Racism: A Discipleship Problem?

Just prior to the death of George Floyd and a fresh wave of civil rights demonstrations taking hold of the US, InterVarsity Press released David W. Swanson’s Rediscipling the White Church: From Cheap Diversity to True Solidarity. A white man and ministry leader, Swanson pastors New Community Covenant Church, a multi-cultural congregation in the Bronzeville neighborhood of Chicago. Encouraged by his friends of color to speak to the topics of racism and whiteness in America, Swanson wrote Rediscipling in an effort to address a historic issue from this place in time. Many white Christians want to better understand the realities of systemic racism; they want to be better allies to their black and brown family. Swanson comes alongside these white believers, and the white church as a whole, with a historical, theological, biblical, and a deeply personal analysis of whiteness. Thoughtfully written and formed through the practical experience of pastoring, Swanson’s Rediscipling is a balanced resource for the ministry leader entering the hard work of racial reconciliation.

A Method Unquestioned

While Swanson’s Rediscipling is about whiteness, he begins in an unlikely place—the American church model of discipleship. The choice to begin here is an interesting one. For me, it proved successful in disarming my assumptions of the conversation. By starting with ministry method, not historical construct, Swanson reframes the topic at hand and captures the heart of the ministry leader. Swanson then employs philosopher Charles Taylor’s concept of social imaginaries. Taylor’s concept explains how our view of the world is shaped by what we expect from it.[1]  Drawing on discipleship methodology, Swanson shows how white Christians have been discipled into racism by culture and the world in which we live, leading us to conceptualize people of color biasedly. Swanson states: “White Christianity has been blind to the powerful racial discipleship that has formed the imaginations of white Christians.”[2]

It is interesting to reflect on the many ways in which the white church has rightly identified ways the culture and values of the world lead believers away from the gospel and holy living. We are quick to identity pornography as a sexual distortion and critique our culture for promoting its creation and consumption. Sadly, our whiteness has not allowed us to see how our world has enculturated us away from the reconciling gospel of God on issues of race. Rather, we have been enculturated towards viewing the world through a lens of racial difference. Swanson rightly asks, what should Christians be discipled into? How do the values of God’s Kingdom speak to race, racism, and ethnic or cultural divides? Swanson argues biblically and theologically that our white church discipleship has not produced Christians who mirror the God who desires to reconcile all things to himself: Jew, Roman, male, female, regardless of socio-economic status or color of skin. Rather we have been discipled by our world when it comes to matters of racial division. Swanson explains: “We can think of the narrative of racial difference as invisibly polluted air or contaminated water; the fact that we don’t recognize it doesn’t dull its impact on our way of moving through the world.”[3] How did we get to this place of being discipled into what Swanson calls racial difference? This is where the turn to history is important.

A History Unheard

If historical evidence has fallen on deaf ears in discussions of race, Swanson utilized it successfully. By approaching the conversation of whiteness first as a discipleship and cultural issue, Swanson interweaves the historical underpinnings for why American history and culture has discipled white Christians into white privilege. Swanson’s use of history spans the entirety of his book but comes heavily into play in the chapter, “Wounded by Race.” The conversation gets challenging here for the white believer, as Swanson unpacks the tragedy and evils of whiteness as a racial construct and white privilege, at length. He addresses this honestly: “We prefer not to linger. Yet the discipleship journey to redirect our desires toward the reconciled kingdom of God cannot be rushed.”[4] Many discussions of whiteness begin with the historical construct, using it as evidence to prove systemic racism. These evidences are not always well received by white believers as they present a new, unfamiliar, uncomfortable view of history. However, having already established the validity to the issues of race and whiteness, Swanson uses history well as explanation, not proof, for why these issues exist in America as they do. History becomes hard truth spoken to those who are ready to journey with Swanson through these tough realities. Swanson is not hurried, but he also speaks freely of the white Christian’s historical complicity to racism, segregation, and sin against their colored brothers and sisters. If you are willing to take this journey of learning with Swanson, you will make it to part two of Rediscipling, which paints the vision of the “reconciled kingdom of God.”[5]

A Vision Unseen

The second part of Swanson’s Rediscipling excites and provides hope for the ministry leader who wants practical steps forward for the internal soul work this book initiates. In each chapter, Swanson looks at a piece of congregational or fellowship life, analyzes it, and proposes ways these areas can be changed to allow believers to be re-discipled into racial reconciliation. Looking at children’s ministry, communion, liturgies, and potlucks, Swanson’s years of pastoral ministry shine through as he presents tangible ways in which white Christians can take their current practices and traditions and allow them to be informed by the reconciling gospel of Christ. Most significant is Swanson’s emphasis that re-orienting our hearts, lives, and congregations away from racial difference is possible even for believers in monolithic communities and congregations. Swanson explains that the goal of this re-imagined discipleship is to bring believers into true solidarity with the whole of the Body of Christ.[6]

This emphasis on solidarity rather than diversity, which has been championed in the race conversation at other points, allows for all to participate. Swanson explains: “The second reason for making solidarity our goal is that every expression of white Christianity can pursue gospel reconciliation immediately. Rather than outsourcing this essential Christian vocation to multiracial churches or to congregations in urban or racially diverse regions, every white congregation can contribute to the unity of the body of Christ across lines of cultural division.”[7] This vision of reconciliation, accessible even to believers in rural or suburban white communities, is a fresh vision for what must and can happen in the US church.

