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

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

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

The World Behind the Golden City

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

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

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

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

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

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

The World of the Golden City

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

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

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

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

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

The World in front of the Golden City

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

// Marvel Studios

Chicago, the Golden City, and Zion

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

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

---

Footnotes

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

[2] Ibid., 119

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

[4] Ibid.

[5] Ibid.

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

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

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

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

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

Seeking Understanding: Building Partnership Across the Rural-Urban Divide

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Emily Alexander

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

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

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

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

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

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

About Emily C. Alexander

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

---

Footnotes

[1] Daman, pg. 49.

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

[3] John 17.20-21

Beyond Racial Binary Pt. 2

Miles Morales. That’s the name of the Spider-man at the center of the newly released Spider-man: Into the Spider-verse. He is half African American, half Puerto Rican, and the first bi-racial superhero to hit the big-screen. As a true coming-of-age story, the movie portrays Miles ascending to the idea that he too can be spider-man. This is the main theme of the film, and it’s summarized in a mid-credit title card that reads: “That person who helps others simply because it should or must be done, and because it is the right thing to do, is indeed without a doubt, a real superhero” (Stan Lee). The Spider-verse, with its many spider-people, is a forward-thinking contribution to the race conversation, one that subtly adopts a thicker identity than the binary (i.e. black/white) so common to the discussion. Miles is more than a black character. Spider-man is more than a white Peter Parker. The super-hero behind the mask is recast as a Criollo, a product of a complex racial world.

Original Artwork/Christian Perez

After reading our previous article on the racial binary, a reader sent me the following critique (I’ve shared it in full because it is the question at the center of this second article):

“This article proved that historical events demand a more nuanced view. Now you should take it further and explain how [a tri-racial history] will not only account for what actually happened in America but what that historical accuracy will do for discussions about race in America. So yes, the truncated [binary] starting place doesn’t account for the history of the west and south, but how will the new proposal change the discussions about our racialized history?”

Essentially, I believe this reader is asking for points of application, for the “what now” that follows from a tri-racial American identity and history. My goal is to answer his question by building from the same two points that I proposed in the original post. A tri-racial dialog on race is one that is rooted in a thick history of non-innocence and the Criollo/Mestizo Identity, and together these provide a base for reconciliation and unity. Miles Morales will serve as a contemporary case study, an example of how a history of non-innocence and a Criollo identity can shape us all for the better. While Miles serves as the social example, I intend to draw points of connection between these ideas and the Bible when appropriate. In making these connections, my aim is to show that the Church is uniquely equipped, when guided by Latino/a brothers and sisters, to be the ambassador of reconciliation in a racialized America.

A History of Non-innocence[1]

In the previous article, I briefly covered a history of racial oppression and violence in the west coast. By recounting this history, I demonstrated that the Hispanic experience in America includes acts of racism dating back further than the history used to support a racial binary. However, this more nuanced historical account is not meant to be used to lay claim on land once stolen by Americans. That is not my goal.  On the contrary, the Hispanic social identity does not permit me, nor my people, the gift of innocence when it comes to ownership claims on the land. Remember, the means by which these lands became Spanish was conquest and encomienda (see previous post), practices no more honorable than those used by Americans years later.

Hispanics are the mixed products of Spanish conquistadors and indigenous people. Our inheritance is always a mix passed down from guilty ancestors. As Justo Gonzalez remarks,

Our Spanish ancestors took the lands of our [Native] ancestors. Some of our [Native] ancestors practiced human sacrifice and cannibalism. Some of our Spanish forefathers raped our [Native] foremothers. Some of our [Native] foremothers betrayed their people in favor of the invaders. It is not a pretty story. But it is more real than the story that white settlers came to this land with pure motivations, and that any abuse of inhabitants was the exception rather than the rule. It is also a story resulting in a painful identity.[2]

A Criollo history, a mixed, tri-part history that accounts for the crimes of our ancestors and acknowledges that our inheritance is the result “not merely of hard labor, daring enterprise, and rugged individualism but also of theft” can cultivate the empathy necessary to pursue justice together.[3] This is the great gift and therefore the great responsibility of a Hispanic heritage: to challenge the myth of innocence in the American past.

Miles and his Heritage (Spoiler Alert)

One of the tensions of the Spider-verse movie is the relationship between Miles and the male figures in his family. His father, Jefferson, is a hard-nosed police officer who lives on clear cut lines of right and wrong and pushes Miles to transcend the mire of life in Brooklyn. In a powerful moment between father and son, Miles questions why he must go to the new magnet school instead of being in a traditional public school “with the people.” Jefferson’s answer is firm: He wants something better for Miles; he doesn’t want Miles to become his uncle. To this, Miles responds, “What’s wrong with uncle Aaron?”

Miles admires his uncle Aaron, who is a clear foil of Jefferson. The big reveal of the film is that Aaron is The Prowler, a murderous villain who works for the Kingpin. During a tragic scene following the revelation of Aaron’s alter-ego, Miles is encouraged by his dying uncle to do better, to be better, because he is “on his way” to greatness. Miles’s own family is complicit in the crimes, his uncle is caught up in the wrongs, yet he drives Miles to transcend as Jefferson had hoped. Miles’s hero was also a villain. This is part of his complex inheritance. This history of non-innocence undergirds Miles’s embrace of his call to be Spider-man. In the end, we see Miles paint a tribute to his uncle in the police station with his father, a beautiful act of remembrance.

