What's in a Name? A Personal History

My maternal grandfather was born in 1895 and my grandmother, his wife, in 1916. They both died before I was born but I heard about them from my mother, Andrea. My grandmother, I gathered, was a sturdy woman, a loving and responsible mother of 13 with little patience for backtalk. My grandfather, it seems, was a warm and well-liked gentleman with kind eyes, soft hair, and the fair skin typical of those on the island with Carib blood. Although unrelated, both were Lavilles, indicating some French influence either through ownership or marriage. Both were Roman Catholic. Despite knowing all of this, I only recently learned their first names. Della and David. For whatever reason, their names were never given, and for 27 years I never thought to ask.

I’m not sure what prompted the realization that I never learned their names. It may have been my studies in historical theology. The study of history often results in a desire for tangible personal connection with the past. The names of countless strangers, their geographical and cultural settings, their dates of birth and death, all become crucial windows for meaning, however opaque. Skipping across the centuries in search of ideas and their consequences, the names of people in their times and places remind us of our finitude and our mutuality, of our own relationship with the dirt and our bond with those who have already returned to it.

In the historical study of race, though, it is dangerous to care for names. Necessary, to be sure, but dangerous. So many names lost, so many others denied. So many, as Ellison knows, invisible to the eyes of history.[i] My grandfather was not born in the United States, but he was born during that period of U.S. history called the nadir. This period began upon the failures of reconstruction immediately following the Civil War and is considered by many historians the worst period of anti-black racism in our history. From 1877 well into the 20th century the terrors of mob violence and lynching, Jim Crow segregation, and various expressions of white supremacy flourished. Hatred, violence, and death reigned. Meanwhile, in the room of a home somewhere in a village on a small island in the Lesser Antilles, a baby was given the name David.

Long before the nadir in the U.S., the racial economy was in development on a global scale. No later than the 18th century in the Caribbean, “black” Caribs were already distinguished from “yellow” Caribs, Kalinagos distinguished from Garifunas and Taínos. Enlightenment racial schemes already exported to the indigenous people of the Greater and Lesser Antilles. To some degree classification is unavoidable, especially as people groups strive to maintain their own cultural particularity. But the seeds of a vile pigmentocracy were already being sewn, whiteness already laying claim to preeminence. What was at stake, the true commodity, as Willie Jennings notices, was the power to name.

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Grandma Clementine

My only living grandparent is named Clementine and her late husband’s name was Harold Hubert Hazelwood Yorke. While my other three grandparents represented France, Harold represented the British side of the colonial contest for Dominica. They named their son, my father, Anthony Roosevelt Yorke, and he gave his name, in some form or another, to all of his children. Harold was born in 1919 and Clementine in 1930. Again, both were born in the Caribbean. Harold was born the same year that the 19th amendment passed in both the House of Representatives and the Senate of the United States. Fully ratified by all states in 1920, the 19th amendment was a step toward recognizing the inherent dignity of women. Unfortunately, Harold hadn’t gotten the memo. The few stories I heard of my paternal grandfather involved his mistreatment of his wife and family. My grandmother faced what Kimberlé Crenshaw calls intersectionality—the cross-section of her identities as black and as a woman which forms a complex matrix of oppression. But Clementine was a praying woman. A Baby Suggs type, holy.[ii] And several of her children, including my father, became answers to her deepest prayers.

Not every generation is an outright improvement on the one before. If it were, the world would be utopia by now. Still, because of Clementine’s prayers, Anthony is a better husband and father than Harold was. When I got married I wondered if I would be a good husband and, eventually, a good father. My grandfather, after all, passed down not only a name but genetic information. What limitations, thought patterns, or propensities did we share? Which insecurities were ours to manage? And which of these would I pass on to my own children? Then, about a hundred years after Harold was born, and about 2500 miles away, my wife Chelsea and I faced infertility.

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Chelsea and I constitute what our racialized world names an “interracial” relationship. It is a tragic-redemptive name for particular kinds of coupling. On the one hand, the names, in our case “black” and “white,” point to and reiterate the same biologically essentialist logic that provides the foundation for white supremacy. While skin pigmentation is, no doubt, a function of biology, the names “black” and “white” are not reducible to biology alone. They must be observed through the prism of history. The names mark levels on what Jennings calls an “abiding scale of existence” that places whiteness on top and blackness at bottom. Whether we recognize it or not, these names still function this way. The pigmentocracy is no longer as explicit as it once was; few people in our day use names like “quadroon” (one quarter black) or “octaroon” (one eighth black) to describe themselves. But the gap between the names, what Eddie Glaude calls the “value gap,” remains alive and well. If you don’t believe it, imagine a “black” neighborhood. Now imagine a “white” neighborhood. For either, don’t think of the exceptions. Now choose where you believe you will have access to adequate levels of safety, comfort, and opportunity. To be said to be participating in an “interracial” relationship, then, carries insidiously racialized connotations. It subconsciously signifies the impossible coming together of fundamentally disparate realties. It is tragic.

On the other hand, the names “black” and “white” point to and reiterate identification with particular communities. Especially for racialized minorities, this self-identification points to what Ian Haney Lopez calls “community ties,” familiarity with and concern for the interests of one’s community of origin. Understood through the lens of community ties, “blackness” does not signify the bottom of a racial scale of existence, it signifies dignity, strength, and participation in a beautiful community of people bearing the imago Dei. It signifies those who have gone on existing, and beautifully, despite every effort against them. Historically and sociologically speaking, the community to which “white” identity points has been the community of the oppressor, the community who took the power to name themselves and others. Those who are named “white,” then, have the difficult task of reckoning with this identity, of bearing the name, while working to dismantle its meaning and renounce its power. In this way, to be said to participate in an “interracial” relationship may be understood as redemptive. It may represent a supernatural work of reconciliation between communities who have redefined, relinquished, and/or redeemed the names they were given or that they gave to themselves. It may represent submission to the power of God in Christ by the Spirit to name, rename, and redeem for God’s own purposes.

This latter sense of the name “interracial” was, and is, the case for Chelsea and me. And we looked forward to thinking through this complex identity for and with children who would represent physically what we now understood about our relationship. A kind of visible sign of an invisible reality. In this context, the verdict of infertility named not only our inability to have biological children; it also suggested the improbability of naming a new way of being in society, a new way of relating to one another in a racialized world. So, Chelsea shared in the longing of Sarah, Rachel, Hannah, and Elizabeth. For these women of canonical fame, longing for children proved to be holy longing; they desired to participate in the story of redemption to whatever degree they understood it as such. On this side of Pentecost, we long to participate in the redemption of a society ravaged by those who would claim the ultimate power to name. The redemption itself has already occurred and is occurring, however improbable. Even improbability kneels in the presence of God; dry bones come to life. Even a virgin could become theotokos, mother of God.