A Vision for All

While Swanson creatively and thoughtfully takes the reader on a journey to consider whiteness and reimagine discipleship, his target is ministry leaders. After finishing the book, I longed for a simplified and abbreviated version to hand off to my family and friends. Swanson writes as a practical theologian and pastor to those who have influence over church life. But this leaves me wondering if this critical conversation will get stuck at the leadership level, when so many lay persons are craving resources to take steps towards racial reconciliation. This brings us back to Swanson’s guiding ministry methodology—discipleship. Be it through worship, conversation, communion, the preaching of the word, or a chat over coffee, the flourishing we long to see in our church communities and our world is only made possible through the original biblical mandate—to make disciples. While this discussion of whiteness is a bit heady to make it into the layperson’s evening reading, the essential information and journey that Swanson unfolds for the ministry leader is replicable in the lives of those we disciple and lead.

A Higher Vision

The margin note that will stick with me in my personal copy of Rediscipling is this: “He cast something in my mind I have not yet fully seen.” All theologians, from the pew to the pulpit to the academy, wrestle with the “already, not yet” of our faith. Nearly ever doctrine is touched with an incompleteness that calls our hearts home to the Father and a future completeness found only in the Son, Jesus Christ. Why should it be surprising to my soul that Swanson prompted this holy discontent through his discussion of whiteness and the American church. Swanson sees, not naively, a vision of what God intends for His Body—a reconciliation of all people to Himself within His one Body, the Church. For Swanson, we can work towards that now.

We can see a glimpse of the New Earth John spoke of in Revelation in our churches today. We can make ministry choices that change the trajectory of the American church—a trajectory that has been shaped by racial difference more than by the gospel of Jesus Christ. I saw a glimpse of this vision through reading and reflecting on Rediscipling. While my vision is incomplete, and there is so much growth to be done in my own heart, mind, and actions, I am convinced there is a way forward. There is, to quote the old hymn, “a higher plane” than we have previously found. And so my prayer for all of us is to say, “Lord, plant our feet on higher ground.”

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.

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Footnotes

[1] 18-21

[2] 20

[3] 21

[4] 45

[5] 53

[6][6] 60

[7] 61

Does Righteousness Have a Color Scheme?

Editorial Note: Remember, a theology of clothing and a modest spirit are not solely a woman’s issue. The principles discussed below are also applicable to men, and we encourage our male audience to consider their role in this conversation as culture-makers.

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It wasn’t until moving to Ecuador for a teaching assignment that Chicago born Latina, Jacqui[1], saw firsthand that modesty is understood differently culture to culture. Surprised by the way women dressed when attending church, she realized that even while Latina, she was raised with an American perspective of modesty. “When I think ‘what does modesty look like in the Christian US,’ it’s covering yourself,” Jacqui explained. “But more specifically it’s covering the shape of a woman’s body.” Jacqui is mestiza, representative of the children and grandchildren of immigrants who find themselves caught between the cultural values of their heritage and the American values in which they have been raised. Jacqui had sensed this tension but living in a Latin culture outside the US for a couple years helped her begin to sort out these differences and gave her a fresh perspective on modesty.

“For Latins,” she explains, “it’s not about covering the shape but about covering the skin. Whereas, in the US, it’s more about covering the shape of your body.” What she saw in Ecuador rang true in her personal experience, as she identified in times of celebration, like a graduation, her family reverted to a Latin understanding of modesty, focusing more on covering one’s skin than shape. This cultural difference affected how Jacqui saw the Super Bowl half-time performance, and she thinks it is this cultural tension that contributed to the heated dialogue that followed. “I think that’s why at the Super Bowl a lot of people in the Latin community were upset when people said it was scandalous.”

Jacqui’s experience is an example of the diversity in modesty principles that exist in US churches today. While the loudest voice on the topic of modesty might be the white evangelical one, our churches are filled with believers from a variety of cultural contexts and ethnic backgrounds. First and second-generation citizens, mestizas/os like Jacqui, are in the process now, more than ever, of working through their cultural identity and understanding how it informs belief and practice as a follower of Jesus. In explosive debates, like the ones seen online after the Super Bowl half-time show, Christians can easily talk past each other, forgetting a fundamental yet complex difference we all have—context.

