistent, intentional, and caring interactions with the community.

The interaction of the public and private which Rojas defines in Latino urbanism provides a challenge to the church, offering a means for us to grow in our understanding and living out of the gospel. The gospel itself exemplifies the collision of the public and private. Through the incarnation of Jesus Christ, the sacredness of the Godhead became accessible to the community of mankind. In Ephesians, this access to the trinitarian relationship is directly related to becoming a part of the household of God.[8] Could the current trend towards biblical hospitality be the church realizing its need to be and act as the spiritual home it truly is? If so, our porch needs a little Latin placemaking.

Welcoming the outsider into the sacredness of the home can be a challenge for individuals and communities of any culture. But the church can’t take a pass on this one. Christ has mandated a going forth of believers and a welcoming in to those who are outside the family of God. After spending this summer observing the porches of many Chicago homes, I realized the church is, or at least should be like, the Latino front porch. This is what we ontologically are in Christ—a collision of divinity with sinful humanity. We are the welcoming porch, a bit out of place on our block, offering a long talk and glass of water rather than gathering in the back yard by ourselves with the BBQ. When we operate this way, we become consistently and intentionally committed to our communities, civic minded—aware of its needs—but spiritually minded too, always desiring to welcome our neighbors in for a full meal around the table of God.

As National Hispanic Heritage Month begins this week, my thoughts are driven to the many ways my Latino and Hispanic brothers and sisters have challenged by thinking with fresh perspectives of the church and the gospel. As ministry leaders and faithful Christians, let us celebrate the beauty of theology set within our various cultural expressions. As a white ministry leader, it is my desire to grow personally as I partner with my Latino family in the sharing of the gospel, implementing their unique strengths alongside my own, so that the fullest picture of the Body of Christ can be expressed in our communities.

About Emily C. Alexander

A first generation college graduate of a rural working class family, Emily C. Alexander recently completed her undergraduate degree in Ministry to Women at the Moody Bible Institute. Emily lives in Chicago where she enjoys long walks admiring architecture and pondering theological and sociological issues. Her hope is to impact the lives of women and the flourishing of the church through thoughtful theological engagement.

---

Footnotes

[1] http://norcalapa.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/Latino-vernacular-is-transforming-American-streets.pdf

[2] Rojas 28

[3] Rojas 28

[4] Rojas 28

[5] https://www.pps.org/article/front-porch-placemaking-the-latino-connection-to-the-street

[6] https://www.pps.org/article/front-porch-placemaking-the-latino-connection-to-the-street

[7] https://chi.streetsblog.org/2019/06/18/considering-latino-perspectives-on-public-space-in-chicago/

[8] Ephesians 2.16-22

Where Do I Belong? Reflections on How Education Changes Identity

“The pride of the laborer is gritty and unbelieving,

Binding the greatest thinker forever to a chain of insignificance,

The shrewdest business tycoon to a ladder of gold and glint,

Never thinking the self-made man needn’t always use his hands.””

— Emily A.

“‘It has never occurred to you,’ he said, ‘that you might have as much right to be here as anyone.’”[i] Why would Tara Westover believe she had a right to roam the illustrious halls of Cambridge? The youngest daughter of a large conservative Mormon family from the Idaho mountains, Tara was not a poster child for academic prodigy. Her homeschool education involved more hours working in her father’s junkyard and preparing her mother’s herbal tinctures than reading, writing, math or science. Yet there she was, studying abroad at Cambridge as an undergraduate student with Brigham Young University, defying fate and intriguing her faculty mentor with her intellect. All the while feeling that she didn’t quite belong.

In her recently published memoir, Educated, Tara Westover welcomes the reader into her not-so-common upbringing and the journey which proceeded from it. Numerous themes arise in Westover’s story, marking her life with complexity.[ii] This article focuses specifically on Westover’s experience entering the world of higher education from a working-class family. Higher education can be perceived negatively in working class communities. Urban and rural, majority and minority communities sense the impact of class shift through education. Rural flight is a cause for concern, as college graduates from rural communities seek to build lives in suburban and urban centers. With new perspectives on the world and faith, first generation minority graduates experience cultural dissonance when returning home. Westover’s memoir gives voice to the feelings and challenges of these individuals, offering insight for the communities we make and minister to.

During Westover’s junior year of her undergraduate degree she forged a relationship with Jewish history professor, Dr. Kerry. It was Dr. Kerry who tapped into Westover’s greatest internal battle—belonging. Dr. Kerry observes and identifies insecurity fueled by self-doubt in Westover: “You act like someone who is impersonating someone else. And it’s as if you think your life depends on it.”[iii] This question of belonging is not unique to Westover’s experience, but rather a common thread among first generation students of the working class. These students are stepping into a middle ground, a kind of “no man’s land” between classes. In Transition to the Academy: The Influence of Working-Class Culture for First-Generation Students, LaDonna L. Bridges shares theories of socialization when defining the differing value systems of the working and middle class. Bridges explains that habitus is a set of learned dispositions that children derive from their parents, which strongly influence how the child will interact with social and cultural connections and opportunities.[iv] For instance, middle class parents tend to parent their children in such a way that values self-control, consideration of others, curiosity and happiness. In contrast , working class parents often emphasize that children to be obedient, well-mannered and good students.[v] Culture and locality aside, class alone (a topic which Bridges argues is not openly discussed in America) significantly defines an individual’s access to opportunity.[vi] This brief look at differences between middle and working class reveals a first generation college student is wading into a system run on a different set of values than those on which they were raised.