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Chelsea had learned some years before of embryo adoption. In truth, Chelsea and I decided independently, even before we dated, that we would someday adopt children. Upon marriage, we thought of it as a future endeavor, something to pursue after starting a biological family. Somewhere in the midst of our grieving the verdict of infertility, though, the memory of adoption returned. In waves, over time, joy and hope returned, too. Our conceptions about family and biology challenged, we took heart again. Ultimately, we pursued embryo adoption, in which the embryo of a donating family is carried and delivered by the adoptive mother; the child grows in the womb and is delivered by the adopting mother but carries neither of the adoptive parents’ DNA. In the United States, there are currently over a million embryos in cryopreservation. Over a million embryos waiting to be named.

From their biological father’s side, the embryos that Chelsea and I adopted are half Kenyan. Because of the “one-drop” racial logic of the U.S., they will be racialized as black even as they are simultaneously racialized as mixed.[iii] Our children will change our names. We will now be mother and father. Further, I will be named a “black” father and Chelsea, a “white-mother-of-black-children.” These names carry complex meaning and emotion, in fact, the same tensions inherent in the name “interracial couple.” Tragic-redemptive.

It is tragic that one effect of racism and socio-economic disenfranchisement on black families has been the paradigm of the absent black father. Tragically, this hasn’t resulted in proportionate praise for the paradigmatic strength and resilience of black mothers. It is tragic that the narrative of black male absenteeism has become, for many, the cause and not an effect of socio-economic disenfranchisement in black communities. The blame is shifted and all responsibility for social action is placed back onto the black community. It is tragic that the fetishization of black men and black children by white women is an historical reality and has even become a trope in popular culture. It is also tragic that many women named “white” who happen to love men named “black” and parent children named “black” and/or “mixed” may be seen to perpetuate this fetishization.

It is redemptive to know that the active, present, loving, sensitive, strong black father is not an anomaly. It is redemptive that countless men and women across the country and across the world have always fought on the side of anti-racism without reduction. It is redemptive that countless interracial couples around the globe lean into the complexity of their joining, bringing all of their names with them, and considering together what kind of world our children should inhabit.

From their biological mother’s side, our child(ren) are part Cajun. The name Cajun is laced with racial history. French Canadians born in Louisiana during the late 18th and 19th centuries increasingly felt the need to distinguish themselves as “white” in contrast to those French Louisianans with darker skin, those who came to be known as Creoles. This racial distinction predictably and increasingly corresponded to socio-economic disparity. While the names in themselves—Cajun and Creole—do not inherently point to race, they have been made to conform to modernity’s racial logic.

Still on their biological mother’s side, our child(ren) are also part Honduran. Honduras, like many Caribbean islands, is paradigmatic in the colonial and neo-colonial history of the west. It is what O. Henry named a “banana republic,” a socio-politically unstable community. These banana republics were exploited for their rich natural resources, their societies forced to yield to capitalistic visions of time, space, and relating. Honduras’s prolific land attracted “namers” who would try to bring the land into submission; it would become what Pablo Neruda called “America’s sweet waist.”

It will be our task as parents to pass down what we know of these histories, in all of their beauty and complexity because our child(ren) will be named “mixed,” and this name will be truer than the namers know. It will seem as though our child(ren) are the mixture of Chelsea and myself—and they will be that, too—but they will be so much more. They will be the mixture of the stories of Africa, South America, the Caribbean, Europe, and the United States. They will be the mixture of the past and the present, of already but not yet. They will be the mixture of histories with History. Ultimately, they will be the mixture of human sinfulness and redemptive grace.

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This is the reason that the Son, eternally begotten of the Father, took on the name Jesus in a particular time and place. Submitting himself to Mary and Joseph, the God-man allows himself to be named and to grow in favor with both God and people. In his ministry, Jesus exercises his own power to name—Simon is named Peter, servants are named friends. Not knowing sin himself, Christ took the name “sin” so that many might have the name “righteous.” Upon his resurrection Jesus instructs his disciples to baptize into the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. And by the power of the Holy Spirit, the followers of Jesus are named the Church, sinners are named saints, those who were once not a people are named a people for God’s own possession. For this reason, Christ has been given the name above every name. Christ has assumed, and therefore, redeemed humanity’s power to name which was broken at the fall. This power has been abused by those who have the name Christian, but there is redemption for this, too.

So, our child(ren) will have names. They will have names which identify them as individuals who bear the divine image, each one a “Thou” existing alongside others in what Martin Luther King Jr. named an inescapable network of mutuality. Names signifying particular finite lives in time and space for whom the infinite God, in Christ, opened eternity.

And the names will be given by us, their parents. Not in domination, but in love. This given-ness points to our contingency, to our dependence—along with all of creation—on God for life, breath, and being. It points to our unity with those who came before us and it means that we carry their lives and stories with us. We carry the names we’ve been given. This, after all, seems to be the point: that because of the love of God in Christ, it may be a beautiful thing to name and be named.

About Michael Yorke

Michael Yorke holds a degree in Historical Theology from Wheaton College Graduate School in Illinois. He thinks and writes at the intersection of race, history, and Christian theology with a view toward a liberative and antiracist future. He is married to Chelsea and their first child will be born in December.

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Footnotes

[i] Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man

[ii] Morrison, Toni. Beloved

[iii] According to Winthrop Jordan, “In this country, the social standard for individuals is superficially simple: if a person of whatever age or gender is believed to have any African ancestry, that person is regarded as black. Basically, by this social rule, a person was, and is, either black or not. Any person of racially or ethnically mixed descent who has some ‘Negro blood’ has been or still is regarded as ‘colored,’ or ‘African,’ or ‘Negro,’ or ‘black,’ or ‘Afro-American,’ or ‘African American’—whatever designation has prevailed by convention at the time.”

Works Referenced and/or Consulted

Bantum, Brian. Redeeming Mulatto: A Theology of Race and Christian Hybridity

Carter, J. Kameron. Race: A Theological Account

Crenshaw, Kimberlé, et al. Critical Race Theory: The Key Writings That Formed the Movement

Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man

García-Johnson, Oscar. Spirit Outside the Gate: Decolonial Pneumatologies of the American Global South

Glaude, Eddie S. Democracy in Black: How Race Still Enslaves the American Soul

Jennings, Willie James. The Christian Imagination: Theology and the Origins of Race

Jordan, Winthrop “Historical Origins of the One-Drop Racial Rule in the United States”

Kendi, Ibram X. Stamped From the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America

Lopez, Ian Haney. “Community Ties, Race, and Faculty Hiring: The Case for Professors Who Don’t Think White”

Morrison, Toni. Beloved

Raboteau, Albert J. A Fire in the Bones: Reflections on African-American Religious History

Does Righteousness Have a Color Scheme?

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

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

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

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

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

A Story of Cultural Identity

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

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

A Story of our Uniqueness

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

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

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

[1] All names of interviewees changed for privacy.

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About Emily C. Alexander

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

Too Much or Not Enough

“The distance between one person and another is really a story.””