In February, the we published “Too Soon to Talk About Modesty” and the response was overwhelming, prompting constructive conversations in the WOS community and beyond. This article proposed we first talk about being clothed in the righteousness of Christ, before developing a practical theology of clothing. But what’s next? This month I sat down, virtually, with four Christ-following women who have thoughtfully developed their own relationship to clothing. Representing a variety of ages, ethnicities, cultural backgrounds, and church contexts, the experiences of these women tell a broad story, one that acknowledges the influence of culture and ethnicity on our relationship to clothing. God has given us the Word, the Spirit, and Biblical community as three means of pursuing wisdom—whether deciding what to wear, who to marry or what career to follow. What do we do when we disagree on what is modest? Clothing, as a cultural artifact, as well as a physical covering, tells a story. Some would say the story a Christian’s clothing should communicate is the gospel. Or at least, clothing should not hinder the gospel. The beauty in expanding our perceptions of modesty is that it opens us to reflecting the robust diversity of the Church and her people.

A Story of Cultural Identity

Wife, mother, First Lady, and professional, Shay is a woman who loves the Lord and loves fashion. In living life and doing ministry within the evangelical church, Shay has experienced firsthand the cultural differences in being a Christian and relating to clothing. “The issue of Christianity and modesty,” Shay shared, “really does come from a white evangelical background, and a very conservative background.” Coming from the very background Shay names, I listened intently to what she shared. Looking at an issue through the lens of another is the first principle of humbly seeking unity in the Church. Shay continued, “So women of color like myself, black and brown, as we come into the church, we are always taught that we have to look a certain way and act a certain way. But for many of us, we honor culture and race, we honor who we are and where we come from, and all the different pieces that make us, us. Even how we are raised and our personality types. And that is always a struggle, when churches say, ‘Hey, you’re welcome,’ but then I come in dressed in my sweats or my J’s—'Sorry, women don’t dress like that.’”

Cultural differences lie not only in how we cover our shape or skin, but in style. In attempting to define modesty, conservative evangelicalism has also dictated style, which isolates those from non-white ethnicities and cultural backgrounds. Rachel echoes a similar sentiment. As a church planter in Chicago, Rachel has spent time through the years reflecting on her cultural identity as Puerto Rican, with being a modest, yet fashionable, woman of God. “Too often we are not sensitive enough to someone else’s culture,” Rachel reflected. “We may want them to be part of our church, but we want them to assimilate into our culture. But if you want someone as part of your church…you will want their culture as well. And not say, “Come but leave your culture behind.’” Shay and Rachel point out that our clothing tells a story of our cultural identity. This piece of someone’s story is hindered when modesty is made to be a universal standard. But there is no universal standard.

A Story of our Uniqueness

Broadcast journalist Lecia was raised with a British/Caribbean cultural understanding to dress up for church, as a sign of respect. Residing in Florida where it is common for congregants to gather on Sundays in shorts, Lecia prefers to wear dresses and jewelry, yet humbly acknowledges that her clothing preferences are preferences. “Where do you find that middle ground? First of all, I acknowledge that it’s not a universal standard, so I realize I am not going to please everyone in what I wear.” Lecia emphasized the need to consider a social setting when making clothing choices and asks trusted friends for advice when she is unsure. However, she isn’t burdened by trying to be modest and doesn’t care if she is dressier than most. “Clothing is like an art and your body is the canvas,” she said, laughing that quarantine had been limiting her opportunities to dress up. “Dressing isn’t about drawing attention to specific body parts…it’s expressing your passions and your personality.” While seeking to be modest, Lecia sees clothing for what it is, a storytelling artifact that communicates the many facets of a person to the world around them.

Each woman interviewed listed numerous aspects of a person that influence clothing choice: body type, age, cultural background, church context, style preferences, personal comfortability, setting, and personality. Approaching the topic with a ministry mindset, Rachel expressed caution for those who try to develop rules or guidelines for modesty. “It’s such a multi-faceted conversation,” she mused. “I find myself leery of setting some kind of standard, that everyone then thinks, ‘This is God’s standard.’ We all would love to have, at our core, standards to follow so we could either look good or judge someone else or say we did it, but it was never like that for God. He was about our heart.” Raising her own daughter, and modelling Christ-likeness as a church leader, Rachel’s relationship to clothing is definitely on her mind. But her perspective is wisdom driven—not rule based. “There’s also the aspect that I want to do as Galatians 5 says—if I live by the Spirit, I will walk in step with the Spirit and bear the Spirit’s fruit in my life,” she explained, pointing back to scripture. “How do I do that? Well, let me ask questions that probe my heart, and get to the root of why I wear what I wear, and why am I choosing this.” This perspective rightly defines clothing—as an element everyone interacts with, that for the believer, needs submitted to Christ as any other area of life does. This perspective does not elevate clothing to what it is not—the telltale sign of a Christian’s character or righteousness.