A History of Non-innocence and the Church

The way we capture and relate history affects the way we perceive the world and the Bible. This is one of the basic claims of Justo Gonzalez’s book, Mañana: Christian Theology from a Hispanic Perspective. Justo demonstrates that Bible stories are not politically and socially neutral, and he convincingly argues that American retellings of biblical stories tend to sterilize them and remove these aspects. However, a slow examination of the Older and Newer Testament would prove to be quite contrary to this mostly innocent account of the stories. The history of Israel is a dark heritage which includes rape, the murder of the innocent, and the oppression of the poor. The heroes of the Old Testament are often deceitful and out for their own gain. The disciples in the New Testament are not much of an improvement. As Justo writes,

In short, biblical history is a history beyond innocence. Its only real heroes are the God of history and history itself, which somehow continues moving forward even in spite of the failure of its great protagonists. Since this is also the nature of Hispanic history, it may well be that on this score we have a hermeneutical advantage over those whose history is still at the level of guilty innocence, and who therefore must read Scripture in the same way in which they read their own history.[4]

Justo concludes his remarks with a clear challenge to read the Bible as it is intended, as a record of an entirely guilty humanity in need of God’s grace. This reading of Scripture and act of responsible remembrance, argues Justo, leads to right action in the present. Again, if we are all ladrones (thieves), we are readier to empathize and challenge injustice together.

A Criollo/Mestizo Identity

I introduced the criollo/mestizo identity in the previous article. These words have been given theological significance as well. Jose Vasconcelos (a Mexican writer, philosopher and politician) was the first to take the term mestizo and redeem it as a positive term. In his early writings, Vasconcelos argued that America could be the place where La Raza Cosmica (The Cosmic race) could develop. He saw great potential for unity in the Hispanic identity because it transcends designation by skin color. Many Hispanic theologians since have followed his line of reasoning to portray the Church as a kind of mestizo group.

Virgilio Elizondo, for instance, argued similarly in The Future is Mestizo.[5] Much of his work focuses on the theological significance of the mestizo/a and the process of mestizaje, which defines the mixing of the three bloodlines (African, European, and Native) not only biologically but culturally and religiously as well. These theologians reflect deeply on their ethnic-social identity, but they also reveal a key observation about God’s people throughout history. From their very origin, the people of God were a mestizo (mixed) group. A brief review of the biblical story reinforces this identity.

When the Lord first redeemed Israel from slavery in Egypt, the Bible tells us that “a mixed multitude also went with them” (Exod. 12:38). Moses married a black woman, though he was criticized for it (Num. 12). When Israel crossed the Jordan river into the promised land, Rahab, a prostitute, helped Israel in their conquest of Jericho. She would marry into Israel, and later genealogies reveal that she is a foremother of Jesus (Matt. 1:5). Ruth, a moabite, is another foremother of Jesus. The Bible tells us that one of the earliest converts to Christianity was an Ethiopian eunuch (Acts 8:28-40). The church where the term Christian was first used was a mixed church led by a group that included a black teacher named Simeon (Acts 13:1). The early church included Jew and gentile alike, and the startling conclusion of the Bible foretells that God will be praised by a multitude “from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages” (Rev. 7:9).

From the beginning, God’s people include a mix of Africans, Europeans, and Israelites as one group. The history is one of non-innocence and the identity is uniquely and profoundly mixed. Mestizaje is the process by which Hispanics became one group consisting of brown, white, and black people. One of my Abuela’s favorite reminders is that you cannot identify a Puerto Rican by the color of their skin. Indeed, my family includes relatives of white skin with blue eyes and others with dark skin and curly hair. Despite these physical differences, we are united in one culture, one spirit, and one family. Is this not what Paul envisions in Ephesians chapter 4 when he challenges the church to walk worthy of their call by living in profound union?

Anglo Americans already have a sense of this mixed identity and union. They typically do not self-identify as German, English, French, Dutch, etc. Instead, the identity is now subsumed in the racial category: white. Mestizaje, however, moves beyond skin color and is rooted in more nuanced history; it produces a social group readier to welcome the other with genuine hospitality.

Conclusion

Miles Morales is a criollo Spider-man deeply committed to his family. When he faces the villain of the film, it is his connection to his family that lifts him to the task of defeating evil. He wins the fight by remembering his father’s words and using his uncle’s move. Miles is black, he is Rican, and he’s Spider-man. His empathy and desire for justice are rooted in his heritage and the complexity of his identity. Spider-man: Into the Spider-verse was an excellent display of the gift of mestizaje. Like Miles, the Church can learn from their brown family members to remember responsibly and act justly in the world. This is the great gift and great responsibility inherited from the Hispanic identity and the Latino/a church.

---

Footnotes

[1] Credit must be given to Justo L. Gonzalez for this title and framework for history. His thoughts on history shaped what I propose in this section, and I recommend readers consider his book Mañana: Christian Theology from a Hispanic Perspective.

[2] Justo L. González, Mañana: Christian Theology from a Hispanic Perspective, Reprint edition edition (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1990), 40.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Ibid., 77.

[5] I suggest reading Nestor Medina's book called Mestizaje: ReMapping Race, Culture, and Faith in Latina/o Catholicism as a primer. Nestor dedicates an entire section of the book to expounding and critically reviewing the ideas of Elizondo.

