Jesus and John Wayne Review

White Masculinity and Theology

It was in graduate school that I first heard the phrase “contextual theologies.” I was intrigued since context - both cultural and historical - is crucial to understanding theology. While reading the assignment, I realized that contextual theologies are essentially theologies with an adjective placed in front: feminist theology, womanist theology, latinx theology, LGBTQ+ theology, liberation theology, black liberation theology, etc. You may notice (as I did) a couple of categories that are missing from these “adjectival” theologies: white theology and masculine theology. The reason is that these are assumed - the “mythical norm” of theologies, as it were.[1]

Since white, masculine voices have been privileged in the field of theology for centuries (or since voices were assumed to be white and male, regardless of the truth of that assumption), any attempt to equally privilege latinx, black, female, LGBTQ+, Asian, Indigenous, or any other perspective alongside those voices is often resisted. “Those'' voices, it is argued, are too influenced by their own subjective viewpoints and focus too much on one or two aspects of theology to be taken as seriously as the other (white and masculine) voices that have dominated for centuries. As if these white, masculine voices are not equally subjective and focused on particular issues.

What Kristin Kobes du Mez accomplished in Jesus and John Wayne is tracing a history of American white, masculine, evangelical theology and to identify the historical, cultural, and political forces that influenced, guided, and focused its theological emphases for decades. In the book, Kobes du Mez draws back the curtain on the assumption that American evangelicalism has developed its theological emphases and ecclesial ethics in some sort of vacuum outside of cultural influence - that it is not just as “adjectival” as any other sort of contextual theology. Kobes du Mez argues that the guiding force behind white evangelicalism for the last 50-some years has been a “militant white masculinity.”[2]

In a fascinating study that follows, Kobes du Mez traces the history of how “militant white masculinity” has always been the guiding force behind American evangelicalism and how it was shaped by and utilized symbols such as John Wayne, William Wallace, and other “rugged, masculine figures,” the Republican party, consumerism, and even the American military as an ideal force for good in the world.[3] Kobes Du Mez takes her readers on a dizzying journey through historical periods of evangelicalism that, despite its comprehensive nature, can only really scratch the surface of white evangelical subculture and all its manifestations. Beginning her history as far back as the 1890s, when the Victorian “model of manly restraint had begun to falter” and the new economy of the early twentieth century demanded a different type of “softer” work than toiling in fields or factories (and as women began to attend college with more regularity), Kobes du Mez records that a call for a new type of more aggressive masculinity emerged.[4]  

Christianity as White, Militant, and Masculine 

Kobes du Mez’s primary argument in Jesus and John Wayne is that this “militant white masculinity” has been the guiding force behind evangelicalism for decades. In so doing, she highlights more effectively than any theology textbook I’ve ever read just how contextual white masculine theology is. Perhaps one of the most devastating moments in her book is when she outlines how white evangelicalism was used to perpetrate segregation through church polity, Christian private education, and through both its constituents’ silence about and active railing against the Civil Rights movement. She does point out that “evangelicals’ response to civil rights varied, particularly in the early stages of the movement.”[5] Kobes du Mez uses Billy Graham as a prime example of one such evangelical leader who even personally removed ropes between white people and black people at his crusades and invited Martin Luther King, Jr. to pray at his 1957 New York City Crusade.[6] However, she also points out that he distanced himself from backing activists when they began to engage in civil disobedience, and that many white evangelicals responded similarly, finding it “hard to accept that the sin of racism ran deep through the nation’s history.”[7]

She argues that this lack of willingness among white evangelicals to continue standing by civil rights activists coupled with their silence about the demand for continued segregationist policies among their fellow white evangelicals had devastating effects. One of these was using private Christian schools to continue segregation and revealing that ultimately, white evangelicalism was more concerned with continuing its own political purposes than fighting for its black brothers and sisters. Kobes du Mez states, “Although blatant defenses of segregation and racial inequality would be rare, many southern evangelicals and fundamentalists who persisted in their unreconstructed views of race would find common cause with more ‘tolerant’ evangelicals on issues like social welfare policy and ‘law and order’ politics that would carry clear racial undertones.”[8]