Shay summarized it well: “Righteousness never had a color scheme, a style, a corset, a big baggy hoodie. It’s a manner of life that God has called us to live.” Clothing both covers and communicates. Just as the righteousness we wear communicates Christ to the world around us, clothing communicates the uniqueness of each person’s story, the diversity of our backgrounds, and the many pieces of our contexts. Getting practical with modesty starts with wisdom and continues with learning to love the Body of Christ in its many stripes and colors, baggie hoodies and all.

[1] All names of interviewees changed for privacy.

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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.

Soy Tu Madre. I See You.

“Because I’m your Mom, it counts the most, because I know you the most.””

— Isabel in Wonder

I remember the first time I felt seen by my mom. It was a random Saturday when I was seven or eight. “A girls’ day,” she called it. I don’t remember all the details of that day. I know we had lunch out, and likely went shopping, possibly buying some new clothes for me. It is the feeling that stayed with me—the feeling that I mattered. Being a middle child of six, and the only girl, my Mama knew I needed to be known, she knew I needed to feel seen.

In the 2017 film Wonder, America’s beloved Julia Roberts plays Isabel, an ordinary Manhattan mom who gives up completing a master’s thesis to homeschool her special needs son, Auggie. Wonder begins as Auggie starts a new and terrifying journey—middle school. For the first time Auggie and his family learn to navigate friendships with children who often cannot see past Auggie’s physical differences. Being seen and known by his family gives Auggie the courage to go to school each day, but being unseen (ignored) and unknown leaves his older sister, Via, swimming in isolation as she starts high school. In the film, Isabel’s growth as a mother is not about rediscovering her life or finishing her education, as one would expect. It is putting to practice what she already does so well with her son—learning to see and know her teenage daughter.

In a post-modern, justice and truth driven Christianity it can be easy to overlook a hidden task force for God’s kingdom that quietly, and often thanklessly, works each day shaping and changing culture. This task force? Mothers and grandmothers—the women who birth and raise children to know and love God.  Mothers as culture-makers is not a new concept, but an ancient, biblical one, reflected in the abuelita theology of the Latinx church.

Abuelita theology elevates the influence of women in the passing on of faith. Dr. Miguel A. De La Torre defines abuelita or “kitchen theology” as an understanding of the role mothers and grandmothers take in the “transmission” of beliefs and practices in the Latinx community.[1] This informal education happens in the most ordinary place—en casa. Latina scholars Loida I. Martell-Otero, Zaida Maldonado Perez, and Elizabeth Conde-Fraizer highlight the importance of this home environment, in their book, Latina Evangélicas. Latina theology is deeply rooted in the “’womb’ of daily life.”[2] More than a set of correct beliefs or practices, abuelita theology is an approach to faith formed within the community of a marginalized people, and is consequently rooted in “lo cotidiano,” the struggles of the day to day life historically faced by US minorities. Abuelita theology cannot help but be practical, as the effects of poverty and discrimination necessitate a livable faith.

In his new book, Brown Church, Robert Chao Romero suggests the Exodus story reflects the strength and influence of matriarchs.[3] The beginning chapters of Exodus reveal God’s people in a precarious place. Enslaved in Egypt, the Israelites population growth and potential power was concerning to Pharaoh. He commanded the Hebrew midwives to kill male infants as they assisted in deliveries. Fearing God, these women continued to help Hebrew mothers successfully birth their sons. As the Israelites grew in numbers, Pharaoh declared to all people that male Hebrew infants should be thrown in the Nile. Exodus 2 introduces us to Jochebed, a Hebrew mother: “The woman conceived and bore a son; and when she saw that he was beautiful, she hid him for three months.” Jochebed allowed her son to live. Three months later she submitted him to God’s sovereignty by placing him in a basket in the river, and dispatching her daughter to watch and wait. Moses was found, given favor, and raised in the house of Pharaoh. Later in his life, he would become the deliverer God had ordained for His people.

We are left to wonder what Jochebed saw in her son. The word translated “good,” or also “beautiful” in Exodus 2:2, does not give us a clear understanding of her thinking. In Stephen’s speech to the Sanhedrin in Acts 7 we learn that Moses was “lovely to God.”[4] Did Jochebed have an inkling of her son’s future purpose? Did God reveal his set-apartness to her? Or did she simply see and know her child, and that was enough. In both the darkest adversity, and the daily struggle as a member of a marginalized people, Jochebed influenced the world through her motherhood. The future of God’s people was secured by the faithful obedience of many women—and one mother who saw her son.