In fact, even how these students view education likely differs from their middle-class peers. In his article, “The Danger of Telling Poor Kids College Is the Key to Social Mobility,” Andrew Simmons points out that low-income minority students are sold education as a means to financial security and opportunity. While not necessarily ill-intended, it is a message that deemphasizes “the intellectual benefits of higher education.”[vii] As Simmons states it is “a message that intellectual curiosity plays second fiddle to financial security.”[viii]  Simmons even suggests that minority students are being taught by the system to fill their place in society rather than ascend class divides, stating: “Some students learn to take orders and others learn to chart a course of action and delegate responsibility. School can either perpetuate inequity through social reproduction or have a transformative effect and help students transcend it.”[ix] This is essentially a catch-22, for as Westover explains in her story: “Curiosity is a luxury reserved for the financially secure.”[x] This working class view, most often bent on industry and survival, devalues the pursuit of education for the sake of intellectual growth. For those first generation students who graduate, take new opportunities, or make the jump to middle class, this value of the intellect may come to be the greatest point of dissonance they experience.

First generation, working class graduates live in what Bridges calls a “bifurcated existence,” torn between two classes and sets of values.[xi] Carried through the challenges of college by the very work ethic which molds their identity, these individuals now experience feelings of otherness when returning home. It is the classic scene of Christmas dinner, when asked by a curious relative what he is actually learning in college. Hesitant at first, the student mentions their favorite history class, cheeks glowing, eyes lighting up, until Uncle John loses interest and turns to Pops to discuss the newest piece of machinery on the job. Unfortunately, Uncle John is probably thinking he’s lost his nephew to the books, not realizing the gain the social capital of education could bring to their community.

Yet neither do these individuals fully belong in the middle class. Justin Quarry identifies the emotion of shame some feel with regard to their working-class background. In “Coming Out As Working Class” Quarry explains his own struggle as a working class college student and his current professorship at Vanderbilt. Interestingly, it is Quarry’s working class identity which he feels most vulnerable sharing with others, particularly his colleagues in higher education. Quarry believes working class individuals are underrepresented in academia. Imagining that he had someone like himself to encourage him in high school, Quarry muses: “Don’t worry, I’d say, you’re good enough. Don’t worry, there’s financial aid. Don’t worry, I’d reassure her, you’ll belong.”[xii]

I can echo to the working-class student, “You’ll belong.” While the unfortunate feeling of being an imposter[xiii] may always linger, one does eventually find their place on the other side. But is there room for the first-generation college graduate in their home community? As a recent graduate of a working-class home this question haunts me as I look to the future. How can I give back to a community which values hands over head? How can I be an asset without becoming a threat to a long held system of values? The Church must also wrestle with these questions.  I search the New Testament and see a church marked by socio-economic and class disparity yet gathered to share in the fellowship of the Lord’s Supper. I see a body, that need not be bifurcated, but enriched by the duality of the intellect and the work ethic.

Bridges proposes that first generation, working class college students and graduates are in a transition process of “meaning making.”[xiv] In the meantime, I believe the rest of us can be about space making. Rather than fearing loss or change, working class communities can capitalize on the goodness and growth first generation graduates offer. Church leaders can endeavor to utilize the teaching abilities of those who return. Businesses and ministries can seek funding to create full-time positions, empowering a minority to return to work in their own neighborhood. Family members can listen to historical anecdotes or new political perspectives. Sadly, space was not made for Tara Westover in the mountains of Idaho. But her personal journey extends an invitation to the rest of us. An invitation to welcome the educated home.

About Emily C. Alexander

A first generation college graduate of a rural working class family, Emily C. Alexander recently completed her undergraduate degree in Ministry to Women at the Moody Bible Institute. Emily lives in Chicago where she enjoys long walks admiring architecture and pondering theological and sociological issues. Her hope is to impact the lives of women and the flourishing of the church through thoughtful theological engagement.

---

 Footnotes

[i] Westover, 242

[ii] As mentioned, many themes run through Westover’s story, her pursuit of higher education simply being one. This article in no way intends to diminish the other dynamics which shaped Westover’s life and personhood. We encourage you to read Educated for yourself to gain a fuller picture of Westover’s journey.

[iii] Westover, 242.

[iv] Bridges, 41-42.

[v] Bridges, 41-42.

[vi] Bridges 24, 38.

[vii] Simmons.

[viii] Simmons.

[ix] Simmons.

[x] Westover, 203.

[xi] Bridges, 4.

[xii] Quarry.

[xiii] Bridges, 6.

[xiv] Bridges, 16-18.

***Authors Note: For those interested in further reading, I highly recommend Bridges dissertation. Bridges frames the conversation well, and her research may prove to be a helpful resource for ministry leaders who are seeking to understand this issue.

Planting in Babylon Pt. 1

We like this or that propositions. Apparently, our brains prefer them. Decisions are simplified into either/or choices. Conflicts are reduced to good vs evil. Politics, at least here in the US, are framed by a two-party system. We like these binaries. Right or left? In or out? For or against? These thinking habits help us with simple decisions, but this kind of thinking is ill-used when applied to complex problems. A friend recently told me that in his counseling practice, every person he’s worked with thus far has developed a bad binary. They oversimplify their problem into two alternatives that do not account for the nuance in their stories, and this hurts them. This tendency toward binary thinking is seen in the way many local churches treat culture, and we need to move away from it to something new if we are going to live out our calling as God’s people.