Millennials from white evangelical spaces will recognize that similar patterns emerged in the genesis of the Black Lives Matter movement. Refusal to support that statement - “Black Lives Matter” - was defended by many white evangelicals because they claimed that the movement had ties to a more liberal political agenda and that the civil rights activists within the movement were anti-police. This movement drew fault lines across white evangelicalism that, for some, resulted in splitting away from the evangelical church due to its refusal to support what they viewed as a basic civil rights issue. These divisions only became more pronounced when Donald Trump was elected as the Republican party’s candidate for the 2016 election. What was not widely recognized, however, was that these patterns had been present in white evangelicalism from its very start. The widespread reception of Jesus and John Wayne by those of us who grew up (or are still part of) white evangelicalism has been a resounding agreement that the book puts its finger on exactly what felt off as we grew up, particularly surrounding issues of race, “family values” voting, and the strong connection to the U.S. military (which is brilliantly outlined in Chapter 12, entitled, “Pilgrim’s Progress in Camo”).[9] 

Where are the Women?  

For me, one of the most eye-opening chapters of Kobes du Mez’s book was Chapter 11, provocatively entitled, “Holy Balls.” While some readers may be drawn to other chapters, this chapter described the period of my life when my faith was becoming my own. I found my heart feeling twisted as I realized how whole-heartedly I had swallowed certain parts of toxic masculinity because I truly believed Scripture demanded that I did, and because much of the Christian culture around me absolutely encouraged me to do so. Kobes du Mez begins the chapter with some less common examples of militant masculinity, such as churches hosting MMA viewing parties and Christian mixed-martial arts groups, but speaks to the heart of what was happening at the time by saying, “As militant masculinity took hold across evangelicalism, it helped bind together those on the fringes of the movement with those closer to the center, making it increasingly difficult to distinguish the margins from the mainstream.”[10]

A poignant example of this collapsing of the margins into the mainstream is the support New Calvinism gave to two “fringe” voices in the early 2000’s: Mark Driscoll and Doug Wilson. Kobes du Mez writes more in-depth about these two men and the way that they were given platforms and endorsements by the leaders of New Calvinism despite many of them expressing discomfort with their crass talk, sometimes violent focus, and even, in one case, denial that American slaves had been treated with brutality.[11] This, to me, was the gut-punch of the chapter. These two men were endorsed by other men who were at the heart of founding various church-planting networks and conferences that were wildly popular among me and my peers during college specifically, and their endorsements meant a great deal. While these organizations and coalitions claimed to hold the gospel message as the most important thing, Kobes du Mez points out that the unifying factor among many of these very doctrine-conscious men was not solely the simple gospel message, but “gender and authority.”[12]

“It was both disheartening and a reminder to me of where my place was at all times - out of the pulpit and out of any leadership that was not solely over women or children. Knowing that I wasn’t going to seek pastoral leadership was far more important to these men than my love for Christ, desire to serve the Church, and my passion for theology, and that oft-repeated question made it painfully clear.””

These two examples most brutally highlight her point about gender and authority trumping simple gospel messaging within white evangelical alliances, but so does the lack of female leadership in many churches that ascribe to this New Calvinism. Sure, there are shining exceptions, but the question I was most often asked when I stepped into a new church in the early aughts is most illustrative - “Why do you want to study theology?” which was code for “Do you want to be a pastor?” It was both disheartening and a reminder to me of where my place was at all times - out of the pulpit and out of any leadership that was not solely over women or children. Knowing that I wasn’t going to seek pastoral leadership was far more important to these men than my love for Christ, desire to serve the Church, and my passion for theology, and that oft-repeated question made it painfully clear.