Life In the Fastlane: With Ten Items or Less

Shopping can really work up an appetite. Thankfully, Costco has a food court, and on this day of grocery shopping, my husband and I had our hearts set on a Costco chicken bake. There are two wonderful things about the Costco food court. One, the food is ridiculously cheap. Two, they are ridiculously fast at taking your order and getting you your food before you can even blink. On this particular day in the world of Costco, I observed a new addition sitting conspicuously in the center of the food court. At the same time, I also observed a heightened level of chaos within the kitchen that lay beyond the order/pick up counter. Workers were waving order tickets with furrowed brows, rearranging orders on the counter, and consulting one another with frustration written on each face. The culprit of this chaos seemed to be the little addition located in the center of the floor, the self-service checkout kiosk. This kiosk enabled customers to electronically submit their order. My husband and I wondered to ourselves why Costco would go through the trouble of trying to improve a system that was already efficient. Did this technology actually improve the system or did it simply wreak havoc?

The trend of self-service technology is expanding its reach not only into the world of grocery stores and Costco food courts, but even into movie rentals, airports, and beyond. This self-service culture has a lot to tell us about the quickening pace of our society and the high value we place on time and efficiency. An exploration of this trend will bring us to grips with the reality of our own finiteness and God’s expressed desire for how we use our time. 

The World Behind the Kiosk

The very first self-service grocery scanner to make its appearance in the patent world was invented by David R. Humble in 1984 (Justia). The idea supposedly came to him as he was waiting in line at the grocery store observing an interaction between the customer in front of him and the cashier. The man supposedly grew so frustrated at the clerk for taking too long that he reached over the counter and began scanning his own items. This caused Humble to wonder why people could not scan their own groceries (Dilanardo). From the very outset, the concept of self-service technology was brought into existence as a response to the culture’s high value of time efficiency and perceived time deficit.

Like the man in the grocery store, we often find ourselves feeling time pressure, as if there is not enough time in the day to do everything we would like to do, which causes the feeling of being rushed or hurried constantly (Waicman, 62). The cause of this busyness mentality is attributed to an accumulation of factors which include “overchoice,” the blurring of work/home boundaries, and the physiological perception of time caused by work schedules (Anderson, 157). Our culture is flooded with an abundance of choices for how one spends their time, all while still only having the same twenty-four hours we have always had to experience these different choices.

In our current society, we also lack the distinct boundaries of work and home, as one sphere bleeds into the next. This is a tension that my husband experiences daily, since his job provides him the option of working remotely. Because he can work from home by means of a laptop, there is no distinction between work and home life. Though it is often a blessing to work from home, this ability also enables him to carry work stress into all spheres of life without respite. The rhythms of our lives are now no longer defined by the natural rhythms of the day (e.g., the rising and setting of the sun) that drive agrarian societies, but rather we are driven by technology and post-industrial revolution work schedules (Anderson, 158). Our sense of time is dictated by how much we accomplish, and we feel that there is always more that could be accomplished. This perpetuates the feeling of constant busyness. It contributes to the quickened pace of our lives; we are driven by a heightened level of activity and speed (Anderson, 159). The man at the grocery store so valued his time that the lack of control over the effectiveness of how his time was being spent drove him straight to frustration. Thus, the concept of a self-service checkout was invented.

The World of The Kiosk

The world of self-services is one that operates under the assumption that time and efficiency are king. Because we live in a fast-paced society that strives to do everything quickly and efficiently, the self-service mentality seems to accommodate this need for speed. The underlying belief is “I myself need to possess control over my time because I am too busy to wait on someone else.” Self-service technology intends to give you the power to bypass lines and thus, shave off moments of standstill time. At the airport you are now able to check yourself into your own flight, print your own boarding pass, and head off to security without the hassle of waiting in line for an attendant to do it for you. The stress of missing your flight on account of standing in a line is altogether done away with (until you find yourself stuck waiting in line at security, that is. Then the stress magically reappears). The allusion of control and efficiency is the heart of self-service technology. According to Mortimer and Dootson, “Shoppers also gain value from taking control of the transaction – being able to ring up their own goods and pack them the way they want. A sense of control over their own shopping can lead to greater customer satisfaction and intent to use and re-use self-serve technology” (Mortimer and Dootson).

While self-service technology works off the premise that it will be faster and more efficient, what is there to be said concerning instances such as the one my husband and I observed at Costco? Because physiological time in our culture has quickened to a rapid pace, the perceived element of controlling what one waits on is highly valued. Those at Costco who normally would have to wait in line to place an order were now able to walk up to a kiosk without waiting to place their own order. The sad reality of the Costco situation was that the disruption of the system actually caused the same amount of waiting as orders were being jumbled and chaos in the kitchen slowed down the other end of the process. While the hope offered by self-service technology is promising, we need to assess which aspects of daily life are improved by technology and which areas need human skill.

This leads to another aspect of the ideal world of self-service technology. By quickening the pace of our lives, we are limiting our interactions with other human beings. The self-service world is a world where waiting on others is unnecessary. For example, a self-service kiosk is used so that the variable of waiting on another human being to do a task (to place an order or scan grocery items) is removed. The speed at which we are going does not need to be halted by another. The world of self-service is one that no longer requires that we wait on another to complete tasks for us. It cuts out societal interaction, allowing for someone to go to the grocery store, bank, or movie rental box, without interacting with a human being at all if they do not so desire. Technology promises much, especially in the world of self-service, but we must wonder what it will cost.

The World in Front of the Kiosk

The rapid pace of our culture is only perpetuated by self-service technology. There is a whole new self-service trend that is permeating all aspects of our culture. What was invented for a quick trip to the grocery store has now spread to restaurants, airports, libraries, banks and movie rentals to help bypass waiting time. This only perpetuates the frenzied pace of life. Concerning grocery stores alone, it is estimated that self-checkout terminals will increase to 325,000 by 2019, worldwide (Mortimer). Studies show that 65% of Americans believe that within the next 20 years most retail interactions will be fully automated and involve little or no human interaction between customers and employees (Pew).