Paradise Lost or Future Heaven[1]

In the consulting we do at World Outspoken, we generally encounter two postures toward culture. Some leaders approach cultural engagement with a deep sense of loss. They think back to a golden age, either in their country or in their local congregation, where things were better or right. These leaders express a desire to return their organizations to a past version. Their memories of the “good ol’ days” are romanticized, and the people of that age become heroes/legends. “For the person whose focus is mostly on the past, the present is a cemetery filled with monuments to the glory days that will never come again or with a painful record of the injuries and slights we have suffered.”[2] These leaders need the words of the teacher: “Do not say, “Why were the old days better than these?” For it is not wise to ask such questions.”[3]

A second, equally common posture toward the present culture is to look beyond it to the future. Leaders with this mentality misapply the teacher’s words: “better is the end of a thing than its beginning.”[4] This group risks minimizing current events and borders on escapism when they focus too much on the truth that the Lord will one day make all things new and right. “To someone whose interest is chiefly on the future, the present is only a way station. Its primary function is to serve as a staging ground for what comes next.”[5] This group risks disengaging in significant ways from work that reflects the future they imagine. Rather than work toward that future, they wait passively for it. As my friend, Dr. Koessler writes, “The future and the past can both be an unhealthy refuge for those who are disappointed with their present.”[6] What we need, then, is another type of “imaginative response …  focusing neither on a past golden age nor an anticipated utopia.”[7]

The Exiled Imagination

This article is the first of a three-part series that develops an alternative response to present culture. We focus on themes drawn from Scripture’s exilic writers. Exile “is the experience of pain and suffering that results from knowledge that there is a home where one belongs, yet for the present one is unable to return there.”[8] The most iconic experience of exile in the Bible is the capture of Israel by the Assyrians (722 B.C.) and the fall of the southern kingdom of Judah to the hands of Nebuchadnezzar (586 B.C.). It was during the exile of the southern kingdom that Jeremiah penned his popular letter (i.e. Jer. 29). In this letter, we discover the first image necessary for a healthy imaginative response to culture; we discover an image of ourselves. While developing this image, my goal is to move beyond simple binaries to a robust imaginative posture that accounts for who we are and where we are today.

The first few verses of the 29th chapter of Jeremiah’s anthology sets the stage for this letter. It was written to Israelites who were taken as prisoners of war from the city of Jerusalem to Babylon. The letter begins with a simple but hard declaration from God. The Lord takes credit for their exile, for sending Israelites as POWs to a perilous city. We forget that these Israelites were not sent to Babylon as missionaries. They were not pure, innocent, and godly people who were given a special call to this dangerous and unjust place. They didn’t choose to move there. The truth, in fact, is that the Israelites were Babylonian before they ever lived in Babylon. Jeremiah makes this point repeatedly throughout his anthology.

Beginning in chapter two, we are told that the priests, the shepherds, and the prophets disobeyed God’s instructions. The entire nation’s crimes are summarized in two statements: 1) They disowned their God, and 2) replaced him with other gods (2:13). The leaders were corrupt, and the people were wayward, leading to rampant injustice (6:10; 7:5-20, 30-31). Jerusalem was the capital city, the city of God and His chosen king. It was the Lord’s special dwelling place, meant to reflect his peace, justice, and prosperity (Ps. 72), but the first 24 chapters of Jeremiah’s writings reveal a different reality. Israel never built the Jerusalem, the city which was a blueprint of Heaven on earth. Instead, they built a mirror-image of Babylon, following the plans for a city built on libido dominandi (the lust for mastery). What was ruling Babylon was in them too. God’s people were more Babylonian than they were citizens of Jerusalem, and after many warnings, they were cast out from the city of God to live in the real Babylon they lusted after.

A History of Non-innocence

The Lord sent Israelites into Babylon not as good people to a bad city, but as chastised people to a depraved city. A healthy imaginative response to our Babylonian world depends on a healthy view of ourselves. In a previous article, we discussed the Latino understanding of history. The Hispanic identity is shaped by the conviction that our heritage carries a deep sense of inherited guilt. The bible gives shape to a similar identity for God’s people (Rom. 5:12). Today, we are not beyond the guilt and crookedness of this sick world. Paul tells us as much. After listing a group of sinners that would make a kind of “top 10” list of criminals and deviants, Paul writes, “and such were some of you.”[9] The identity of God’s people is always simul justus et peccator (simultaneously righteous and sinner). Our sin tendency tethers us to Babylon. It forces us to acknowledge our complicity in Babylonizing the world. But we are also righteous.  We are washed clean only to be planted back in the world as God’s ambassadors (1 Cor. 5:20). It is with this dual identity that we are to read the instructions of Jeremiah’s letter.

The Bible gives us two examples of what it means to live well in Babylon: Daniel and Nehemiah. Both men worked in the royal court, directly engaging the political systems of the city. Both men have long prayers that are recorded for us to read, and both men confess their inherited guilt. Daniel chapter 9 records Daniel confessing the sin of all the people, declaring the shame inherited because of the corruption of all Israel. The 9th chapter of Nehemiah is very similar. In his prayer, Nehemiah recounts the history of Israel, highlighting the consistent mercy of God and the consistent failure of the people. In these men, we have examples of culture-makers who don’t pretend to be innocent when reflecting God in their present cultural home. They go before God on behalf of their collective guilt, then engage their city.

Planting in Babylon

When God chooses people to be his ambassadors on earth, He instructs them to reflect Him in what they make. Jeremiah, speaking on behalf of God, encourages the people to go back to basic culture-making. He tells them to plant gardens, build houses, and have families in Babylon. They are not supposed to spend their days dreaming of their past in Jerusalem, nor are they are to passively wait for a future rescue, refusing to enter and engage their new home. They are not going back anytime soon, and the rescue is still far out in front of them (vv. 8-9). In the present, God calls them to make culture, to create communities that live out His story in this city. They are tied to Babylon and instructed to give shape to it.

The Lord says, “Seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the Lord for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper.” The italicized word here is a translation of the word shalom. “In the Bible, shalom means universal flourishing, wholeness and delight – a rich state of affairs in which natural needs are satisfied and natural gifts fruitfully employed, … Shalom, in other words, is the way the world should be.”[10] This command breaks our binary patterns of thinking. The good of God’s people is interconnected to the good of a corrupt city. This should scare us. We know, because Israel gave us an example in Jerusalem, that we can never produce shalom in the cities we make.