One area of critique that I have for Jesus and John Wayne is the book’s claim to analyze how white evangelicals got to where they are today, while women are conspicuously absent from many of the chapters as perpetrators of this “militant white masculinity” that Kobes Du Mez describes. It was not simply men advocating for patriarchal norms in churches, nor was it only men leading the “family values” Christian Right, but women were crucial in the formation of and enforcement of this “militant white masculinity,” and one place the book falls short is in fully demonstrating that. A notable exception is Chapter Two (entitled “God’s Gift to Man”), in which Kobes Du Mez highlights women such as Marabel Morgan and her The Total Woman course, Anita Bryant, Elisabeth Elliot, and Phyllis Schlafly. Kobes du Mez continually documents Schlafly’s influence among white evangelicals (particularly politically) throughout the book, which is utterly engrossing for anyone (like me) who had not known much about this woman before. However, Schlafly appears to be the sole woman whose contribution to “militant white masculinity” is traced throughout the entire book. While I think it is important to include white women’s culpability in the propagation of “militant white masculinity,” Kobes du Mez has recently announced that she will be publishing a new book about evangelical women called Live, Laugh, Love, and I believe she intends to address much of what she left out in Jesus and John Wayne within that book. I, for one, look forward to reading it. 

Christianity, Consumerism, and a Dangerous “Culture-Making”

One poignant observation Kobes du Mez makes in Jesus and John Wayne is the way that white evangelicals harnessed consumerism to propagate their cultural message.[13] By doing so, they created their own culture and provided a weapons store for the culture war that consumed much of their recent history. This culture was created through celebrity culture (particularly as pertained to pastors, radio stars, and motivational speakers), radio ministry, Christian television shows, the Christian music industry, Christian films, the Christian book publishing business, and Christian bookstores.

Andy Crouch has written much about culture and culture making. In For the Beauty of the Church: Casting a Vision for the Arts, he describes how Genesis informs our understanding of culture making by demonstrating how God was the first culture maker and cultivator - planting a garden, which Crouch calls “nature plus culture.”[14] He describes the call of those in the Church to create good and beautiful art and other such cultural contributions. Crouch speaks of culture making as a creative, positive endeavor that the Church ought to participate in joyfully, creating art in and for the Church as well as for the world. Through the creation story, he highlights that the problem with culture making occurs when Adam and Eve no longer wait on and partner with God, but “...take and eat, and set in motion the process by which everything that God had originally given as a gift, a sign of relationship and dependence, will be twisted into a right, something grasped from a world presumed to be threatened and threatening, something that insulates us from needing relationship or dependence.”[15]

“Culture making, in the form that Kobes Du Mez documents, is dangerous, homogenizing, and used as a battering ram against anyone who stands in its way or disagrees with its narrative. It also robs white evangelicals of the incredible gift of listening to the voices of their many siblings in Christ who could expand, correct, lead, and joyfully participate in culture making alongside them had the culture wars they participated in not eradicated that focus on relationship and dependence.”

In this description of the Fall, Crouch illustrates precisely what Kobes du Mez identifies as problematic with white evangelicalism’s attempt at culture making. White evangelicals took the gift of cultural creation given by God and twisted it into a utilitarian tool used to fight a culture war - usually shouting about rights rather than gifts (whether second amendment rights, rights to gather around a flagpole at a school and pray, rights to not have to pay taxes to support people “on welfare,”, rights to defend “traditional family and cultural values,” etc.). By taking that gift of cultural creation and fashioning it into a weapon, white evangelicalism lost sight of the gift of relationship and dependence on other Christians. The reverberations of their culture war drowned out the voices of brothers and sisters who had something to contribute to the conversation about culture, and their warring cost them the opportunity to participate in culture-making alongside them.