— Karen Figueroa, The Mestizo Podcast, Ep. 2

I don’t remember what I said. Whatever it was, it made an impression on him. He pressed again, asking, “Where did you learn that?” “I don’t know,” I responded. “It’s just something we say all the time back home.” “I haven’t heard that since my Abuela died years ago,” he said, speaking more to himself than to me. It was as if he was reliving a memory; he was transported somewhere else. So was I. He was an elder at the church I recently joined in Chicago, a Puerto Rican who spent nearly the entirety of his life in this city.  I was new to Chicago, returning to the Midwest after a decade in Central Florida. Whatever I said, sent him from the city to the Island, but the words didn’t have the power for a joint trip. I landed just short of the island. Close, but not close enough.

The irony of this exchange is that it endeared me to this elder. It made me an insider, someone who understood the “old tongue.” He made a habit of inviting me to Sunday meals where his wife cooked “a lo antiguo.”[1] Arroz con gandules. Carne guisada con arroz y habichuelas. These were contidiano (ordinary) in my house growing up. What was not ordinary was the impression it made on this elder. Apparently, he was surprised to see a young man still eating this way. I wasn’t used to being treated like I was “authentically” Puerto Rican, yet there I was each Sunday being celebrated by a man and his wife for doing simple things like enjoying tostones.

In Chicago, with this elder, I was celebrated for being “more authentic” than some of the other Puerto Ricans in my generation. To my shame, I reveled in the admiration. Back in Florida, where an estimated 34% of Osceola county’s population identified as Puerto Rican and a large portion of these residents are recent arrivals from the Island, I was never “authentic” enough. My Spanish sounded learned in comparison. My taste for traditional Puerto Rican dishes was refined, but my rhythms, my “flow” was never quite right. Pero en Chicago, I was to my peers what the Ricans in Florida were to me. I was “authentic.” Or, at least, in the eyes of this elder, I was close enough.

Distancia y Dynamica

The Mestizo Podcast is a project that came with an emotional risk. I was nervous about publishing content from a uniquely Latina/o perspective and how that would be received. For my white peers in evangelical academia, I worried it would turn them off to the content, but the greater fear was related to how my Hispanic peers would receive it. Would it be welcomed as an answer to prayer? That was my hope. I prayed regularly for an outlet for conversations about interstitial identities. Experience taught me, however, that whomever starts these conversations gets evaluated, measured against the listeners’ perceptions. For some, I would be too Hispanic to be relevant. For others, I wouldn’t be Hispanic enough. I would be perceived as too white, too Americano, “de afuera” (from the outside). Exiled from one. Not welcome by the other.

During the second episode of the show, Karen Figueroa said, “The distance between one person and another is really a story.” I wondered weeks later about the amount of distance a story could cover. Could a story really tie the two generations of Hispanics together? Could it bridge the distance between Florida and Puerto Rico? In my experience, your proximity to the Island defined how Puerto Rican you were. How often did you visit as a kid? Did you live there at any point? Were you born there? Did you speak Spanish? If so, how was your accent? These questions represented the hermeneutic for deciding your Puerto Rican-ness. But Karen made me wonder, could a story relativize the island? Could narrative beat land the way paper covers rock?

A recent chat with a friend brought these questions to greater focus. After making a joke about the phrase “sin pelos en la lengua”[2] not making sense to me, we debated the image and origin of the phrase. She reminded me that these kinds of expressions are “formed en los barrios de la isla por gente con mucha oralidad.”[3] Then she concluded by saying that the idiom is not meant to be convenient for “gringos” or “una generación que no está conectada a ese contexto.”[4] Admittedly, the joke may have offended her as an Island-born Puerto Rican. In our chat, I felt I was perceived as an outsider mocking something I couldn’t understand. I felt I was perceived as lacking the connection that led to understanding. That may be true, but there is also another possibility. Is my connection strictly related to my physical distance to the Island, or is it possible I am connected via something else?

Oral Cultures and Exiles

In his Nobel-prize-winning book, El Hablador (The Storyteller), Mario Vargas Llosa tells of a young man named Saul, who abandons Peruvian society to become an Hablador of the Machiguenga. The Machiguenga is a tribe that lives as scattered family camps across the Peruvian-Amazon rather than live together as one complete community. In this unusual, dispersed way, the Machiguengas claim the entire forest as theirs, each family taking up their own corner of it and moving as food would require. Only one person traveled from family to family connecting them together. El Hablador.

For the Machiguenga, the storyteller is of sacred, indeed religious importance. The storyteller’s job was simple enough: to speak. “Their mouths were the connecting links of this society that the fight for survival had forced to split up and scatter… Thanks to the storytellers, fathers had news of their sons and brothers of their sisters … thanks to them they were all kept informed of the deaths, births, and other happenings in the tribe.” The storyteller did not only bring current news; he spoke of the past. He is the memory of the community, fulfilling a function like that of the troubadours of the Middle Ages. The storyteller traveled great distances to remind each member of the tribe that despite their miles of separation, they still formed one community, shared a tradition, beliefs, ancestors, misfortunes, and joys. The storytellers, writes Vargas Llosa, were the lifeblood that circulated through Machiguenga society, giving it one interconnected and interdependent life.

The Machiguenga storyteller is “tangible proof that storytelling can be something more than mere entertainment … something primordial, something that the very existence of a people may depend on.”

Vargas Llosa’s book highlights the importance of the story for exiled portions of a people group. What makes the Machiguenga a single people isn’t their proximity to a center or place of origin. There is no required pilgrimage for the Machinguenga that reinforces their identity. The story, and their regular submersion in it, is what makes every member, even those born on the outer limits of the jungle, part of the tribe. For persons like me, this makes sense as an explanation of my identity. Yes, as my friend rightly noted, Puerto Rican phrases come from an oral culture, but many of us US-born Puerto Ricans understand that far more than we are given credit. We know that our Rican-identity is rooted in this oral tradition. We aren’t Puerto Rican by the simple fact of an Island birth. Our identity relies on something more complex; it relies on our live connection to the oral tradition – stories, bombas, dichos, bailes, poesías, and even phrases like the one I lightheartedly teased. Like the people of Israel in the Old Testament, we are a people because of a shared narrative.

Generational Responsibility

Many of my Chicago friends who identify as Puerto Rican don’t speak Spanish. For a long time, I put on airs because I did. This is typical among 2nd and 3rd generation Hispanics, to judge and be judged. Those who rank higher on the Puerto Rican-ness scale usually take on the role of gatekeeper, withholding the right to claim certain parts of Puerto Rican identity from others lower on the scale. There are so many stories about the pain caused by this kind of intercommunity conflict. Here are just two snapshots of how it makes the non-Spanish speaker feel.