This is not an outrageous statement considering Amazon’s new way of doing retail. Since the beginning of this year, Amazon has opened four Amazon Go locations where customers are able to walk into the store and purchase groceries, snacks, breakfast, lunch, or dinner, and walk out without ever having to stand in line or checkout (Amazon). Customers simply download the Amazon Go app, grab whatever products they wish to buy, and simply walk out, while Amazon’s “Simply Walk Out” technology keeps track of items and builds a virtual cart. Amazon is taking self-service technology and creating an entirely new retail experience, “so you never have to wait in line” (Amazon).

This trend is expanding in areas that “can afford to be transactional rather than relational” (Gavett), namely the world of retail. There are some areas where technology cannot replace humanity entirely. Sherri Turckle has much to say concerning the way our culture is replacing humanity with technology and the ways it is changing us. She notes that we desire to “insert robots into every narrative of human frailty,” a comment that resonates with the story of self-service technology which promises that you, plus technology, prove to be faster and more efficient than relying on another human being (Turckle, 10). Turckle urges that for all technology offers, it cannot replace the raw authenticity that humanity provides.

Theological Evaluation

What are we as Christians supposed to make of the self-service trend that perpetuates this hurried pace at which we live our lives? We all find ourselves caught up in busyness culture, always striving to do more in a day than is humanly possible, while feeling that we are not doing enough with the hours we do have in a day. Let us look at this trend from a theological standpoint, teasing out what Scripture reveals about the underlying issues of busyness culture.

The world of self-service promotes the belief that we are in control of our time, when truly God is the author and keeper of time. When we are consumed with controlling time we are functionally saying that we are God over time, growing frustrated when our time is not spent to our preference, like standing in line at the grocery store. God commands in the ten commandments that His people cease from their work for a day in order to rest (Exodus 20:8-11). They do this to follow the example set by God when he rested after creating the world. In the book, The Rest of God (which ironically has been sitting unread on my shelf for over a year now, as I keep telling myself I will read it “when I have time”) Mark Buchanan states that a good definition of sabbath is “imitating God so that we stop trying to be God. We mirror divine behavior only to freshly discover our human limitations” (87). Buchanan also draws out the differences between those who hold tightly to time and those who hold it loosely saying, “those who sanctify time and who give time away – who treat time as a gift and not a possession – have time in abundance. Contrariwise, those who guard every minute, resent every interruption, ration every moment, never have enough” (Buchanan, 83). This introduces us to a positive evaluation of time.

How do we treat time as a gift, using it wisely yet not demanding control over it? One way this may be done is to follow the example that God has modeled and rest. We must recognize that God is Lord over time and the world will not fall apart if we take time to rest. Another important heart posture that we are called to take on is being “eternally minded,” as Paul speaks of in Colossians 3 when he reminds us that every moment is an opportunity to “walk in wisdom toward those who are outside, redeeming the time” (Col. 4:5).  Suddenly the prospective of potentially spending an extra ten minutes in line at the grocery store is exciting as we seek to redeem the time by engaging the clerk at the register.

About Bridget K.

Bridget is currently a student at Moody Bible Institute—Distance Learning. She is in her Junior year studying Theology and Cultural Engagement. Bridget and her husband, Matte, serve in their local church in the college ministry, where they host a Bible study and help disciple college students. Bridget and Matte have a vision for global ministry. Specifically, they hope to encourage local churches, equip future generations for ministry, and reach communities with the good news of Christ. Bridget enjoys reading, doing anything outside, and coffee, so the Pacific Northwest makes a fitting home while she finishes her degree.

---

Works Cited

Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/b?ie=UTF8&node=16008589011.

Anderson, Charles A. The Business of Busyness. Everyday Theology: How to Read Cultural Texts and Interpret Trends. Baker Academic, 2007.

Buchanan, Mark Aldham. The Rest of God Restoring Your Soul by Restoring Sabbath. W Pub. Group, 2006.

Dilonardo, Robert. Self-Checkout Reaches Critical Mass, Loss Prevention Magazine January 1, 2006. https://losspreventionmedia.com/insider/retail-industry/self-checkout-reaches-critical-mass/.

Gavett, Gretchen. “How Self-Service Kiosks Are Changing Customer Behavior.” Harvard Business Review, 11 Mar. 2016, hbr.org/2015/03/how-self-service-kiosks-are-changing-customer-behavior.

Justia, David R. Humble Patents, Justia.com https://patents.justia.com/inventor/david-r-humble

Mortimer, Gary, and Paula Dootson. “The Economics of Self-Service Checkouts.” The Conversation, The Conversation, 11 June 2017, theconversation.com/the-economics-of-self-service-checkouts-78593.

Smith, Aaron and Monica Anderson Automation in Everyday Life http://www.pewinternet.org/2017/10/04/automation-in-everyday-life/.

Turkle, Sherry. Alone Together: why we expect more from technology. Basic Books, 2011.

Wajcman, Judy. “Life in the fast lane? Towards a sociology of technology and time”, The British Journal of Sociology, 2008. Volume 59 Issue 1.

Lessons From A Man Called Ove: A Story about Inclusion and Community

Some years ago, I was in the second round of interviews for a pastoral position with a significant church in Chicago. This church was in the process of launching several new campuses, and my neighborhood was their next target for a new site. They wanted this campus to have two pastors on staff that reflected the primary ethnic-groups residing in Logan Square: an older Hispanic community and a younger, millennial-aged white constituency. As is customary, I was given a few minutes to ask questions of my interviewers, and my first was this:

“Hispanics value the care of their elders. Your church has a younger membership, so how do you intend to serve the Abuelas and Abuelos and make them part of your community?"