This was not the only negative effect; when white evangelicals invited siblings of color into their spaces, they acted as gatekeepers to the culture making of that space. While siblings of color were invited to contribute to the worship teams, lead the youth groups, and act as outreach coordinators, rarely were they given roles of actual leadership to set the priorities of churches and organizations. If they stepped outside of white evangelicalism’s priorities for culture making, they were instructed to “get in line” or get out. Many chose the latter after years of being silenced and abandoned by those in leadership. Culture making, in the form that Kobes Du Mez documents, is dangerous, homogenizing, and used as a battering ram against anyone who stands in its way or disagrees with its narrative. It also robs white evangelicals of the incredible gift of listening to the voices of their many siblings in Christ who could expand, correct, lead, and joyfully participate in culture making alongside them had the culture wars they participated in not eradicated that focus on relationship and dependence.

So, What Now?

Jesus and John Wayne provided for me the context of what was happening backstage during my childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood. The reason the book resonates so strongly with so many (particularly white) evangelicals is that it gives answers to questions we never knew how to ask. It also articulates what our young minds may not have yet had the maturity to say about the culture wars we lived through, and in many cases, were even used as agents in.

Kobes du Mez successfully articulated a succinct, utterly readable account of the last 50-some years of white American evangelicalism, and whether you agree with her thesis or not, the book’s already astounding cultural impact will force you to grapple with it in your churches, schools, and institutions. And this is a very good thing, because so many of the historical and recent events that she brings to light have needed to be wrestled with for a very long time in a way that accounts for the historical context surrounding them and without making apologies for being bold enough to articulate what was wrong about those events.

Kobes du Mez’s historical account of white evangelicalism and how we got to where we are succeeds in highlighting a theological point: all theologies are contextual theologies. Even (and especially) white masculine evangelical theology, though the way it is often taught in many university, seminary, and Sunday school classrooms over the years may argue otherwise. Just as feminist, black liberation, womanist, latinx, or any other “contextual” theology has a cultural and historical context, so does white theology and masculine theology. More than any theology textbook I’ve read, Kobes du Mez demonstrates the danger of prioritizing one viewpoint as normative, simply by laying out the history.

So, is there hope for white evangelicalism? Kobes du Mez seems to think so, ending her book by saying, “What was once done might be undone.”[16] It all depends on us. If we as white evangelicals and former white evangelicals react to her description and critique of how we got here with defensiveness and a plugging of our ears, we are only doing more of the same. However, if we begin to consider Crouch’s culture making and what Makoto Fujimara has called culture care, perhaps we can find a way forward. Any way forward must involve focusing on relationship and dependence once more - not just including diverse voices at our tables in minor roles, but in submitting to those voices humbly (even if they no longer trust our tables and have built their own). It must also involve putting in the long hard work to earn back trust, and eventually, culture-making together again, joyfully participating in creation with one another and with the God we serve together.

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About Luci Frerichs Parrish

Luci Frerichs Parrish is a Midwestern native living in the South. She lived on the South Side of Chicago for seven years, working in various non-profit and church ministries. She has an M.A. in Theology from Wheaton College Graduate School with an emphasis in Systematic Theology. Her current areas of study include systematic theology, theological aesthetics, and ecclesiology. She is a coffee enthusiast, independent bookstore fanatic, and Pittsburgh Penguins fan. She is passionate about doing theology to serve the local and global church.

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Footnotes

[1] Audre Lorde defines the “mythical norm” as “white, thin, male, young, heterosexual, Christian, and financially secure.” Audre Lorde, “Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference,” in Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches (Trumansburg, NY: Crossing Press, 1984), 116.

[2] Kristin Kobes du Mez, Jesus and John Wayne: How White Evangelicals Corrupted a Faith and Fractured a Nation (New York, NY: Liveright Publishing, 2020), 4.

[3] See Ted Cruz’s now-infamous quotation of William Wallace at CPAC 2021 for a relevant current example of this exact point. See also Kobes du Mez, Jesus and John Wayne: How White Evangelicals Corrupted a Faith and Fractured a Nation (New York, NY: Liveright Publishing, 2020), 4.

[4] Ibid.

[5] Ibid, 37.

[6] Ibid., 37-38.

[7] Ibid.