Both tweets reflect infighting between LatinX people based on judgments about what it means to be LatinX. There are myriad reasons why this kind of conflict continues, and some are legitimate and worth addressing; the colorism in our community primary among them. However, there are also several reasons why linguistic ability should not be held against the diaspora’s children. As Gina Rodriguez, star of Jane the Virgin, stated, many parents refused to teach children Spanish, hoping they would lose the accent and be offered greater opportunities in the “white world.” Learning Spanish was not an option. It was discouraged.

I sympathize with parents who made this tough decision in hopes for a better life for their children. They could not foresee the way the Hispanic community would boom and gain influence today. Of course, this is one of many possible reasons for the loss of the language and culture. I am not accusing parents or blaming them for this loss. An individual’s flourishing (or diminishing) ability to access their cultural resources is in large part affected by the community. If the immigrant generation made a mistake by not passing the language down, there is still enough time and resources for it to be restored by the community. Once more, this is where the Machiguenga teach a vital lesson. Cultures survive because of storytellers not gatekeepers. We need a new way forward in the restoration and preservation of the Latinos’ community wealth, one that removes the judgment and includes the diversity of the diaspora’s children. We need more Habladores and fewer gatekeepers.

Galatas and the First Gatekeepers

Again, a gatekeeper is someone who “takes it upon themselves to decide who does or does not have access or rights to a community or identity.”[5] Gatekeepers may do this intentionally or by instinct – an impulse taught to them by the culture. I acted as a gatekeeper in my hubris about speaking Spanish. Whether with the intention of keeping the culture “pure” or the instinct to establish their standard, gatekeepers devalue “other’s opinions on something by claiming they’re not entitled to the opinion because they’re not qualified, … [or] a part of a particular group.”[6]

One of the earliest accounts of cultural gatekeepers is the small letter included in the Bible as the book of Galatians. The conflict that inspired Paul to write this letter was the arrival of Jewish believers to the region of Galatia. These new arrivals argued that non-Jewish Christians had to adopt Jewish practices and customs to truly belong to the people of God. Paul wrote with passion, reminding the church of his past as a zealous follower of Jewish tradition. He writes, “I was advancing in Judaism beyond many of my own age among my people and was extremely zealous for the traditions of my fathers” (Gal. 1:14). Like the generational ranking that happens among LatinX people today, Paul was highly ranked as a Jew among Jews, yet he relativizes the Jewish Law by reminding the church of the essential element that identifies them as Christians – the gospel.

Paul is an Hablador. He knows the stories and focuses on the central narrative that ties this people together as one. Paul acknowledges the wisdom of the Law but presses the point that the Law was insufficient. It is faith in Jesus Christ that makes them sons and daughters of God. “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Gal. 3:28). The good news of Jesus’ death and resurrection births a mestizo Church. It also enables a new form of relating between mestizos. “Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit. Let us not become conceited, provoking and envying each other” (Gal. 5:25-26).

The gospel is a unique story in that it has the power to birth community across disparate and even enemy groups. Paul’s argument is also instructive for people within the same group. Puerto Ricans in the diaspora already know the importance of storytelling. While we may not understand every practice nor practice every custom, Habladores like Paul help us stay connected to them. They also help grow the story’s community to include the diaspora’s experience. Among young US-born Latina/os, there are some recording our history, researching our dances, and writing new poetry. These represent a collection of new Habladores, storytellers who bring new life to the older generation, demonstrating that the culture isn’t dying. The culture has always been close to the diaspora, not because of their proximity to the Island, but because of their rehearsal of the stories.

About Emanuel Padilla

Emanuel Padilla is President of World Outspoken, a ministry dedicated to preparing the mestizo church for cultural change through training, content, and partnership development. He is also an instructor of Bible and Theology at Moody Bible Institute. Emanuel is committed to drawing the insights of the Latina/o church for the blessing of the wider church body. He consults with churches on issues of diversity, organizational culture, and community engagement.

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Footnotes

[1] Trans. - Old school or traditional.

[2] An expression that generally means, “When you’re so blunt not even hairs could soften the words.”

[3] Translation: “formed in the hoods of the island by people with an oral tradition.”

[4] Translation: “a generation that isn’t connected to that context.”

[5] “Urban Dictionary: Gatekeeping,” Urban Dictionary, accessed May 24, 2020, https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Gatekeeping.

[6] “Urban Dictionary: Gatekeeper,” Urban Dictionary, accessed May 24, 2020, https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Gatekeeper.

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

Tips To Moderating Quality Virtual Meetings

With COVID-19 creating a global stir, many of us are having to resort to the internet to connect us for our group meetings. Perhaps, you are already well-versed in the medium of virtual meetings and have often used Google Meets, Zoom, BlueJeans, etc., but when it comes to moderating you feel anxious about facilitating a quality conversation. Having moderated various virtual meetings and webinars, I have worked to compiled a list of tips that have worked for me in virtual space. These are tips on how to moderate quality virtual meetings.

1. A WARM VIRTUAL WELCOME

    Say hello to everyone by name as they log in. Not only is this a way to offer a warm welcome, but you also do this as a kind of Video and Mic check. Let your members know if you can or can’t see their video feed and or hear their sound. If you cannot hear or see them, troubleshoot with each individual.

   Quick Tips:

   Never assume that your members know or are familiar with the platform. Take the time to walk through every detail and be use visual language when doing it.

   Example

   “Hello, ______. Thanks for logging on. Happy to have you here. Would you be able to me a quick wave (to check their video) and a “hello” (to check their audio)?”
    “Tim, I see your video is not on. Would you be able to drag your mouse over the icon of a camera and click on it? It looks like a box with a triangle, and should be in the bottom right hand corner. [express where the icon is in your respective platform].

2. ORIENT YOUR GROUP TO THE PLATFORM

   Invitation Correspondence before the meeting

   When you type that first email to invite your group to your meeting, walk through every detail. You may want to login beforehand and ask yourself: “What are the steps I am taking to get onto this virtual meeting?” And then type them up step-by-step. Virtual meetings are not intuitive for everyone! You don’t want to alienate or make someone feel incompetent just because they do not know how to type in a meeting code, turn on their camera, etc. Take additional care in that first email invitation. Be sure to communicate that you will be available up to 30 min before the meeting to help with any set up questions and add a work/cell phone number that they call, just in case they are still struggling the day of the meeting

   Example

   You can find at the end of this handout, a copy of an Email Correspondence for a Google Meet event. You will want to adapt this to your respective platform.

   Quick Tips:

   Find ways to help alleviate your group member’s anxiety by making yourself available! There is nothing more frustrating than dealing with new technology without guidance.

    Orientation in the Initial Meetings

   Take about 15 minutes of your first few meetings to orient your group to the platform by explaining the functional pieces of the platform. You will want to make sure they know how to mute, turn their camera on and off, and utilize whatever chat function is available.