The response was bewildering. The pastor reminded me that the church’s brand was younger, that it was part of their “DNA,” and he suggested that no plans would be significantly changed to serve or integrate the elderly. Inexplicable! A church interested in reaching, serving, and representing all of Logan Square wasn’t considering the longstanding Abuelo/a who sits on the porch every day to watch the neighborhood. The sad truth is his response reflects the real experiences of elderly people frequently ignored, even cast out, by the rapidly developing city around them. Thanks to Fredrik Backman, however, these experiences are set, named, and reconsidered in the fictional life of his original character, Ove, and his story exposes just how vital elders are to the city we make.

Introducing A Man Called Ove

Ove is the titular character of Fredrik Backman’s first novel. He is a man of principle who believes a thing should be done or abstained simply because its right. “Men are what they are because of what they do. Not what they say,” says Ove. He’s a misunderstood widower labeled a curmudgeon, and he’s forced out of society completely, left alone to contemplate his presumed uselessness and plan his suicide. This is Ove’s condition when the reader meets him. He’s alone “in a world where he no longer [understands] the language,” dejected, and preparing to take his life. The trope of the old hero forgotten by society and broken by an untimely lost is used by Backman to bring readers near to the experience of this bristly old Swede. Ove is a hero. But, Ove is lost.

In this story, as in others, the hero must be found and called back from his exile before the villains can be defeated. However, it is his calling and foes that reveal the unique insights latent in Ove’s story. Here are three of the many lessons learned from Ove and his neighborhood.

Seen and Known

It takes someone who knows the margins to bring someone back into the fold. Ove and his neighbors are living a fragmented experience of community when the story begins. Rune and Anita, Ove’s oldest friends, no longer speak to him. His neighbor across the street, Anders, is judged from a distance and suspected of being a dubious character. Where there was once a vibrant community of neighbors, there is now only echoes of an old life which only serve to further ostracize the characters. That is, until the arrival of a certain “crazy, pregnant foreign woman and her utterly ungovernable family.”

Parvaneh, an Iranian immigrant, moves into the neighborhood with her husband Patrick and their children and immediately restores life and laughter to its residents. She sees through Ove’s rough exterior, and her daughters quickly fall in love with their new “granddad” (or Abuelo).  Parvaneh is the force behind Ove’s reintegration, compelling him to help Anita and Rune, take in the stray cat fond of Ove’s home, and interact with Jimmy and the other young men of the row house street. Because of her, Ove becomes a handy-man, helping the “fools” in almost every house within a four-street radius. On one occasion Ove mumbles to his wife, “Sometimes it can be quite nice having something to get on with in the daytime.”

“The neighbors are saying he’s been “like a different person” these last days, that they’ve never seen him so “engaged” before."

All this teeming life is born from Parvaneh’s insistence that Ove return from his exile. She becomes like a daughter to the old Swede. Were it not for her, Ove’s gift would be lost to the world. Instead, Ove flourishes in his old age, and his neighbors benefit from his presence thanks to Parvaneh’s call.

The Dignity of Work

Ove frequently bemoans the new world of modern society. He hates credit cards, thinks the idea of retirement is flawed and unjust, and is shocked by the general lack of loyalty toward Saab, the only car manufacturer Ove trusts. “Nowadays people change their stuff so often that any expertise in how to make things last was becoming superfluous,” thought Ove. The lost of that expertise meant that Ove was viewed as a relic.

In an astounding display of blindness and injustice, Ove’s employer forcibly retired him. “This was a world where one became outdated before one’s time was up,” thought Ove. Many of his critiques of the world proved to be wisdom in the end. When Parvaneh successfully brought Ove back into community, she also revealed the importance of his skill for others. Beyond his technical and architectural skills, Ove helps young Adrian with his romantic woes and provides leadership for the community. The dignity of work and tradition are made clear through Ove’s story.

Resist. Together.

Ove and his wife, Sonja, were the first to move into their community. “Their understanding was that children should live in row housing developments among other children. And less than forty years later there was no forest around the house anymore. Just other houses.” The quiet backwater home became a city district, and they had drug dealers, young couples, and immigrants as neighbors. Ove lived to see the under-developed neighborhood come to age and grow old, gentrifying as a “parade of uppity real estate agents … patrolled the little road between houses … like vultures watching aging water buffalo.”

Gentrification done wrongly is a destructive force, and its effects are observed in Ove with accuracy. In a study of the Italian West End of Boston, Marc Fried observed severe grief in residents who experienced the loss of their homes.[1] It is not simply the loss of a habitation, but the memories that are grieved. Old buildings become monumental works of art. Ove experiences such lost. However, when Rune and Anita are facing the similar threat, Ove gathers the community in their support. The book reveals the remarkable power of a community that works together against systems of injustice.

One of the most riveting lines in the book is said by Sonja’s new principle and boss. When offering her the job at the local school, he says, ““There’s no hope for these boys and girls,” the headmaster soberly explained in the interview. “This is not education, this is storage.” Sonja, a hero in her own right, resists this notion and teaches her young pupils to read Shakespeare. Education, gentrification, homophobia, and generational bias are all confronted by Ove and his community. They do it together, and they overcome.