[8] Ibid, 39.

[9] Ibid, 205.

[10] Ibid, 187-188.

[11] Ibid, 202.

[12] Ibid, 204.

[13] Though white evangelicals are certainly not the only American Protestants to do so!

[14] Andy Crouch, “The Gospel: How Is Art a Gift, a Calling, and an Obedience?” in For the Beauty of the Church: Casting a Vision for the Arts, ed. W. David Taylor (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books, 2010), 32.

[15] Ibid, 34.

[16] Kobes du Mez, 304.

On 'Bad Mothering'

His words infuriated me. I reacted instantaneously and clearly agitated, I replied, “I decide how to spend my time.” He had unknowingly struck a nerve – a deep wound inflicted by the tendencies of machismo[1]. It was a reflex response; the words slipped out of my mouth without pause or hesitation. He apologized and I hurriedly hung up the phone.

“I’ll let you go now so you can go be with your son,” had been his exact words. He was a romantic interest and I identified the cause of my anger almost immediately. I became a mother at nineteen. My eight-month pregnant-self waddled across the stage of my community college graduation. I had a plan. My son would be born in July and in late August, I would begin state college. And I did just that (a 19-year-old healthy body could perform such miracles). I had a whole village that supported me, and thanks to them, I eventually completed my doctoral studies. My son was nine years old when I became a doctora. 

As a single, Latina mom and first-generation college student from a low-income community, the obstacles were many. There were real challenges placed before me. My body was constantly exhausted from attending school full-time, working part-time, and raising a child. My mind attempted to juggle numerous tasks simultaneously and every second of the 24-hour period was carefully planned. My workload was unimaginable but, with the help of the abuela/os and tías, achievable. The unbearable burden was not the physical labor itself but the constant criticisms and accusations dressed as innocuous questions: “¿y cómo dejas a tu hijo tantas horas? Yo no podría” and frequent, “Y tu hijo, ¿con quién lo dejas?” paired with, “pobrecito, ¿y no lo extrañas?” I wish that at that moment I would have immediately identified them as fallacious statements upheld by the violence of patriarchy. But I didn’t.

Instead, I wept. I wept in the shower – in the place where your tears merge with the shower droplets, in the place where the noise can muffle your cries, in the place where solitude accompanies you. There were times when my tears would refuse to respect this sacred place and would instead travel to my bedroom or my car. “I am not a good mom,” I told myself. I despised myself for loving school, for loving my job. I ritualistically apologized to my son quietly as he slept every night and obsessively reminded him of how much I loved him during his waking hours. In reality, I was not trying to comfort him; I was trying to soothe myself. I was atoning for my bad mothering.

Society promotes absurd and unrealistic mothering scripts that are unsustainable. A good mother cannot have hobbies, should not enjoy a night out with friends, cannot spend money on eyelash extensions, oh, and God forbid she dates. It is ironic and almost comical that single mothers are antagonized for being single but are simultaneously forbidden from dating. If you are a Latina mother, you are also expected to ser buena cocinera, maestra, enfermera, chofer, costurera, y mucho más. La madre latina is, in reality, a mythical figure that is half human, half goddess. She is one that morphs into many things and does so willingly, effortlessly and enthusiastically. If you are a Christian Latina mother, these beliefs tend to be exacerbated by erroneous and domesticated interpretations of biblical womanhood put forth by male-dominated narratives[2]. Our love for our children seems to only be acceptable when it is self-consuming. The Latina mother is idealized, but women pay a high price for this veneration. There is nothing glorious about withstanding abuse and being disempowered, but marianismo[3] appears in the Latina/o culture masked as love and admiration. Marianismo is, in reality, a toxic ideology that stems from machismo and demands that mothers sacrifice their selfhood in service of patriarchal ideals. All those who deviate in any way from these prescriptive mothering norms are immediately deemed bad mothers.     

“75% of mothers with children are employed full time.”