   Example (adapt to your respective platform)

   “Here in Google Meet you will have access to a few functions. You will find at the bottom of the screen three circular buttons with icons in them. The one on the left with the icon of a microphone, will give you control of your computer mic. Clicking this, will allow you to mute and unmute yourself. The middle circle button, is a red phone icon, clicking this will make you exit the meeting. You will want to avoid this until the end of the meeting. The right circle button with the icon of a camera, will give you control of your computer’s camera. Clicking this, will allow you to turn on and off your video feed. For purposes of our meeting, I ask you to keep this on so that I can see your head nods and/or thumbs up. However, if you are uncomfortable with this, or don’t have access to a camera, know that that is okay! I will just ask those of you without a camera to utilize the chat function. Speaking of chat, on the upper right-hand side, you will see a button, that looks like the chat square similar to the icon used for text on your phone. When you click this, you will open the chat box. We can use this to chat to one another throughout the meeting.”

3. SET VIRTUAL GUIDELINES FOR YOUR CONVERSATION

   You might consider yourself a loose and “freestyle” leader, however in virtual space a looser moderating style might eventually leave your group members confused and talking over one another. As the moderator you control the conversation. In virtual meetings, it is much harder to pick up on visual cues and body language. In face to face conversation one normally turns their head towards the person of whom they wish to address. Also, in in-person meetings we oftentimes open our mouths and/or point in someone’s general direction as they are speaking to express that we would like to respond to what they are saying. In virtual space, these bodily cues do not translate well, but there are ways that you can implement more virtual friendly cues and behaviors that will substitute to function similar to our in-person bodily cues.

   Make your group aware of the communicative obstacles of this medium.

   It’s hardly a secret that virtual meetings are not the same as face to face! Sometimes it is hard to put a finger on exactly why that is. We might not be aware of what we are losing in virtual space, like unspoken body language and understood addressing glances. So, In encourage you to make your group aware to this fact. This explanation can look very similar to what I wrote above.

   Regardless of how you feel. Make sure to be positive about this medium. If you are not happy or excited about virtual meetings your group will follow suit. Explain to your members, that while you recognize the obstacles, that you are certain that the medium will feel relatively seamless if you and you group decide to agree to follow certain guidelines.

    Delegate, Delegate, Delegate!

   Lay down your guidelines.

   Your guidelines are the new adaptive behaviors and virtual cues that you request of your members to keep a general rule of order in the meeting. You decide what this looks like as a moderator.

   For consideration, here is a list of some general guidelines that I apply and request to have followed in my group meetings:

   • When you are not speaking mute your mic. This keeps white noise at bay, it also helps in keeping members from speaking out of turn and over one another.

   • (Quick tip: In most platforms, it is also indicated when someone unmutes, and so you can use this as a moderating cue that someone wants to speak.)

   • Don’t speak over one another or interrupt one another. If someone is talking and you would like to make an interjection make it known by either lifting your hand so that the moderator can see you want to speak, and/or typing that you would like to follow up in the chat box.

   • As best, as you can let the moderator know you want to speak. Even if it is just by raising your hand. The moderator will make sure to be diligently watching your video feeds and the chat comments, so as to delegate conversation in a way that everyone has their turn to speak.

   • Examples:

     o   I saw your hand, Jane. Did you have something to add or a question?

     o   I saw your unmuted your mic, Tim. Did you have a question?

     o   I see your question in the chat, Kim. Did you want to expound on that?

     • Address one another by name. In general, when you are speaking, especially in response to someone, make sure to introduce your response by addressing that person. (e.g. “Jim, I like what you said. I have a clarifying question in response…). We don’t have the body cue of a turned head to know who is addressing whom. So just address one another by name.

     • Affirm one another. If someone said something really good, and you want to affirm it but don’t know how to translate that virtually, give a very animated and muted nod, and/or put it in the chat box. (e.g. “Yes, I definitely agree, Jane!”) 

Quick Tips:

Don’t be afraid to be a bit stern in the beginning. Making sure everyone is following your guidelines ensures a quality conversation for all your members. 

In the beginning, you may find some of your group members not abiding your guidelines. That’s okay, just make sure to swiftly correct them, remind them that following the guidelines ensures a quality conversation for all your members, and that you do not want anyone to feel out of place or like they are not being heard. Don’t be afraid to respectfully correct people.  

Example

“Hey Jim, thank you for your comments. However, Jane was speaking. Let’s agree to let people finish what they are saying before we speak. Remember, if you would like to respond, just give us a wave or shoot us a comment in the chat box, and we’ll make sure that you get your chance to speak after the person speaking.

FINAL COMMENTS

Technology is amazing. We are now able to connect with one another from all over the world! I know that even in this medium it can still feel a little disconnected, especially compared to the in-person meetings many of us prefer. Virtual meeting can feel a little foreign at first, but if you are conscious of the ways that the medium is different and find ways to adapt and accommodate to the differences, you will soon find yourself at ease and comfortable with Virtual Meetings. You may even find for yourself and your group other benefits utilizing this virtual medium, that you might not otherwise have in a more in-person setting.

When approaching Virtual Meetings: Be optimistic! If you are excited your group members will follow suit. Shared optimism among people, be it virtual or in-person, is what really ensures quality conversation.

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About Jelyn Leyva

A Second-generation Filipina born in Tampa, FL, Jelyn Leyva graduated Moody Bible Institute in Chicago on May 2017 with a Bachelor’s degree in Women in Ministry and an Interdisciplinary in Theology. She is currently in Los Angeles, CA pursuing an MDiv at Fuller Theological Seminary with her emphasis in Christian Ethics. Having lived in various places in the US, Jelyn’s interest lie in the complex history and multi-ethnic life of the Protestant Church in the US. Her hope is to serve this church and its many colors with the consideration of traditional and contemporary theological scholarship.

Cover Image

Job Leyva. March 2020. “Connecting in an Era of Social-Distancing”

For the Abuelas en el Barrio

This week many church leaders made the hard decision of going virtual these upcoming Sundays. More so, it was made clear through official statements made by the World Health Organization (WHO) and the US Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) that we have not yet reached the height of medical or financial devastation in the US or the world. Many are getting the sense that things are going to get worse, before they get better.[1] Anxiety and fear are pervasive among our friends, family, and congregants.   

Only a short scroll through social media makes it appear that we as a country have lost a sense of cordiality and neighborliness. The videos of people stampeding over one another to grab rolls of toilet paper would seem comical, if not contrasted to the images of our elderly standing in a picked-over grocery aisle empty handed. In times like these the Church must ask: “How do we respond faithfully during this pandemic?”

Moving to a virtual format is a valuable first step, as it recognizes the need for “social distancing” to keep safe the most vulnerable of our communities. However, while this is a good first step, I would argue it is still simply just the first step of a potentially long journey. A good next step is to reflect on our society’s current actions and rhetoric and ask, “What do these tell us about how we understand our world”?