Life is a Curious thing

A Man Called Ove is a story about a hero resisting the systems of social change that empower wicked men to exclude the elderly, the weak, and the disabled. These white-shirted villains are city councilmen who believe they have the power to evaluate people and decide when they are only good enough to die. Our vision for the world can and should be shaped by Parvaneh’s reminder that the elderly are needed just as much by their communities as they are dependent on them to flourish. Ove himself reveals the dignity of work done well and the vitality of a world that enables the work of its elders. The entire community illuminates the tangibility of social injustice, and they encourage the reader to resist by pursuing another way of flourishing, one that commits to the well-being of those Abuelos and Abuelas that are often forgotten.

---

Footnote

[1] Emily Badger, “Why Trump’s Use of the Words ‘Urban Renewal’ Is Scary for Cities,” The New York Times, December 7, 2016, http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/07/upshot/why-trumps-use-of-the-words-urban-renewal-is-scary-for-cities.html.

Montgomery

“True Peace is not Merely the absence of tension, it is the presence of Justice.”

Martin Luther King, Jr.

The Cradle of the Confederacy and The Birthplace of The Civil Rights Movement

Cities, like people, have complicated histories. Their character can reflect apparent contradictions, but if we take them as a whole we see their beauty. Cities bear the marks of who we were, and in remembering, they give us the opportunity to decide who we will be in the future.  Montgomery is one of those cities. Its seal is a jarring reminder of paradoxical truths. Montgomery is both the “Cradle of the Confederacy” and the “Birthplace of the Civil Rights Movement.”

The city is still home to the First House of the Confederacy, but thanks to the Equal Justice Initiative (EJI), it now has the Legacy Museum and the National Memorial for Peace and Justice. The EJI is founded and directed by Bryan Stevenson, author of Just Mercy. They work to provide legal services to prisoners. We’ve been interested in their work for some time and recently visited their new public exhibits. Here are some photos that highlight the power of the memorial.

“The centerpiece of [the memorial] is a sprawling wood-and-metal open-air structure featuring 800 6-foot columns, each one representing a county where a lynching took place in the United States between 1877 and 1950.”1 The EJI worked over six-years to recover the history of the public murders, documenting 3,959 lynchings across the south.

Etched in each of the 800 columns are the names of lynching victims. “None of the columns are telling exactly the same story—made of corten steel, an alloy that changes hue when exposed to air, they’ve each morphed to a different shade of brown over time.”2 Several times, the records are so incomplete, the column reads “Unknown” in the place of the name.

At the memorial entrance the columns are eye level. Victor Luckerson captures the effect of the memorial as one moves further into its heart. He writes, “As you wind your way through the memorial, the floor slopes downward and the eerie symbolism of a cluster of human-sized columns suspended by metal poles becomes more apparent. Eventually, the columns stretch too far in the air to clearly read the names, so the viewer can only assess them in aggregate. The terror of lynching becomes mass spectacle, as it was when it was happening across the South less than a century ago. The structure evokes the haunting photo of a mutilated black body hanging over a crowd of white onlookers, but turned upside down.”3

After looking at these pictures, consider the Town Fabric concept. Town Fabric is the quality of the city that distinguishes it as a distinct place for human interaction. Town Fabric is the setting-ness of the city. It distinguishes the city as a place for a particular story. It can be broken down into three essential functions, the first being exemplified by Montgomery. Town Fabric

1. Creates settings for monuments

2. Houses people and provides places for work and their private needs

3. Shapes and defines the outdoor public spaces of a town/city4

The first function highlights the importance of The National Memorial for Peace and Justice. Monuments and memorials are a product of civic art. The purpose of civic art is to “reinforce and communicate the layers of meaning that have accumulated within a particular city…”5 Making civic art is about two things: 1) creating monuments (i.e. works of art, often in the form of statuary, or buildings) that tell the story of the city and 2) creating settings (i.e. plazas, streets, and squares) that encourage the community to live-into the story. Monuments are those pieces of public art which concretize the story of the city. They gain their distinction from other fabric buildings in two primary ways. First, by their architectural vocabulary (i.e. height, scale, the use of grand style and other architectural details, and the quality of materials). Second, by their placement in the town fabric. Town Fabrics often set monuments on focal points of the city’s street design. In this way, “town fabric employs monuments to reflect and undergird meaning for a particular locale.”6 In this case, the memorial is set on a hill, overlooking the skyline of the small city. Montgomery is now cast in the shadow of lynching-history, slavery, and other acts of racial violence. The memorial encourages the community to remember with hope, courage, persistence, and faith.

The Town Fabric concept reinforces the importance of the city-setting in increasing the community’s ability to live-into the story of their culture. It also signals the connection between the city and memory. Through their fabric, cities retain the memories of those citizens that use, engage, and enact the story-set-in-place in their city. It is then up to the community to do in remembrance.

Quote written on end-wall of The Legacy Museum just above their parking lot.

The EJI’s new public exhibits help us remember well and confirm that the only way to “transform culture” is to make new culture. Their memorial represents a counter-culture, a counter-narrative that confronts the southern story deeply entrenched in “The Cradle of the Confederacy.” In a state that still celebrates Confederate Memorial Day, Bryan Stevenson and his team are transforming their city. We couldn’t help but see resonance between their work and the story at the core of all just culture-making. Long ago, a dark-skinned King hung from a tree on a hill outside the city of Jerusalem, lynched despite his innocence. The story of his death and resurrection ushered in the possibility of a new city where justice and peace are realized. While they may not intend it, the EJI’s memorial points back to this King and forward to His city.

---

Footnotes

1. Victor Luckerson, “‘Drenched in Blackness’: Pain and Truth in Montgomery’s Lynching Memorial,” The Ringer, April 30, 2018, https://www.theringer.com/2018/4/30/17300786/montgomery-lynching-memorial-equal-justice-initiative-bryan-stevenson.