It is in view of this, that the Lord’s promise in the middle of this letter is so comforting. The Lord tells a non-innocent, chastised people to live in Babylon as active seekers of shalom, as those who pray for shalom and make small pockets of its beauty in their cultural works. While they work, they are told to hope and wait because their exile is not permanent. After a set time, the Lord promises to visit Babylon and bring the exiles home, back to the city where God and humanity dwell together in peace. Thankfully, He has visited. He can be found by those who seek Him, and He is gathering people from all the nations and places of exile (v. 14). This last hope – the hope that God brings people from every nation and place to His city – is the remarkable truth that we will explore in the second part of Planting in Babylon. Until then, may we be sober-minded makers who remember our sin-tendency and live in God’s grace for the shalom of Babylon.

---

Footnotes

[1] Credit to my friend and colleague, Dr. Baurain for these title phrases. Bradley Baurain, “By the Rivers of Babylon We Weep: The Exiled Imagination,” Christianity & the Arts, accessed July 23, 2019, link.

[2] John Koessler, “Practicing the Present,” April 22, 2019, Link.

[3] Ecclesiastes 7:10

[4] Ecclesiastes 7:8

[5] Koessler, “Practicing the Present.”

[6] Koessler.

[7] Baurain, “By the Rivers of Babylon We Weep.”

[8] I. M. Duguid, “Exile,” NDBT, 475. The author of this quote adds an * symbol to suffering that has been removed from the quote here. The symbol signals the reader to read a particular nuance he has added in a previous paragraph. By suffering, the author is referring to guilt or remorse stemming from the knowledge that the cause of exile is sin.

[9] 1 Cor. 6:10

[10] Cornelius Plantinga Jr, Not the Way It’s Supposed to Be: A Breviary of Sin (Grand Rapids, Mich. u.a.: Eerdmans, 1996), 10.

Seeking Understanding PT. 2

“We were Jesus save me, blue jean baby
Born in the USA
Trailer park truck stop, faded little map dots
New York to LA
We were teenage dreamin’, front seat leanin’
Baby, come give me a kiss
Put me on the cover of the Rolling Stone
Uptown down home American kids
Growin’ up in little pink houses
Makin’ out on living room couches
Blowin’ that smoke on Saturday night
A little messed up, but we’re all alright””

— American Kids, Kenny Chesney

Country music is a staple of rural America. Playing quietly in every grocery store, blaring in the slowly passing truck on main street, or enjoyed at local festivals, it is absorbed subconsciously if not by choice.  In “Seeking Understanding,” I welcomed WOS readers into my rural American upbringing and its impact on my experience of urban communities. Country music is a significant piece of this upbringing. A piece, that once trading my dirt roads for the streets of Chicago, I realized played a key role in the shaping of my cultural identity and understanding of nationalism.

As the title suggests, this column is dedicated to “seeking understanding, “a theological and cultural posture for the furtherance of the gospel and the unity of people through the overcoming of divides. Divides—rural and urban, racial, socio-economic, or denominational—run deep. As deep as the art of a community and culture—perpetuated quietly in the background, blared on the streets, or danced to at festivals. As faithful Christians seek to make and engage culture in communities throughout America, it is the subtle yet influential messages of cultural art that must be analyzed and unpacked for self-growth and the breakdown of misunderstanding. Not to be taken as a critique of country music as a genre, the following analysis hopes to point out specifically how country music, as an element of rural American culture, shapes a specific understanding of the American identity.

 American Kids, country music star Kenny Chesney’s 2014 hit, seems to capture the essence of an American childhood. Blue jeans, road trips, school buses, ball practice and nominal Christianity. The lyrics are general, welcoming the listener into a broad, if not generic definition of what is means to be an American kid. Additionally, a reminiscent, reflecting voice is used. Both these components are common to nationalistic songs within the country music genre, as seen in Rodney Atkins’ “It’s America” which speaks fondly of lemonade stands and Chevys comprising the American experience. The words themselves, familiar and endearing, placed to what Chesney describes as a “fun” tune,[i] may not initially inform the listener of any distinct cultural identity being portrayed, but the music video takes the cultural implications further. A colorful bus is cast against a desert backdrop, possibly reminding the viewer of the carefree spirit of the 1970’s.[ii] There is guitar jamming, creek wading, and an American flag flying. And there are lots of happy faces. White faces.

While seeming to promote an inclusive and welcoming understanding of American identity through its generality, Chesney’s song and others of its kind, weave a narrative exclusive of some of its rural own. The US Census Bureau estimated in 2018 that Shenandoah County, Virginia is 7.3% Hispanic or Latino.[iii] Of the entire state’s population, Hispanic or Latinos are 9.3%.[iv] Interestingly, these numbers are similar to those of Memphis (7%)[v] and Nashville (10.4%)[vi], country music centers of the US. Could possibly one face in the American Kids music video represent the children I grew up with in the candy aisle of the grocery store? Aren’t they America’s kids too? It would seem in country music, there isn’t space for them, so a subtle form of nationalism is furthered within the popular music of rural America.

Another art form brings this faulty cultural perspective to task. Lynn Nottage’s Pulitzer Prize winning stage play Sweat, appeared at Goodman’s Albert Theatre in Chicago March 9th- April 21st, 2019. Looking at the lives of Reading, Pennsylvania steel mill workers, Nottage brilliantly unfolds the complexity of the human experience in Trump’s America, providing a case study for communities throughout the United States. Sweat opens with sound bites of news clips and speeches setting the audience into the early 2000’s, suggesting the theme “we need to redeem America.” The context of this need for redemption unfolds in the local bar, the main set of the play. Here co-workers and friends from the steel mill linger, processing their lives as blue collar workers, celebrating success, analyzing the past, and dreaming for the future. As a promotion opportunity surfaces and the economy spirals, relationships falter, ending in tragedy and seemingly irreparable misunderstanding.