— U.S. Department of Labor (2016)

The image of the traditional housewife whose primary and sole responsibility is to take care of the home and children while the father “brings home the bacon” seems to have been irreparably imprinted in the minds of many individuals. However, the reality is that 71% of U.S. mothers are formally employed[4] (Pew Research 2014). Sound judgement would lead one to conclude that since the majority of modern mothers do, in fact, work outside the home, gender expectations regarding tending the home have shifted. Regrettably, this is not the case. Women, particularly women of color, have long endured the “double shift,” working full-time as paid employees and spending considerably more time than men in unpaid labor in the form of childcare and housework. According to the U.S. Department of Labor (2019), men work an average of 7 hours and 54 minutes in paid work per day, while women labor a total of 7 hours and 20 minutes. The number of paid hours worked amounts to a 34-minute difference. In the household, however, women work an average of 120 minutes more than men and Latina women work more than men as compared to women of other ethnicities. These statistics reflect normal circumstances: that is, pre-COVID 19. The pandemic exacerbated these conditions, leading to what is now known as the “double double shift.”

During the coronavirus lockdown, women with full-time employment, a partner and children worked 20 hours a week more than men in domestic labor. The consequences of the unequal division of home duties are manifold and produce a domino effect that affects nearly every aspect of a woman’s life. Carrying a larger workload means less sleep, no time for a jog, or coffee with friends. Enjoying a TV show, attending a Bible study or reading daily devotionals might seem impossible. Leisure and spiritual activities promote mental wellbeing by providing a balanced life that can help reduce stress, anxiety and depression. In a poll conducted by the Kaiser Family Foundation in the midst of the pandemic, 53% of women reported feeling worried or stressed, versus 37% of men. The gender gap is even more pronounced among parents of children under the age of eighteen: 57% of mothers versus 32% of fathers reported that their mental health has deteriorated due to the pandemic.

“Women will have achieved true equality when men share with them the responsibility of bringing up the next generation.””

— Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg

Moreover, increased household obligations impact women’s economic growth. The economic disadvantage that women have historically suffered has worsened since the pandemic. In September alone, approximately 865,000 women left the U.S. workforce, compared to 200,000 men (UN Women 2020). These figures are not coincidental; they reflect the heavy burden placed upon women’s shoulders who are forced to renounce paid employment in order to devote themselves to unrewarded and underappreciated unpaid care work. Women’s monumental efforts and hard work are not only undervalued, they are overtly punished. Formally employed mothers suffer monetarily in the form of reduced wages through what is known as the “motherhood penalty.” Women of color, who are disproportionately at the bottom of the pay scale, are punished the most. Conversely, fathers are rewarded with a “fatherhood bonus.” “Fatherhood is a valued characteristic of employers, signaling perhaps greater work commitment, stability and deservingness,” explains Dr. Michelle J. Budig. Professor Budig’s research shows, “That is the opposite of how parenthood by women is interpreted by employers. The conventional story is they work less and they’re more distractible when on the job.” In short, fatherhood is seen as an asset whereas motherhood is considered a liability.

“In 40% of all households with children, women are the breadwinners.”

— Pew Research Center (2013)

We analyze the statistics and they are disconcerting. We hear women’s first-hand experiences and we are disturbed. We live out these injustices in our own flesh and yet we continue to do the bidding of an oppressive system that pollutes our soul. I want to be transparent, but it pains me to write this: my most fervent accusers were not men – they were women. Machismo tactically utilizes us, women, as weapons against ourselves and each other. We become machismo’s most faithful little soldiers. We point the gun at each other and shoot relentlessly, not realizing that those bullets are ricocheting and piercing our own bodies. We surveil each other, we play the comparative game, destroy each other in hopes that machismo will honor us as la más santa – mejor que fulanita o zutanita. I, too, have internalized sexist mothering notions, not only by allowing guilt to completely consume me but also by being highly critical of other mothers. I attempted to liberate myself from the shame and guilt that suffocated me by condemning other mothers, as if obstructing their airways would help me breath. I sought liberation, not by destroying my shackles, but by placing them on someone else. This is perverse. “Being female doesn’t stop us from being sexist, we’ve had to choose early or late at 7, 14, 27, 56 to think different […] act different […] to change other women’s minds, to change our own minds, to change our feelings, ours, yours and mine […] The basis of our unity is that in the most important way we are all in the same boat, all subjected to the violent, pernicious ideas we have learned to hate, that we must all struggle against them.[5]” Sexism is the norm; it is how we are socialized. However, God did not create us to be oppressors of each other; our prosperity as God’s children is not based on how much suffering and punishment we inflict on one another. On the contrary, “If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it” (1 Corinthians 12:26, NRSV). We must labor daily against our own social conditioning that incites us to endorse and perpetuate sexist ideals.