2. Luckerson.

3. Luckerson.

4. I am indebted to Eric Jacobsen for my understanding of town fabric (Eric O. Jacobsen, The Space Between: A Christian Engagement with the Built Environment, ed. Robert Johnston and William Dyrness (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2012).

5. Jacobsen, The Space Between, 16. In particular, Jacobsen notes that civic art was the task of inculcating values in public settings. Civic art as a discipline is no longer practiced, but the work of city planners today still considers the use of civic art in organically shaping the city.

6. Jacobsen.

7. Sections of this article are from Seeking Zion: The Gospel and The City We Make, written by Emanuel (Ricky) Padilla. 2017.

Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies

This article was originally published in the International Journal of Christianity and English Language Teaching (IJC&ELT, ISSN 2334-1866, online).1

With appropriate urgency, Marilyn McEntyre begins her book by getting promptly to the point: “Caring for language is a moral issue” (p. 1). According to McEntyre, language-care should concern everyone, even beyond Christian English language educators, because the words we use and how we use them shape our way of being together. “Words are entrusted to us as equipment for our life together, to help us survive, guide, and nourish one another” (p. 2). McEntyre encourages her readers to resist the pressures poisoning the English language and to take on disciplines that, used correctly, will nurture it back to health. The pressures poisoning English are many: news media driven by corporate interests, technologies that encourage users to “be content to trade precision for speed” (p. 12), the loss of healthy discourse, and the widespread dependence on market language. The overall problem is that words have become “industrialized,” processed like food and emptied of their health benefit (p. 16). This cultural milieu affects both the instructor and student, and for this reason McEntyre’s book is a timely, prophetic call to steward words.

Summary

The book begins with a diagnostic of the current cultural context. McEntyre’s argument can be divided into two types. The first is a statistical analysis of the current state of language. Among the data points included, she notes the level of illiteracy and media intake in the U.S., and when appropriate, she pulls from her experience as a professor to confirm the data. Her use of anecdotal evidence continues throughout the rest of the book, providing compelling stories that support her proposals. Secondly, she argues for change in our practice by anticipating the potential outcomes if current language-use trends continue. Turning from diagnosis to strategy, McEntyre distills three actions necessary to restore and cultivate healthy language. Instructors must help students: 1) deepen and sharpen reading skills, 2) cultivate habits of speaking and listening that foster precision and clarity, and 3) practice poesis – “to be makers and doers of the word” (pp. 9-10).

McEntyre proposes twelve strategies for the recovery of the English language, giving attention to each in distinct chapters, and using them to support the actions listed above. The movement of the book is pleasantly simple, moving from strategies that are related to our affections to strategies related to language-rich rituals. These final three chapters are particularly stimulating because they confront the liturgies related to media and market speech. The book envisions a culture built from habits of language-use that challenge speakers to practice and play with beautiful words. English language educators will find in the final three chapters a theological orientation that roots good use of beautiful words in the Word Himself.

Commentary

Christian English language educators work in the intersection of what is and what could be. ESL students often need to make immediate gains (particularly adult learners), so instructors are pressured to teach functional English, that is, English that is useful in the workplace and market. Conversely, instructors have the opportunity to create new cultural patterns by forming the language practices of those assimilating to the English-speaking world. McEntyre’s book is dedicated to inspiring and even guiding instructors toward this latter possibility. For instance, she encourages her readers to teach students to “Love the Long Sentence” as a way of starving the impulse to indulge “our vulgar appetites for action” (p. 134). “Slowing down, for a contemporary reader, is a countercultural act. Nearly everything in the momentum of modern life urges us onward at an accelerating pace” (p. 133). Each of the “stewardship strategies” suggested by McEntyre is a countercultural move.

Readers may initially think McEntyre’s strategies are elitist, that the proposals are for the privileged. McEntyre herself is aware of this and treats this concern as it presents itself in each chapter. For instance, in “Tell the Truth,” McEntyre reminds the audience that demanding precision is not the same as demanding sophistication or even technicality. In fact, quoting from a wide variety of novelists, McEntyre reveals that precision often relies on understatement and is countercultural to the hyperbolic tendencies of media-speak. It is important to remember the culture McEntyre has in view. Media and market language dominate the major spheres of culture (such as education, politics, and the arts), and by these forms of English many are excluded from active participation in and agency over their community. In an article published immediately after the United States 2016 presidential election, it was reported that poetry was increasingly being used by people trying to make sense of social events. The elevated language of verse provided the solace people desired (Garber, 2016). It appears that the social context is such that the public intuitively recognizes the value of higher language. It is to this hungry group that McEntyre commends herself.

Caring for Words is beautifully written and stands as an example of the very practices it promotes. McEntyre quotes liberally from sociologists, novelists, and essayists, providing a bibliography of resources for instructors looking for tools to begin practicing poetry and teaching a love for the long sentence. The book will serve any instructor looking for long term strategies for English education and cultural transformation. In a culture increasingly lost for words, Caring for Words serves as a reminder of the essential language tools for communities of people. To the teachers, ministers, and speakers that McEntyre addresses in this book, the call for activism should be energizing and the strategies proposed are actionable in ways that transform the reader into part of the resistance, part of those refusing to let the English language perish, and with it our ability to be in community.