“Every Man for Himself” | Counteracting an Economy of Scarcity 

“Then the Lord said to Moses, “I will rain down bread from heaven for you. The people are to go out each day and gather enough for that day. In this way I will test them and see whether they will follow my instructions.” ”

— Exodus 16:4

The sense of not having enough, or eventually coming to a place of not having enough is arguably what is driving the mania that has people flocking to the stores to buy items in bulk. The anxiety of not enough is a tell-tale sign of a culture that exists in an economy of scarcity. These mentalities and sensibilities don’t just happen overnight, they come from years of formation. Within Western culture, individuality is a virtue. It is good to look out for yourself. While this comes with benefits, like the ideals of democracy and of individual voice, it also comes with pitfalls.

The Christian faith has a history of counteracting the economy of scarcity. In the wilderness, the people of God had to submit to vulnerability, believing that God would provide day by day. And despite disproportionate collection, “some gathered much, some little,” (Ex. 16:17) God always made sure his people had enough. In fact, it was the hoarding of goods that produced rot (Ex. 16:20). Unlike the rest of the world, ours is an economy of enough.

If we are going to make it through this time, with some semblance of sanity and good-will, it is incumbent upon the Church to innovate and implement systems that counteract the current economy of scarcity. This could look as simple as encouraging your fellow congregants and friends to take only what they need to last them for the next two weeks at the stores, in order to reduce hysteria and defy this sentiment of scarcity.

We find that acting based on scarcity eventually produces scarcity. The economy of scarcity is a self-fulfilling prophecy. When individuals decide to take beyond their need, someone else suffers disproportionately. This is currently reflected by the desperate positions of many of our elderly.

“It’s okay, I’m low-risk.” | Learning How to Honor Lola

“But if anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for members of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever.”

— 1 Timothy 5:8

It has been made common knowledge that the most vulnerable of our communities in this time of pandemic are our elderly and those with pre-existing conditions (e.g. those with auto-immune disease, going through chemo, etc.). So, while it may not seem like the disease poses a significant threat to you or your immediate family unit, the same is not true for everyone in your congregation. We must ask ourselves always how we are actively seeking to honor everyone, especially the most vulnerable of us.

In the Filipino culture, it is very common for elderly family members to live among younger generations in the same household. Intergenerational contact is normative; one household could hold up to four generations. The idea of leaving Lola (Abuela) by herself or in a nursing home, is a relatively foreign concept. In addition to this, the elderly in your “barangay” or “barrio” are also met with a great deal of respect. Thus, the well-being of the elderly is naturally taken into consideration. Now, this does not mean that there is no anxiety of scarcity in Filipino/as, but in days like these I find myself reflecting on my culture. I am compelled to stop and consider the ways that my heritage teaches me how to love my community, especially the Lolas and the Lolos of them. 

When writing to Timothy, Paul makes a seemingly indicting statement that to not provide for relatives is paramount to denying the faith. This seems almost counterintuitive to the scarcity mentality that I just described, especially since many are hoarding with their families in mind. Keep in mind that the Biblical context was perhaps much more similar to intergenerational contexts, like that of the Philippines, and less like our Western, individualized contexts. In a Filipino culture, we would read this to apply to the most vulnerable in our family units. Therefore, every action we take during a communicable pandemic is taken with care and always takes into consideration our Lola and Lolo at home.

The Church can learn a valuable lesson from its Filipino members during this crisis. We must prioritize and give special care to not just our elderly, but our most vulnerable brothers and sisters. We must not operate based on an assumption that most of us are "low-risk," but rather keep in mind that among us there are thousands of people, seen and unseen, who are especially vulnerable to this illness. Because we are a body, a family, that includes people who are vulnerable, we are compelled to protect them with our actions as best we can. The Body of Christ must be conscious of every member, including our Lolas y Abuelas. As one Body our identity, and thus our “risk,” is always absorbed in the whole of our community.

What Does It Take to Be a Neighbor?

When the world is in crisis, it is easy to feel overwhelmed and lose sight of our immediate context.

In times like these, I almost feel like the lawmaker who asked Jesus the question, “Who is my neighbor?” This question, of course, inspired Jesus to tell the parable of the Good Samaritan. What I often forget is how economically prodigal or reckless the Samaritan Man was in response to the hurt stranger on the side of the road. He poured out oil and wine, expensive commodities, to address the man’s wounds, and he paid for the man’s accommodation and any other possible costs. The Samaritan was lavish in his care for a stranger. At the end, Jesus asked his initial inquisitor: “Which of these do you think was a neighbor[...]?”

To which the inquisitor answers, “The one who showed mercy.”

In truth, neighborliness finds its fullest expression when we not only consider the needs of the most vulnerable, but when we consider their needs more important than our own. Ministry at this time cannot simply end at accommodating a mandate of “social distancing,” it must venture on into neighborly acts.

Going virtual is a meaningful first step for many churches, but there is more work to be done. Many church leaders in my area have taken it upon themselves to mobilize the healthy and able in their churches to assist their most vulnerable. They have asked those in their congregations who are over 60+ and most at risk to contact them directly with a shopping list and have made plans to find shoppers for them during this time. This is an innovative way to counteract the anxiety of scarcity, create opportunities of intergenerational partnership, and actively pursue the act of neighborliness. The Church needs more innovative ideas such as these.

What are the ways that you can be a neighbor today for those who are most vulnerable? If you are already living out neighborliness, share them with us using #WOSNeighbor #forAbuela!

“Jesus asked: “Which of these do you think was a neighbor[...]?” The expert in the law replied, “The one who showed mercy.” Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.””

— Matthew 10:36-37

About Jelyn Leyva

A Second-generation Filipina born in Tampa, FL, Jelyn Leyva graduated Moody Bible Institute in Chicago on May 2017 with a Bachelor’s degree in Women in Ministry and an Interdisciplinary in Theology. She is currently in Los Angeles, CA pursuing an MDiv at Fuller Theological Seminary with her emphasis in Christian Ethics. Having lived in various places in the US, Jelyn’s interest lie in the complex history and multi-ethnic life of the Protestant Church in the US. Her hope is to serve this church and its many colors with the consideration of traditional and contemporary theological scholarship.

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Footnote

[1] “Coronavirus: Over 1,000 Cases Now In U.S., And ‘It’s Going To Get Worse,’ Fauci Says,” NPR.org, accessed March 19, 2020, https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2020/03/11/814460233/coronavirus-1-000-cases-now-in-u-s-and-it-s-going-to-get-worse-fauci-says.

A Tale of Two Churches

After prayerfully considering our approach, this opinion piece is being published anonymously. The author, as mentioned in the article, “grew up around guns.” To protect the identity of the author, we have removed all identifiers.

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At the end of 2019, there was a shooting at a church in Texas where a man shot and killed two people before a member of the church shot and killed him. The whole incident was over in a matter of seconds. The church member’s quick reaction saved lives and prevented untold suffering that morning. As with every shooting incident in the US, major news outlets quickly began the debate about guns and shootings. Each side rehearsed their go-to talking points, except now the right had a perfect example of a good guy with a gun stopping a bad guy with a gun.