In order to overcome our conditioning, we (men and women) need to become aware and be intentional. We should, for example, examine the ways in which our daily expressions unconsciously sustain sexist assumptions. Mi esposa me ayuda con los niños (My wife helps me with the kids) is a phrase that I have never heard in my life. Mi esposo me ayuda con los niños (My husband helps me with the kids) is one that I hear often. The message that we transmit is that fathers “help” mothers while mothers simply fulfill their “motherly” duties. In the church, women are overrepresented in children’s ministry and vacation bible school and underrepresented as preachers and teachers. This rigid division of labor based on gender disadvantages everyone by restricting individuals from utilizing the fullness of their spiritual gifts.

Perfect mothering does not exist and “good mothers” come in many different shapes and sizes. The same can be said about fathers. Humans have an innate desire to be socially accepted but this approval should not cost us our livelihoods. One of my father’s parenting strengths was that he himself rebelled against cultural scripts that commanded him to place his two daughters in a gendered box. He refused to “play his part” and by doing so, allowed us to flourish and taught us a valuable lesson: to question and vigorously resist toxic gender scripts. About two years ago, I was in the car with my dad on our way to our favorite restaurant and I don’t recall the full context of our conversation but I vividly remember him saying something that no one had ever said to me explicitly, “Itzel, you’re a great mom.” A tear rolled down my cheek and I believed him.

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About Dra. Itzel meduri soto

As an academic from el barrio, Dra. Meduri Soto strives to engage in scholarly work that honors and gives visibility to her community. Her faith drives her passion for justice as she seeks to reveal the ways in which certain language ideologies are constructed to operate unjustly against our communities. Her work acknowledges language as a powerful tool and promotes linguistic diversity in its different manifestations. Bicultural and bilingual identities are at the center of Dra. Meduri Soto’s work. She is a Spanish professor at Biola University where she teaches second language and heritage language learners. To learn more about her work, follow her on Instagram: @la.dra.itzel

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Footnotes

[1] The Mexican National Commission to Prevent and Eradicate Violence Against Women (Comisión Nacional para Prevenir y Erradicar la Violencia Contra las Mujeres) defines machismo as, “certain behaviors and beliefs that promote, reproduce and reinforce various forms of discrimination against women. It is constructed through the polarization of gender roles and stereotypes that [strictly] define masculinity and femininity. Its main characteristic is the degradation of the feminine; its major form of expression, violence in any of its types and forms against women” (2016).  

[2] In Vindicating the Vixens: Revisiting Sexualized, Vilified and Marginalized Women of the Bible, Sandra Glahn states, “In addition to maligning some Bible women, we have marginalized others wrongly downplaying or even ignoring their contributions” (15).

[3] “In many Latin American or Hispanic cultures, an idealized traditional feminine gender role characterized by submissiveness, selflessness, chastity, hyperfemininity, and acceptance of machismo in males” (APA Dictionary of Psychology).

[4] I use “formally employed” as opposed to “working mothers” because the latter term erroneously implies that mothers who take care of the home are not, in fact, “working.”

[5] Rosario Morales, We’re All in the Same Boat (1981).

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

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

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.

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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.

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.

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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