In contrast to Chesney’s hit, Nottage’s play is in no way generic, but rather storied. Mill worker Tracey’s story effectively reaches the heart of the white middle class in the audience. A self-made individual, coming from a legacy American family, with a great-granddaddy that was a craftsman, Nottage taps into the pride of the Caucasian American through Tracey’s identity, an identity which is shaken when her job security is removed.  Next, Nottage delves into the narrative of the black working class in the life of Tracy’s closest friend, Cynthia. She faces several challenges herself: the challenge of earning her way into the union, the fight to provide her child with the opportunity of higher education, and the perseverance through mistreatment, even from her closest white friends. Finally, Nottage welcomes the audience into the life of the Latino via bar worker Oscar. Unnoticed by the community, yet working devotedly within the community, Oscar, seeks a better, happier life, just like the white and black factory workers. All three groups are pursuing their own American dream.

Nottage expresses in her art a community that is not limited, but complex. Sweat gives faces and personalities to the individuals in its community, embodying the American story as one unique to the individual yet marked by the commonality of human ambition, hope, and pain. This skill is not unknown to the country music genre. As Dolly Parton croons about her “Coat of Many Colors,” a story unfolds of a mother and daughter, of poverty, pride, and faith. But recording artists need new hits. And so what follows are songs like American Kids. An inadequate form of storytelling which continues to shape thinking, leaving products of rural culture bereft of a truly inclusive form of American patriotism.

What if country music presented a holistic perspective of what is means to be American? One that includes the Spanish speaking neighbor who drives a Chevy, the Asian family that runs the local buffet, and the Hindi man who recently bought the gas station. What if the next great country hit, was a bit more honest? For some, that may be too much to ask. But as culture makers and culture consumers, with eyes set on furthering the gospel of Jesus Christ, creating and engaging more storied and complex art cannot be a question. It must be practiced, so that as the next generation of rural teens head to the city for college, they are equipped with practical culture awareness. Or, as the elder generation leading the church struggles with political and multi-cultural issues, there is a launching point for constructive dialogue. If believers are to engage with America as it is, the art we make and use must wrestle with complexities.

July 4th found me proud to be an American. A perfect sunny day, I took the bus to a friend’s cookout, head bobbing and feet tapping to the “Patriotic Country” playlist blaring in my headphones. The son of Mexican immigrants, Manny[i] could have been one of those kids in the candy aisle of the grocery store when I was young. His dad grills the best arachera and his mom’s hospitality continually astounds me. The only disappointment of the evening were the conversations I missed because I don’t speak Spanish. But that didn’t really matter. Caucasians, Mexicans, Costa Ricans, and multiracial individuals, we gathered as friends—laughing, shrieking, and celebrating as the fireworks boomed.  These are my people. This is my country. We are all American kids.

About Emily C. Alexander

A first generation college graduate of a rural working class family, Emily C. Alexander recently completed her undergraduate degree in Ministry to Women at the Moody Bible Institute. Emily lives in Chicago where she enjoys long walks admiring architecture and pondering theological and sociological issues. Her hope is to impact the lives of women and the flourishing of the church through thoughtful theological engagement.

---

Footnotes

[i] https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-country/kenny-chesney-drops-american-kids-video-declares-the-big-revival-63425/

[ii] https://tasteofcountry.com/kenny-chesney-american-kids-lyrics/

[iii] https://www.census.gov/quickfacts/shenandoahcountyvirginia

[iv] https://www.census.gov/quickfacts/fact/table/rockinghamcountyvirginia,VA/PST045218

[v] https://www.census.gov/quickfacts/fact/table/memphiscitytennessee,houstoncitytexas/PST045218

[vi] https://www.census.gov/quickfacts/fact/table/nashvilledavidsonbalancetennessee/IPE120217

[i] Name changed for privacy.

On Earth as in Wakanda: The City Vision of Black Panther

Chicago will be heaven on earth, the garden-city promised at the end of the Bible. That was literally what Daniel Burnham believed of Chicago’s future if its citizens faithfully carried out his city plan (pub. in 1909). According to Burnham, the people of Chicago possess a spirit that reflects “the constant, steady determination to bring about the very best conditions of city life for all the people.”[1] This spirit is not merely civic pride; it is a kind of power that controls the great work of Chicago as far back as the World’s Fair of 1893. In the eighth chapter of his plan, Burnham recounts the many projects accomplished by Chicagoans and concludes “the public… has the power to put the plan into effect if it shall determine to do so.”[2] If only it were so simple.

If only the city of heaven could be planned and built by will and determination. Would not all well-planned cities be heavenly if this were the case? The presumption of this plan is still astounding to me. In truth, Burnham’s plan is remarkable. It is a vision for a future city so thorough that it continues to capture the imagination of Chicagoans today. But it is not the only time a city claimed to be in the present, or future, a vision for the ideal human home, so as the first anniversary of the release of Black Panther arrives, its time to reflect on the vision of Wakanda’s Birnin Zana, the Golden City.

The World Behind the Golden City

In preparation for the film adaptation of the Marvel comic, production designer Hannah Beachler spent 10 months writing a 500-page plan for the city.[3] Despite the futuristic technologies of the Golden City, Beachler said her goal was to focus on the people.[4] This is apparent in the brief glimpses of the city’s market. Birnin Zana is a pedestrian-friendly city. It is built for walkability, and it relies on maglev-trains and highly advanced trotros (i.e. minibuses) for longer commutes.