Joechebed’s story introduces the power of “lo cotidiano.” It is in the struggle of life that Jochebed’s choices as a mother take shape. Romero explains how this daily struggle is typified in Latinas: “Though many may look down upon our mothers, tías, and abuelas for their daily commutes on the bus, travails in domestic and factory work, exhausting familial responsibilities, and faithful church participation…it is precisely in the daily rhythm and grind of lo cotidiano that unique theological and epistemological understandings flow.”[5] This daily grind, lived out by every mother, is amplified in the life of the stay-at-home mom. The home becomes that “womb of daily life” that allows the child and mother to experience a reciprocal relationship of seeing and being seen.

Mothers and abuelas en casa create environments where the lives of children matter. In daily conversations, responses, sacrifices, and challenges, mom becomes a disciple maker and the children the disciples; the home is a safe space of shared experiences. Through this day in-day out proximity, stay-at-home moms create with their children a unique opportunity to both shape and be shaped. A mother sees her child each day in present circumstances, but as Jochebed and Isabel, also with a heart full of future hopes. Out of love, knowledge, and hope mothers speak into the lives of their children with the intent to shape whole and holy people. This relationship is reciprocal, as children also see their mothers up close. This allows space for immediate questions and conversation, as a child watches mom deal with “lo cotidiano.” This vulnerable relationship, when embraced, also sharpens the mother’s conviction and character. In the most mundane moments—over diaper changes, tearful shoe tying, math homework, fights over music choices, marital disagreements, and requests for forgiveness—mothers model godliness and shape the next generation of the Church, while also experiencing growth themselves.

In abuelita theology, the Latino community gifts the global church with theological language—words and imagery to honor the critical role of mothers and grandmothers in the propagation of the Christian faith and the strengthening of the Church. Possibly, like me, you expect women to cultivate an identity outside of being a mom. The progression of time and culture have shown us that women can successfully raise a family and pursue education or a career. I have this conversation with friends often: how we are eager to bring truth to our cultures, build the church, and share the gospel with our communities, but we also want to have strong families. As culture-makers who are working from the ground up to bring the beauty, justice, and wonder of the Cross to the world, we can lose sight of our strongest ministry partners—mothers.

In a concluding scene of Wonder, Julia Robert’s character Isabel attends her daughter Via’s play. Forgetting her glasses, Isabel strained to see Via enter the stage. Determined not to miss this special moment, Isabel took her husband’s glasses and watched the entirety of the play leaning forward to see her daughter perform. Shocked by the talent and beauty of her own child, the glasses did more than allow Isabel to see Via act, they helped Isabel realize she had not been truly seeing her daughter. It was finally being seen by her mom that gave Via the confidence she needed to face the world outside her home. Isabel and Via were changed and so was the world around them through their strengthened relationship.  

Today we stop to honor motherhood—the women, mothers and grandmothers, who have birthed and shaped our lives. Theirs is a faith defined by labor and sacrifice, and a love that chooses to see and know as God sees and knows. While many of us labor as pastors, teachers, writers, artists, advocates, thinkers, and activists, trying to make new the world in which we live—these women labor alongside us, creating and nurturing life that is new, young, and vulnerable. Today we stop to honor the women who see.

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.

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Footnotes

[1] Hispanic American Religious Cultures, De La Torre, 347.

[2] Latina Evangélicas, Martell-Ortero, et. all, pg. 6.

[3] Romero, 211

[4] Acts 7:20

[5] Romero, 317

Too Soon To Talk About Modesty

I was a little surprised when the believer’s relationship to clothing came directly in the cross hairs of conversation following the Super Bowl Half-Time show in February. Issues of Latin culture, pop culture, sensuality, sexual purity, and modesty contributed to a charged conversation. World Outspoken’s Emanuel Padilla chimed in with an article addressing many of these issues, raising important questions about the Christian’s perspective of modesty in relation to culture. Initially, I believed my surprise was rooted in a Christian modesty ethic which framed my thinking to expect “the world” to have a different relationship with clothing than my own. Then I read Lauren F. Winner’s Wearing God and realized my relationship to clothing had shifted—no longer primarily formed by a cultural modesty ethic (Christian or otherwise) but something more.   

Modesty conversations are not new to the church and arise frequently when believers make an effort to draw distinctions between Kingdom culture and ungodly elements of world cultures. This theology of “worldliness” is found frequently in fundamentalist church circles, with James 1:27 cited as a supporting text for a believer’s physical, tangible distinctness from the world.  A helpful example of this is found in Anabaptist denominations, such as the conservative Mennonite or Brethren. These believers hold to standards of dress which set them apart from broader society, choosing sex differentiated clothing (skirts and dresses for women, pants for men) and clothing that is either homemade or what is considered the most modest of what is available. In choosing to dress in a way that is distinct from world cultures, clothing becomes a marker of identity and a communicator of holiness.