As a believer, I couldn’t help but think about another church shooting that happened five years earlier. In 2015, in Charleston, SC, a black church was the site of a mass shooting during a bible study. There was no “good guy” with a gun to stop the shooter there, and instead of a quick resolution, nine lives were lost. However, what dominated the news cycle then was the church’s response. Since the shooter was apprehended alive, the families of victims had a chance to address the young man. What happened is hard to describe in words and is much more impactful in video (take a moment to watch it). The overwhelming mercy that was extended to him through powerful, simple words like, “I forgive you” and “repent and believe,” said more about the Gospel than many preachers say in a lifetime of sermons. Their actions made it nearly impossible for the story to be covered in the media without the telling of the Gospel.

I grew up around guns, as do many Americans, and have never thought of myself as a pacifist. However, over the last several years, I’ve begun to see where Christian pacifists are coming from. I fully support both police officers and the armed forces. I believe that God has structured governments to enforce justice, and sometimes that means violence and even capital punishment. I believe there is nothing in Scripture that prohibits believers from service as a police officer or in the military. However, the more I look into the New Testament, it seems that Jesus’ teachings, and those of the apostles, call us to something radical. I’m not convinced that we should protect ourselves at all cost or cling to this life. Hear me clearly. We shouldn’t actively seek to be victims; we should lock our doors at night and flee from attackers. But, should we fight back?

In the sermon on the mount there is the famous verse where Jesus says to turn the other cheek if someone slaps you. Jesus quotes the Old Testament “eye for an eye” and then calls those listening to instead endure wrongs by not retaliating (Matt 5:39). He urges us to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us. He tells us that by loving and praying for those who hate us we are like our Father in heaven. Jesus also goes so far as to say that we are no different from the Gentiles if we only love those who love us. Christ did not die on our behalf so that we could remain like the world around us. He calls us to love rather than hate, give rather than horde, lift others up rather than step on or ignore them. While some will claim that this slap on the cheek is more about humiliation than violence, the OT passage where the original “eye for an eye” quote comes from is about justice and retribution in regard to bodily harm.

Theologians often talk about Kingdom reversal, how Jesus often calls us to act opposite from how the world acts. In God’s Kingdom the last is first, the poor are rich, and the humble are exalted. We should ask ourselves, how often do we as Christians agree with the world? Do we agree with them about when life begins? How to spend our money? Do we agree with what it means to have a family? Even when we do agree with the world on something like meting out justice, are our underlying reasons the same?

Jesus’ Last Words

During the last supper, Jesus spends a lot of time preparing the disciples for what will happen when He leaves. In John 15-16, Jesus speaks of the hatred the world will have for them and that some will even kill Christians thinking they are serving God (16:2). He warns them that the world will hate them and reject them because it hated and rejected Him. Persecution is to be expected in the church. Jesus made it clear that only those who lose their lives would find life (Matt 10:39).

Anytime I’ve had this conversation, people agree that we should be prepared to die for our faith when the conversation is abstract or distant. However, when the conversation shifts to more tangible scenarios, like the tragedy in Texas, people quickly want to soften what Jesus is saying by interpreting His words as hyperbole. Obviously, Jesus wouldn’t want us to submit to just any violence, but only that which is the result of our faith. I ask, how are we as believers supposed to know when violence is happening because of sin in the world or when it is happening because of our faith? Should we ask our assailant if they hate us for our beliefs or for something else? Is there even a way to evaluate most cases?

I have sometimes wondered if the US will produce any martyrs on its own soil, or if all of our martyrs will die on the foreign mission field.  I remember youth pastors asking their students if they would die for their faith after the Columbine shooting, but here we are now in 2020 arming our security in our churches. Is church supposed to be a safe place? Will we turn our houses of prayer, where everyone is welcome, into compounds? Or will we love our enemies and trade safety for a chance to live out the sacrifice of the gospel?

How then shall we live?

I’m not sure I have fully convinced myself of the correct answer. I rejoice that many lives were spared at the church in Texas, but I also rejoice at the way God gave the church in SC a platform for the Gospel. I weep over the many lives lost in SC and over the three lost in Texas, including the shooter. The truth is, God works powerfully in times of great pain and allows suffering to enter into our lives for many reasons we can’t comprehend. I doubt I’ll ever carry a gun. However, we are each called to follow the Holy Spirit. While we can discuss theology and ethics all day long, both of these situations happened in the blink of an eye. Only in the Spirit can we ever hope to make the right decision. We must prayerfully seek the Lord in this, allowing His Word and the Holy Spirit to conform us, rather than the fears or agendas of the world around us. The world clings to this life because it is all they have and know. While God gave the right for humans to defend themselves in the Old Testament, Jesus calls us to something greater in order to bring us into His mission to save the world.

By forgoing trying to provide ourselves security in this life, we are fully trusting in the Lord to keep us safe. What is the worst that could happen? We die, murdered by someone for our faith. We would then have the highest honor of sharing Christ’s unjust death! As Paul said, “to live is Christ and to die is gain” (Phil 1:21). D. L. Moody once commented that he was often asked if he had what it took to be a martyr and he humbly stated, “If God should call on me to die a martyr’s death, He would give me a martyrs’ grace.” May God grant us all grace and wisdom as we evaluate how we should think and act in this fallen world, for only in the power of the Holy Spirit can we ever do what is right.

Planting in Babylon Pt. 2

Maybe I’m not over it. Maybe the choice to start by telling this story is proof that it still bothers me. Still. Even if I’m “in my feelings,” I’m convinced he missed the point. Several years ago, while still in grad school, I submitted a paper on a model for multi-cultural congregations that I was quite proud of in the end. I had worked hard on the paper and included a theological argument for diversity I thought was soundly reasoned. When I got it back from my favorite professor, it included this feedback:

“I am puzzled why you have turned to the Exodus narrative to emphasize the multiethnic nature of God’s redeemed people.  Why not [use] the NT passages that more explicitly emphasize … God’s design of making His church multiethnic and its theological significance?”

This question is at the heart of this article. I believe God’s plan was always about making a mestizo people that would reflect His character on earth by making the world as it should be – a place of beauty, justice, and goodness. People failed to do this time and time again, but that doesn’t change the plan. He is redeeming a mixed multitude and calling them to create, to plant gardens, and build communities that set things right and restore His order. If this was always His plan, then it should be seen in the story the first time He rescued people and called them His own. In fact, the identity of Israel should hint to God’s plan for a multiethnic people just as the Church finally displays it. And, it does.

Returning from Exile

At the end of part one of this series, I noted the promise God made to Israel while they were exiled in Babylon. He said, “I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you, and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile” (Jer. 29:14). This promise reveals a second important identity marker for God’s people. The first was our non-innocence, our inability to work in Babylon as self-righteous missionaries detached from the city. The second is our mestizaje, our mixed identity as one chosen nation, a royal priesthood called to reveal His character (1 Pet. 2:9). We do this in our work (which will be explored further in the final part of this series), but we also do this in our very existence as a community. This is the focus of this article, and with all due respect to my former professor, the best way to show the importance of our mestizaje is to start at the beginning of the story.