// Laura Bliss, “The Maglev Train from ‘Black Panther’ Is the Transit We Deserve,” CityLab // Marvel Studios

In addition to detailed infrastructure design, the plan included a history of Wakanda and its capital city and names for every building. At the heart of the city’s design, Beachler put a building she named, The Records Hall.[1] She chose to highlight this building “Because [Wakanda residents] know everything about their past”—a privilege that real-world African Americans don’t have— “and [that] will never go away again in this city.” She continues saying, “I felt that way because I never knew my history. I didn’t know my ancestry, I didn’t know how far back it went …That was truly the most important thing to me. I don’t have that, but I could give it here in this fantastical world.”[5]

Given the design choice, remembering well is built in as an important value for the city. The choice to make memories the centerpiece of Wakanda’s capital reflects profoundly on the real-world lack of history for many blacks and Hispanics here in the US. It also indicates the wisdom in Beachler’s design. All cities are built to communicate a story (see previous article). The buildings, streets, and plazas work as monuments that support the community by reaffirming their values, virtues, rules, and dreams. Burnham did something similar. In the seventh chapter of his plan, he presents the “Heart of Chicago” and the heart of his beliefs in the form of a building he called the Civic Center (see picture below).

// Burnham and Bennett, Plan of Chicago, iv.

This building would be the symbol that would sit both literally and metaphorically at the center of his proposed city. Like the Duomo of Florence, the Forum of Rome, or the Acropolis of Athens, the Civic Center would embody the civic life of Chicago. It would combine the functions of these historical icons to sustain and nurture the intellectual, business, social, and spiritual life of the citizen. This symbol represents all that Burnham idealized and is presented as “the keystone” of the city,"[6] yet despite a few attempts at a building like this one, Chicago has no Civic Center. The Record Halls and Civic Center both remain a dream.

The World of the Golden City

Like El Dorado, Golden City is hidden from the world, kept like a precious treasure. It is a technologically advanced, prosperous, and healthy Chocolate City. Brentin Mock goes so far as to call it “the apotheosis of a Chocolate City,”[7] but this near-divine refuge of black culture is hidden from the real world where colonization ravaged Africa. Mock makes an interesting observation regarding Wakanda’s isolation. He writes,

What also keeps Wakanda secure is the fact that it is completely sovereign, accountable only to its own leaders, and it trades and does business exclusively with its own people. Wakanda is not eager to take in foreigners from other countries.

That kind of protectionism should not be conflated with the extreme nativism seen today from the Trump camp. While Wakanda is a fictional place, the story is situated in the real world of the audience. And so, Wakanda’s closed borders are a response to the colonialism and white supremacism that plundered and destroyed the wealth and abundance of natural resources found throughout the rest of the continent of Africa. Wakanda is also aware of the enslavement and terrorization of Africans in the Americas. Its foreign policy is formulated around avoiding similar fates.

This reasoning highlights the tension of film. Should the Golden City be kept a secret, or should its resources be shared with the outside world? Should the privileged blacks of Wakanda be committed to supporting the African diaspora? What about the colonizing nations that oppress blacks; should Wakanda help them as well? T’Challa addresses these questions at the end of the film:

Taking steps toward applying his new foreign policy, T’Challa purchases land in Oakland, California to build his first international outreach center. I see some irony in the choice of an American city as the first new compound for Wakandan missionaries. If Wakanda is meant to be a foil of the US, their approach in the conclusion fails to show any contrast. It resembles too closely the same posture taken by US missionaries and emissaries. Today, there are still mission schools and education centers in Central American countries that are essentially marketing an American ideal, promoting American exceptionalism. Still, there is something deeply human and empathetic of T’Challa’s desire to make things in Oakland as they are in the Golden City.

The World in front of the Golden City

Urbanists are fascinated with exploring Birnin Zana. They, along with fans and scholars, want more information on the design features. Some have gone on to imagine the missing details, using #InWakanda to share their ideas. The interest is so great, that curriculum and study guides have been developed. In this way, the Golden city spawned the kind of stimulation to society’s imagination that Burnham’s 1909 Plan of Chicago inspires. Burnham’s plan was once a textbook and required reading for eighth-grade students in the city. One such student and later mayor of the city, Richard J. Daley, referred to the plan as his favorite book, and he invoked it as he proposed his urban redevelopment plans in the late 1950s.[8] Recently, the Chicago Architecture Foundation republished the plan as a graphic novel. The popularity AND promotion of both these imaginary cities suggests something about our desire for the ideal urban home.

// Marvel Studios

Chicago, the Golden City, and Zion

Both cities studied here were planned as heavenly visions for a society that is whole, beautiful, and good. In this regard, both plans are derivative. The ancient text of the Bible promises a city built by God as the final, ideal home for humanity. The ideal or blueprint for this city is called Zion. The word Zion is used a total of 163 times in Scripture. Of those occurrences, the greatest concentration is found in the Psalms and the book of Isaiah.[9] In both books, the word takes the form of an ideal. In other words, Zion represents either the standard that Jerusalem – Israel’s capital – fails to embody or a vision of what the city is becoming. All cities that are good, beautiful, and conducive to human flourishing derive these features from this archetype. But there’s a second archetype in Scripture that explains why Zion will have to be built by God and could never be built by humanity. This archetype is called Babylon.

As I wrote in a previous article, Babylon is an ancient city that sustained its power by developing parasitic systems that drew from the resources of other lands and cities. Babylon was governed by libido dominandi (the lust for mastery). The conflict between Erik Killmonger and T’Challa is rooted in the correct accusation that Wakanda lived as a selfish country. They mastered their resources by hoarding them. When T’Challa confesses the wrongheaded approach of his ancestors, he chooses instead to travel to Oakland “essentially offering the salvific words of Starchild to Africa’s lost children: “You have overcome, for I am here.”[10] Even this derivative promise points forward to the only city and only king who will establish a kingdom without death or pain. Until then, we pray for life to be on earth as it is in the true Wakanda.