The Super Bowl discussion and the Anabaptist modesty ethic seem to be outliers from the average believer’s wardrobe considerations. Nonetheless, the Church through time has wrestled with its relationship to clothing as a cultural artifact—forming, at best, a muddled conversation. When it comes to clothing, believers may have missed a step on the way to correct practice. We have constructed our “correct belief” based on culture, forgetting that for the believer, clothing is not first a cultural artifact at all. Clothing is first and foremost a person—the person of Jesus Christ.

In her book Wearing God: Clothing, Laughter, Fire, and Other Overlooked Ways of Meeting God, Dr. Lauren F. Winner presents several metaphors for God frequently neglected in Christian thought. Winner proposes that some scriptural metaphors (e.g. shepherd, light) have become the sole ways in which believers imagine God, leaving the Church with a “truncated relationship” with her multi-faceted, unfathomable Lord.[1] One of these forgotten metaphors is clothing. Drawing from a robust biblical and historical-cultural theology, Winner brings newness to Paul’s declaration to the churches of Galatia: “For all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ.”[2] Beginning in Genesis and concluding in the epistles, Winner points out that God clothes us, God is our clothing, and God invites us into clothing others.[3]  

God Clothes Us

Clothing is both identity shaping and communicative. As an identity shaping artifact, clothing acts upon its wearer, forming him or her to its likeness. Winner explains that “fashion” is not only a noun, but also a verb, meaning to mold or to shape.[4] When choosing a variety of clothing one can “play at being a different kind of self,” because the clothing we choose fashions us into different people.[5] I am reminded of this when co-workers do not recognize me in the gym. I am molded by my fitness attire to a different me, an athletic, possibly trendier version of my typical simply dressed self. My gym clothes act upon me, shaping my identity. Clothing also shapes communal identity. Winner uses a classic example of children’s school uniforms, which define community through the elimination of differences.[6] Common clothing sustains a common identity.

As God tenderly dressed Adam and Eve with clothing of skins before they left the garden, we as believers have been dressed by God with Christ. How then is our identity, our very self, being shaped by the Person we wear each day? How does Christ act upon us in such a way that fashions both our personal and communal identities? As Winner candidly states: “I let my Talbot suits and my vintage shirts remake me in their image. I want to let Jesus do the same.”[7] Church culture aptly reminds me of the ability which clothing as a cultural artifact has to shape my identity away from holiness. Yet it frequently neglects to lay proper emphasis on my original clothing—the person of Jesus Christ, who daily shapes my identity, personally to Himself, and communally to the image of His Bride.

God is our Clothing

Clothing is also communicative. Winner looks back to mourning clothes, commonly worn by widows just decades ago. A widow of the 1920’s would wear mourning clothes for months after the loss of her husband. This black dress, Winner explains, would convey to the woman’s community her state of mourning.[8] The clothing did not cause the woman’s mourning, but rather communicated her state, prompting an appropriate response (careful attention and kindness) from those with whom she interacted.

Women in particular are warned to consider the communicative power of clothing. As a Christian woman, slut shaming takes its own vicious form as women criticize women of leveraging sex appeal in their wardrobe choices. Men also are criticized, often for appearing effeminate. Gender-norms and sexuality aside, clothing also communicates economics, status, and ethnic culture. The very nature of clothing to maintain communal identity also works to construct boundaries and communicate division.[9]

Lost in this discussion is the person of Christ bound daily to the very being of believers. Winner brings this again to the forefront, discussing the communicative nature of God-as-clothing. She states: “What we are asking for, of course, is not clothing that is more articulate, but that our disposition—which is indeed on display, often to a greater extent than we wish—would be more congruent with the Jesus whom we wear.”[10] Both identity shaping and communicative, the person of Christ acts upon His children, shaping them to His image and conveying through them His personhood. Jesus is our primary clothing, eclipsing any cultural artifact we may pull out of the closet on a Monday morning.

God Invites us to Clothe Others

Contrary to most clothing discussions, Winner lands her argument in the openness of the gospel and our mandate to clothe others. Winner suggests we are involving ourselves in a “choreography of divine action” when we follow God’s act of providing physical clothing[11] Citing Mathew 25 and James 2, Winner explains that Jesus holds up clothing others as a “basic norm, a test even, for discipleship and hospitality.”[12] This theology of clothing that Winner suggests does not separate us from those who need Christ. This theology asks us to mimic God through clothing those in need—a new mom and her infant, an immigrant family, the homeless—and welcome others to experience the transforming, fashioning presence of Christ with us.[13]

It is Laura Winner’s brief look at this metaphor for God—clothing—that unveils the misplaced priorities in the clothing conversation. Each day we look into closets and open drawers to clothe bodies we may not be happy with. The world around us says, “It’s okay if you wanna change the body that you came in” and that you will be happiest when you “feel like a damn queen.”[14] Church culture tells us to maintain a distinct identity from the “world” and communicate holiness through what we wear. Scripture tells us we wear Christ.