The first time God rescued a people from slavery and called them His own, he rescued a mixed multitude (Exod. 12:38). The exodus story – the story of how the Lord rescued Israel from slavery to Egypt by sending Moses as His messenger – is essential to understanding how salvation happens in the Bible, what it means, and what it does to those who are saved. The Exodus was a significant part of ancient Israel’s history and identity.[1] It shaped their understanding of God and His works of salvation.[2] In fact, every time salvation happens in the bible, it’s meant to be understood as an echo of the exodus, a “new exodus,” a repetition of the pattern set in Egypt. While in exile, Israel waited on God to rescue them yet again in another powerful exodus that would bring them back home to their land. However, when they finally did return home, they quickly realized they had not yet been fully freed, and the exodus pattern remained unfinished. That is how the Old Testament ends, but for the careful reader paying attention to the pattern, the start of the New Testament should thrill because it introduces a new Moses, Jesus of Nazareth.

The writers of the New Testament, being faithful Jews, framed the story of Jesus as a great exodus. N.T. Wright argues that in the letter to Ephesus Paul is using the phrase, “guarantee of our inheritance” to draw from the themes of the Exodus narrative.[3] According to Wright, Galatians chapter four is part of a larger thought-unit “of the rescue of God’s people and the whole world from the ‘Egypt’ of slavery.”  He observes clear “exodus language” in Galatians 4:1-7 that is echoed in Romans 8:12-17. He goes on to say, “by overlaying that great story across the even greater one of the accomplishment of the Messiah, rescuing his people from the present evil age, Paul is able to say… this is therefore how you are rescued from sin and death.”[4]

If the exodus is this important to our understanding of all the salvation acts in the Bible, especially the way we understand Jesus’ acts in saving the Church, then the details of Israel’s salvation identity should inform the way we read Paul and other NT writers’ words about the multi-ethnic makeup of the Church. Precisely for this reason, Exodus chapter 12 verse 38 can’t be glossed over. At the very least, the mixed multitude of Israelites who left Egypt as God’s people included the half-Egyptian children of Joseph that formed the tribes of Ephraim and Manasseh. That means that “Israel” included some who had the blood of their oppressor. The verse says that a “mixed multitude also” (emph. mine) went with Israel. This suggests that other non-Israelites-by-blood went out of Egypt as part of God’s people. The instructions that follow Israel’s exit assume this mixed group.

The first instructions are for the Passover meal which commemorated God’s rescue of Israel from slavery. In these instructions God includes this accommodation: “A foreigner residing among you who wants to celebrate the Lord’s Passover must have all the males in his household circumcised; then he may take part like one born in the land … The same law applies both to the native-born and to the foreigner residing among you” (Exod. 12:48-49). This instruction, including its details about circumcision, and the ones that immediately follow are all about marking the identity of Israel. They make clear who belongs as part of God’s people. For instance, the next instruction is for a memorial that would be celebrated on the new calendar God gave them (see 12:2; 13:3-9). Holidays were established for Israel to remember who they were as the rescued slaves that were now God’s people.

The New Exodus

As the greater Moses (Heb. 3:3), Jesus accomplished a greater exodus. Therefore, the mixed multitude of Israel is only but a hint of the mestizaje of the Church. Like any biblical theme, the mixed identity of Israel grows more complex yet clear as the story continues. By the time Israel was exiled in Babylon, Ruth the Moabites had married into Israel. Rahab the Jerichoan prostitute joined the nation. These are only two examples of the many times Scripture makes clear that “Israel” is a complex name for a mixed people belonging to the Lord. When Jeremiah writes his letter to the exiles, he reveals that the Israelites were going to experience another mestizaje. They wouldn’t return to Israel exactly as they had left it. They would now bring back some of Babylon with them.

The Lord’s instructions to the Babylonian exiles was to plant gardens, build homes, and marry off their children. They were to become part of the fabric of Babylon. It was there, as members of the city, that the Jewish community developed synagogues. It was there that they developed new cultural rhythms that would mark them as God’s people. When Jeremiah, on behalf of the Lord, writes, “I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you, and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile” (Jer. 29:14), he is hinting that Israel would be a land of diverse experiences with a new Israeli community that now includes cultural expressions from nations abroad. Indeed, this is seen today. In Jerusalem, near the old city, there is a series of banners along a popular bike/walk path that display people from many ethnic groups in a prayer position. The text below the banners reads, “One of the most important visions for the city of Jerusalem is its existence as a cultural and religious center for all peoples.” The banner then quotes another prophet, “for my house will be called a house of prayer for all nations” (Isaiah 56:7).

Jesus was born a Jewish man in Israel while it was under Roman rule. His experience, his cultural context, included yet another mestizaje where Roman culture played a significant role. As the new Moses, He accomplished the greatest exodus of all, and through His death and resurrection, those who follow Him are part of the greatest mixed multitude to be saved from slavery. He is fulfilling that promise written by Jeremiah and more. There is one final theological contribution from the Exodus story. Peter Enns comments that the Exodus pattern is closely aligned to the new creation theme. According to Enns, “to redeem is to re-create.”[5] God, in recreating a people of a mixed identity, is now calling them to care for and develop a culture that reflects the world as He intended it. This is the subject of the final part in this series. For now, may we live in Babylon as one beautiful display of God’s unifying love for all people. Together, we are His holy nation, His Church.

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Footnotes

[1] Ronald S. Hendel, “The Exodus in biblical memory,” Journal of Biblical Literature 120, no. 4 (2001) 601 [601-622].

[2] Otto Alfred Piper, “Unchanging promises: Exodus in the New Testament,” Interpretation 11, no. 1 (January 1, 1957) 4 [3-22].

[3] Wright, Simply Christian, 125.

[4] Wright, Justification, 136. See also pg. 157-158 point 4, where Wright argues the Exodus slavery language is part of the summary of Paul’s theology

[5] Enns, New Exodus, 216.

Somos Todos Juan Diego (We Are All Juan Diego)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Footnotes

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

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

[3] “‘Our Lady Signifies a Lot.’”

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

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

— Wendell Berry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About Emily C. Alexander

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

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Footnotes

[1] Romans 8.14-17.

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

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

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

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

[6] Hebrews 11.10

En La Sala and All Along the Way

En La Sala and All Along the Way

Welcoming the Next Generation into Faith Through Storytelling

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

— Miguel Rivera, Coco

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About Emily C. Alexander

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

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Footnotes

[1] Sanchez

[2] Sanchez

[3] Latina Storyteller Oral History, Library of Congress

[4] Deuteronomy 4.9, 10b, 14.

What Latin Hospitality Taught Me About the Gospel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About Emily C. Alexander

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

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Footnotes

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

[2] Rojas 28

[3] Rojas 28

[4] Rojas 28

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

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

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

[8] Ephesians 2.16-22