---

Footnotes

[1] Burnham and Bennett, Plan of Chicago, 8

[2] Ibid., 119

[3] Nicole Flatow, “Why We Loved Wakanda’s Golden City So Much,” CityLab, accessed February 14, 2019, https://www.citylab.com/life/2018/11/black-panther-wakanda-golden-city-hannah-beachler-interview/574420/.

[4] Ibid.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Burnham and Bennett, Plan of Chicago, 117.

[7] Brentin Mock, “How Wakanda Handles the Dilemma of Saving the Chocolate City,” CityLab, accessed February 14, 2019, https://www.citylab.com/equity/2018/02/wakanda-the-chocolatest-city/553259/.

[8] Adam Cohen and Elizabeth Taylor, American Pharaoh: Mayor Richard J. Daley - His Battle for Chicago and the Nation, 1 Reprint edition (Boston: Back Bay Books, 2001), 216.

[9] The word is used 40 times in the Psalter and 47 times in Isaiah.

[10] Lawrence Brown, “The Interpretive Matrix of Wakanda (Deeper Still the Mothership Connection),” Medium (blog), February 18, 2018, https://medium.com/@BmoreDoc/the-interpretive-matrix-of-wakanda-deeper-still-the-mothership-connection-a0b01368007a.

Seeking Understanding: Building Partnership Across the Rural-Urban Divide

Stepping into the fray, Daman asks a pointed question: “Is the church becoming polarized too?” Brought to the forefront by recent political events, rural America is once again in national conversation. But what does this mean for the rural church? What does the urban-rural divide look like in American Christianity? And how does American Evangelicalism value or devalue rural congregations and their pastors? These are the questions Daman grapples with in Forgotten Church.

You might say I grew up in rural America. During my elementary school years, my town added its third stop light and approached a population of a whopping 1,800 people. The summer before first grade, I attended Vacation Bible School on the mountain, gathering with just two other children and a leader in the church foyer. While only owning one acre, the farm surrounding my family’s property felt like our own. We eagerly awaited the years the farmer planted soybeans, as it made for smoother sledding hills. It was a difficult choice though, because the other option was sweet corn to eat. Farmer Donnie would pull into the driveway in his pick-up in the late afternoon sun and my mom would get four dozen, sending us kids out to the porch to shuck corn for supper. There is nothing like drying off from a swim in the river, while shucking juicy sweet corn for dinner, knowing Mom also made fresh bread. Did I mention the river? Yes, the Shenandoah is not just a John Denver song, but also the water in which I swam, canoed, and the banks on which I encountered painful poison ivy.

Shenandoah is the name of my home county and the valley in which I grew up. Historically called the “bread basket of the Confederacy,” the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia is an agricultural community, boasting fields of soybeans and corn, apple orchards, and numerous vineyards. Rural Virginians are Republican voting, camo wearing, deer hunting, gun collecting individuals. They drive pick-up trucks, butcher pigs, boil apple butter, drink sweet tea, and fly the confederate flag. This is the stock from which I come and the world I left when I moved to Chicago. It is this context which drew me into Daman’s discussion of the relationship between the rural and urban church.

The most concise summary of Daman’s thesis is a cry for partnership. Tackling a topic sorely in need of attention, Daman is writing from the perspective of a battle worn pastor, having long and faithfully served rural communities, watching the landscape of America Christianity change. He highlights the overemphasis past evangelical movements placed on the urban expression of the church. Not only is rural America a forgotten place, Daman suggests, but American believers have forgotten the rural expression of the body and its unique perspective and contribution to the church at large. The solution—partnership between the urban and rural church, seeking to overcome the divide, and grow to a place of mutual edification and advancement of the gospel. Simply said, yet clearly something is keeping this partnership from being realized.

At the risk of reduction, the greatest stumbling block to constructing partnership between the rural and urban church is misunderstanding, fed by stereotypes and lack of genuine knowledge of the other. This Daman argued for well, at least from the rural perspective, by endeavoring to unpack the context in which the rural expression of the American church dwells, touching on political, economic, and social issues, as well as common misconceptions. One such misconception is the belief that the presence of churches in rural America indicates it has been reached with the gospel. Daman states: “Because rural people tend to be more conservative, both politically and morally, many people assume that rural areas no longer need a strong evangelistic focus. However, a vast difference exists between being religious and following a Judeo-Christian ethic, and being a genuine disciple of Christ.”[1] This point rings true with my own experience. While full of religious people, with churches on every hill, the valley in which I grew up still desperately needs congregations committed to preaching the Word of God and committed believers walking in obedience to it. Additionally, those rural Americans already seeking to follow Christ have just as great a need of biblically and theologically trained church leadership as suburban or urban congregations, a point Daman brings to light.

I am unsure if Daman realizes his argument works both ways. The urban church, and any expression of the body of Christ which differs from one’s own, can be equally misunderstood. Herein lies my greatest critique. While crying out for partnership, Daman veers off the track of the rural/urban discussion into the large/small church discussion. While churches in rural towns of two hundred arguably have a smaller population to draw from than a church plant in Queens, one cannot equate urban with large church or rural with small. As someone who attends a church with an average attendance of approximately sixty in an affluent northwestern neighborhood of Chicago, I can attest first hand that my pastor deals with some of the same challenges my pastor from the Shenandoah Valley encountered. Here, precisely, is where believers must take a step back to listen, analyze, and maybe take a breath before speaking.

“No church can be reduced to its location.””