It’s too soon to talk about modesty, if we first haven’t talked about our primary clothing—Christ. Expecting another book on modesty ethic, Wearing God surprised me. For years I listened to church cultures emphasize modesty and believed a clothing ethic was one of my highest priorities as a woman of God. Then I entered a space that preached first Christ—not ethics of holiness. In reading Winner, I realized what has taken place in my own heart is a heightened concern to wear Christ daily, rather than fixate on a clothing ethic. Tenderly clothed by God, with God, to then clothe others—this is our identity and what we communicate to the world. This is the foundation to discussing clothing as cultural artifact. It’s too soon to talk about modesty—so first, let’s begin here.

Note: Clothing is one metaphor Dr. Lauren F. Winner presents in her book Wearing God. We encourage you to read Winner’s book in full, keeping in mind all biblical interpretations and theological positions are not interacted with in this article or supported by the WOS Team.

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.

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Footnotes

[1] Wearing God, Lauren F. Winner, Harper Collins, New York, 2015. Pg 6.

[2] Galatians 3.27 NASB

[3] Winner, 53

[4] Ibid., 38

[5] Ibid., 38

[6] Ibid., 46

[7] Ibid., 41

[8] Ibid., 42

[9] Ibid., 46

[10] Ibid., 45

[11] Ibid., 54

[12] Ibid., 55

[13] Ibid., 55-57

[14] “Most Girls”, Hailee Steinfeld, et all. Warner Chappell Music, Inc. Downtown Music Publishing.

Do We Believe in Mercy?

“Jesus said: “When they were unable to repay, he graciously forgave them both. Which of them therefore will love him more?” Simon answered and said, “I suppose the one whom he forgave more.” And He said to him, “You have judged correctly.””

— Luke 7.36-50

Bryan Stevenson did not discover his passion for justice in the classroom. The founder of the Equal Justice Initiative (EJI), while gifted and open hearted, was like any other young adult searching for his purpose and path. The newly released film, Just Mercy, based on Stevenson’s book of the same title, begins with the moment that solidified Stevenson’s pursuit of justice for the marginalized—a moment defined by proximity.

Michael B. Jordan as Bryan Stevenson and Jamie Foxx as Walter McMillian // Warner Bros. Pictures

 As a law student intern with the Southern Prisoners Defense Committee in Georgia, Stevenson experienced his first meeting with a death row inmate. Feeling nervous and ill-equipped, Stevenson showed up for an hour appointment with Henry, prepared only to relay a brief message. Stevenson was not expecting to meet someone his own age, a young man he could have grown up with, played sports with, and sung in church with. After three hours of warm conversation, their meeting came to an abrupt close. Henry was roughly led away in shackles and Stevenson was left with an altered “understanding of human potential, redemption, and hopefulness.”[1] Stevenson reflects on this encounter with Henry, writing:

“I had come into the prison with anxiety and fear about his willingness to tolerate my inadequacy. I didn’t expect him to be compassionate or generous. I had no right to expect anything from a condemned man on death row. Yet he gave me an astonishing measure of his humanity.”

This increased level of proximity to the life of a death row inmate proved to be a defining moment in Stevenson’s education. Interacting with Henry’s humanity and gaining an intimate perspective of his need became the starting point of Stevenson’s journey in understanding justice and mercy.

Released at the start of this new decade, Just Mercy is a stark reminder that the remnants of the past do not just linger as ghosts in today’s world, but color the very fiber of our society. Just Mercy highlights the beginning of Bryan Stevenson’s career providing services to death row inmates in Alabama, and the foundation of the EJI. Through the case of Walter McMillian—a black man wrongfully convicted and placed on death row for the murder of a white girl—the injustice, racism, and prejudice towards poverty which plague the United States Justice system rise to the surface. Emancipated in 1993, only 25 years ago, McMillian’s story on screen becomes a case study of the issues EJI still fights against today.

But there is risk in allowing Just Mercy to become a mere conversation piece. Hitting theatres in time for MLK Day, this film has the potential to be regarded as just another story which makes the majority feel uncomfortable and incriminated by the past, while the minorities say their amens. However, I think this film holds deeper possibility for Christians and the Church. Like Stevenson’s own experience, the narrative places the viewer in closer proximity to a concept commonly devalued—the doctrine of mercy. Trudging out of the popcorn littered theatre, I wondered, do we even believe in mercy?