---

Reference

Garber, M. (2016, November 10). Still, Poetry Will Rise. The Atlantic. Retrieved from:

• https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2016/11/still-poetry-will-rise/507266/

Footnote

1. (2018) "Entire Issue," International Journal of Christianity and English Language Teaching: Vol. 5 , Article 1.
   Available at: https://digitalcommons.biola.edu/ijc-elt/vol5/iss1/1

Do In Remembrance

Introduction

“Every single one of us is a little civilization built on the ruins of any number of preceding civilizations, but with our own variant notions of what is beautiful and what is acceptable”. These words, penned by novelist Marilynne Robinson and articulated by Gilead’s protagonist, the reverend John Ames, provide a helpful analogy for the way that memory works to form our present selves. It is precisely the memory, interpretation, and evaluation of our past “civilizations” and the ways that they interacted with the world in which they existed that provides the necessary material to build our current “civilization” which will be under construction until eternity. As our memories help to form us, they also impact the way we form the world around us. Our memories inform the ways we construct our systems and build our cities.

Of course, there are faithful as well as irresponsible ways to remember, and the integrity of our civilization depends, in part, on the quality of the material used to construct it. Memories which faithfully, honestly, and constructively reflect the realities which were once their present are quite useful and burst with potentiality for the present and the future. John Ames, in writing his own memories for his son, hoped to form him into a particular kind of person. However, the reader gradually becomes aware that Ames does not always remember well and thus, his own formation is also compromised. In the end, there is redemption for the old preacher, and this redemption speaks of the hope that Christ might work even our faulty remembering together for the good of those who love him.

Sacramentality in Gilead

In the ruins of the old church building, a young John Ames received half of a biscuit, blackened with ash from his father’s hands, and he took it and ate it. A now elderly John Ames recalls this moment in a letter to his young son to be read when he is older and his father is dead and gone. The aging reverend remembered the moment with his father and the half of a biscuit as a kind of communion, a eucharistic moment, and in turn, the moment has truly become for him, sacramental. This recollection of a moment of spiritual and relational intimacy between father and son against the backdrop of singing saints rebuilding their broken edifice would become more than a fond memory; it would result in an entirely altered hermeneutical lense through which to remember the past, act in the present, and hope for the future. But this is just the way it is with memory. There is a creative power in the act of remembering that is illustrated beautifully in Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead. As John Ames anticipates that twinkling of an eye when he will put on imperishability, he considers eternity and cannot bear the thought that we might forget the beauty of the world and the drama of this life once we are beyond it. Robinson writes in the voice of the narrator, “In eternity this world will be Troy, I believe, and all that has passed here will be the epic of the universe, the ballad they sing in the streets.” Ames believes that eternity will, at least in part, consist of remembering humanity’s past and thus engages in a sacramental act of remembrance in the form of a letter to his son. Robinson’s Gilead illustrates that the act of remembering is meant to be an act within time which not only anticipates the remembering of this life that we will do in eternity, but is also meant to form the interpretation and embodied performance of the present.

The plain beauty of the Iowan prairie provided the setting for much of Gilead. This plainness allowed Robinson to draw out the wonder of nature and to consider at length humanity’s interaction with the natural world. In this way, Gilead is a very ‘earthy’ book. Even the sacramental language in the novel seems to emphasize the temporal and human qualities rather than the lofty and eternal realities to which they point. Baptism, significant in its imaging of our union with Christ in his death, burial, and resurrection, is taken up by Robinson, through John Ames, to highlight the way that water makes this eternal reality temporally meaningful. It is the cloak and shimmer of the water dripping off of the Baptists, or the electrifying touch of the Congregationalists’ wet hand that makes the difference for Reverend Ames. Likewise, the chief eucharistic symbol in the novel is the half of a biscuit covered in soot presented to a young Ames by his father. Earlier in the story, the elderly Ames would be made to sip water out of a honeysuckle flower by his young son, conjuring images of a congregant sipping wine from a cup in the hands of an administrator of the elements. This eucharistic meal has an earthly quality to it which is not meant to diminish the eternal significance. These glimpses of love, provision, and joy between fathers and their sons is meant to enhance our understanding of our participation in things which are in many ways, too lofty for us, the things that we do in remembrance of Christ.

The very act of remembering is just such an ordinary phenomenon in Gilead. The narrator zips back and forth between memories of the past, musings on the present, and thoughts of the future. These thoughts of future are sometimes expressed as thoughts of his own eternal future once he puts on imperishability, sometimes they are thoughts of the temporal future of the loved ones he will leave behind. Other times they are the thoughts of an even further future, in which he and his loved ones will be united in eternity. It is in this ultimate future that the reverend Ames cannot imagine that “we will forget our fantastic condition of mortality and impermanence, the great bright dream of procreating and perishing that meant the whole world to us.” This hope of eternal remembrance carries significant implications for the way we think and move in the present.

Memory as Formation

In “Memory and Reconciliation: The Church and the Faults of the Past”, the Roman Catholic church considered the task of evaluating history for the purpose of present and future reconciliation and ethical responsibility. In a portion of the paper dedicated to the historical and theological judgment, the authors work to disaggregate the process of ‘historical hermeneutics’ or, the interpretation of history. They write, “The past is grasped in the potentialities which it discloses, in the stimulus it offers to modify the present. Memory becomes capable of giving rise to a new future.” The act of remembering is formational. The fact that we are able to be formed into different kinds of people because we remember, gives rise to new possibilities for the future. In other words, “The encounter with the past, produced in the act of interpretation, can have particular value for the present, and be rich in a “performative” efficaciousness that cannot always be calculated beforehand.” It not only matters that we remember; how we remember is of crucial importance. In Gilead, and perhaps in our world too, the act of remembering carries implications that ripple into eternity.