— Emily Alexander

No church can be reduced to its location. Each local expression of the body of Christ is composed of unique individuals, having experienced a variety of socio-economic, religious, and political backgrounds. One may be tempted to generalize rural churches as dying, small, and traditional. One may also be tempted to color urban churches as large, popular, and progressive. But generalizations only feed stereotypes and increase misunderstandings. The cry for partnership will not be recognized until we set aside our stereotypes, lay down our locality, and listen to the experiences of the “other.”

Quite possibly Daman is misidentifying the root problem in the American church when he identifies it as polarization. Instead, it seems that he is describing the habit of “othering” between believers.[2] However, this habit has no place in the body of Christ. The church is neither rural or urban, neither American or otherwise, but a unified, collective body of unique image bearers who have been brought into the Kingdom of God through the gospel of Jesus Christ. For the unity of His Body, Christ prayed, asking that the interpersonal relationships in the Church would reflect the unity and working together of the Godhead.[3]

Fides quaerens intellectum, “faith seeking understanding,” is a phrase coined by Anselm of Canterbury, a theologian of the early 11th century. In an introductory theology course during the first semester of my life in Chicago, this quote was given to me as a framework from which to study theology. Little did I know it would also become my framework for ecclesiology. How can one seek fellowship with another believer, particularly of a different background or locality, unless first seeking to understand? Raised as a proud southerner, taught a particular bias of civil war history, I had no understanding that the confederate flag, proudly waved on the porches of many homes in my county, was a symbol of grievance and offense to my black brothers and sisters. I had never had a friend that was black, so I didn’t understand. Nor did I have a pressing reason to seek to understand. Stepping onto the campus of a theology school during the height of Black Lives Matter, my worldview fell to pieces as I heard fellow students share their painful heritage. It wasn’t until I sought to understand, until I laid down the confederate flag flying in my own heart, that I could find fellowship. It is only in first seeking to find fellowship through mutual listening and understanding, that partnership can even be considered, something Daman himself is trying to do. Unveiling his heart and experience as a rural pastor, Daman’s cry for partnership is embedded in seeking to be understood.

So what about partnership? What about the rural and urban church joining together for the advancement of the gospel? Understanding leads to fellowship, which in turn leads to partnership, when, like Christ modeled, it is pursued in humility. This past summer I was offered an internship position in a large black church on the south side of Chicago. Thrilled, yet terrified, I met with a black man I respect whom also pastors a church in the city, and hesitantly voiced my concern. “Why would they want me? A girl from the south. A girl who didn’t have a personal friendship with an individual from another ethnicity or skin color until age twenty. Why would this church want me to intern with them?” Gently, kindly, he encouraged me to enter the black church community in humility, seeking to learn and understand. Three months later, I have experienced Biblical, ecclesial partnership in a way I didn’t know possible, in a way that will forever shape the trajectory of my ministry. But only because I entered in humility, seeking to understand, desiring fellowship, hoping to bring my unique giftings to be utilized only if of use to the needs of the congregation.

Once misconceptions and misunderstandings are cleared through the process of listening and nurturing fellowship, the real work of partnering together can occur. This partnership extends from an acknowledgement of both weaknesses and strengths, and an identification of commonalities. Today, the opioid crisis in America impacts countless of families and communities. In her 2018 book, Dopesick, Beth Macy unveils how the opioid crisis is affecting not just urban and suburban communities, but also ravaging central Appalachia. The Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, while classically played off as traditional and idyllic, lies right in the thick of the opioid mess. Is it possible that the urban expression of the body of Christ who have planted churches in neighborhoods wracked by drug abuse, gang influence, and violence (strength through experience), could possibly come alongside the rural church (weakness through inexperience) to battle against the increasing opioid crisis (shared commonality)? Quite possibly the rural church has a unique contribution to offer in return. A theology of space and land, deriving from generational ties to farms, mines, rivers, forests, and even buildings, could be shared with urban believers seeking to reach their communities with the gospel through constructing a sense of place. As Daman so poignantly suggests, the parts of the body, as outlined by Paul to the church at Corinth, are not specific to a local expression of the church, but applicable to the global church as well. The rural church cannot live into the fullest expression of the body of Christ without its urban and suburban sister churches, just as the urban church can benefit from the perspective and theological underpinnings of rural congregations and ministry leaders.

As I step back and consider the past three years of learning from the urban church, what rises to the surface are not so much the differences between my home community and Chicago, but the similarities. Similarities grounded in the brokenness of mankind and its need for redemption through the gospel. Similarities of tired land and decaying buildings crying out to be renewed by the Creator of all things. And within the church specifically, mutual human experiences of joy and pain both challenged and transformed by the participation in the global church of Jesus Christ. The urban church has equipped me to once again enter into my rural community, this time with fresh eyes, my heart ready to listen, my mind ready to understand, and my hands eager to partner within a local expression of Christ’s body. This experience prompts me to agree with Daman, that the rural church too can bring a transforming and needed perspective to American evangelicalism. But this can only happen if you as well are willing to lay down your flag of locality and seek to understand.

About Emily C. Alexander

A first generation college graduate of a rural working class family, Emily C. Alexander recently completed her undergraduate degree in Ministry to Women at the Moody Bible Institute. Emily lives in Chicago where she enjoys long walks admiring architecture and pondering theological and sociological issues. Her hope is to impact the lives of women and the flourishing of the church through thoughtful theological engagement.

---

Footnotes

[1] Daman, pg. 49.

[2] I am using a definition of othering that is like this basic definition pulled from the Google dictionary. Othering is "to view or treat (a person or group of people) as intrinsically different from and alien to oneself." I was hesitant to use "othering" because some view it as a fairly liberal concept, connected to inclusivity. However, if we look at history, it proves to be a sinful human response to differences.

[3] John 17.20-21