Michael B. Jordan as Bryan Stevenson and Jamie Foxx as Walter McMillian // Warner Bros. Pictures

God’s mercy is showcased throughout scripture. Mercy, also translated compassion, is a quality God attributes to himself when speaking to Moses in the book of Exodus, stating: “The Lord, the Lord God, compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in lovingkindness and truth.”[2] Mercy was a baseline God set for relating to his people, underscoring that they would fail on their end of the covenant but he would never fail.[3] Mercy informed David’s understanding of and relation to God as he cried out for compassion when he murdered Uriah and lost his son.[4] God also displayed mercy towards those outside his covenant, such as the gentile Ninevites. It is God’s very character of mercy which angered Jonah  when he saw God extend this mercy to the repentant people of Nineveh.[5] This attribute continues through scripture, being the foundation of the redemption of people to God and the formation of the Church. Paul explains to believers in Ephesus: “But God, being rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in our transgressions, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved).”[6] Throughout salvation history the mercy of God towards humanity is the precedent.

While mercy proves to be a doctrine intrinsic to salvation, our presence and practice as the Church within our communities and nation do not loudly echo of mercy. A lack of awareness of faulty government and social systems, misaligned priorities at the polls, and a lack of advocacy and action on behalf of society’s “lowest” might point to a doctrine of mercy that is more ideological than practical.  While watching actor Michael B. Jordan, portraying Stevenson, grow in compassion for individuals who have perpetrated great wrong, my own heart was humbled.  Many of us, like Simon, have been forgiven little.

In Luke 7, Jesus is invited to dinner at the home of Simon, a religious leader. In the middle of this dinner a woman arrives—a woman known in the community for her sin. She has a reputation. She is known for her worst thing. It is this woman who gives Jesus a grand welcome, breaking an expensive vial of perfume to anoint his feet. Astonished, Simon and his friends are critical, taken aback by this woman’s presence in the home and her unexpected display of care for Christ. To rebuke the unspoken critique, Jesus addresses Simon by sharing a story, and concludes: “For this reason I say to you, her sins, which are many, have been forgiven, for she loved much; but he who is forgiven little, loves little.”[7] In our biblical theology of mercy here lies a living example of the just mercy which Stevenson champions. Mercy begins with relationship—us choosing to interact with and see the humanity of another person. Mercy is extended as undeserved favor. This is the example of Christ.

Just Mercy film // Warner Bros. Pictures

Just Mercy asks our nation to consider the mercy and its absence in our systems of justice. I believe for the church in the US, Just Mercy asks us to reconsider our doctrine of mercy and test if it is merely ideological. Stevenson states in the close of the film, “We can’t change the world with an idea in our heads, we need conviction in our hearts.” This conviction moves us to act, to display mercy as Christ did to the woman who washed his feet, as God has always done for his people throughout time.

At World Outspoken we seek to equip the Church to make culture. It’s easy to spot the flaws in our communities, but not so easy to evoke the change our communities groan for. This is why we don’t seek to change culture, but make culture from the ground up, reinventing systems of thinking, and systems of doing and creating, which lead to the advancement of God’s kingdom on earth. Correct thinking leads to correct doing, but first we start with correct belief, belief that translates into conviction to act. Do we believe a robust doctrine of mercy, or do we look with critical eyes at those to whom God extends forgiveness? Bryan Stevenson says, “Each of us is more than the worst thing we have ever done.”[8] A three-hour conversation began Stevenson’s journey to this conviction. I am curious what increase in proximity needs to happen in my own life to change my perspective. And I wonder the same for you.

Learn More

To learn more about mass incarceration, the Word Outspoken team suggests these resources:

• Just Mercy: Take a deeper look at Bryan Stevenson’s journey of justice in his autobiography.

• Visit the Equal Justice Initiative: We visited their monuments in Montgomery. Read our review of their monuments here.

• Ear Hustle Podcast: Hear about the daily realities of those inside the US prison system.

• LIVE FREE: Our friends at Live Free Campaign are working to end the scourges of gun violence, mass incarceration, and the criminalization of Black and Brown bodies. They are mobilizing people of faith to be on the front lines addressing mass incarceration and gun violence.

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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.

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Footnotes

[1] Just Mercy, Bryan Stevenson, Spiegel & Grau, 2014. Pg. 12.

[2] Exodus 34.6-7, NASB

[3] Deuteronomy 4.31

[4] Psalm 51.1-2

[5] Jonah 4.2

[6] Ephesians 2.4-5

[7] Luke 7.47 NASB

[8] Stevenson, 17-18

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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 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.

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.

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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.

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.

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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