Part III – A Liberating Liturgy: How The Eucharist is Related to Gentrification and Why Urban Housing Is Sacred

Sacred Space, Liturgical Movement, and Urban Housing

Houses and Homemaking

In their book Beyond Homelessness the authors Steven Bouma-Prediger and Brian Walsh examine the phenomenology of home and determine eight elements that characterize it. Among them appear the words “permanence, stories, and embodied inhabitation.” These words remind us that home is a place of stability. It is a place where stories are told. Those stories may be humorous or sorrowful. They may tell of the premature death of a child, or of children’s snowball fights just after Christmas dinner. But regardless of the content, it is stories, perhaps more than anything else, that form our understanding of what it means to be at home. Moreover, home is also a place of embodied inhabitation, as the authors write, “We live not as strangers to our place, but fully in our place as knowledgeable and caring dwellers. Home, we have said, requires care and cultivation, but that care and cultivation is always located in a particular place.”

Here we are confronted, once again, with that phrase “particularity of place,” and it reminds us that our stability and stories contribute to our embodied inhabitation, but that inhabitation in always connected to a place. So then, we are brought back to the question of specialness. Are our homes, as places, special? I think that sociologically one could make the argument that displacement disrupts our stability, stories, and embodied inhabitation, moreover, it is a disorienting event in the life of a home; however, the purpose of this paper is to understand home in relation to the development and process of Christian liturgy. How is liturgy connected to urban housing and homemaking in the city? Remembering O’Donovan, I am reminded of his words regarding particularity and universality as he writes, “The flesh of Jesus was particular as was no other flesh . . . . A universalism that responds to God’s initiative has taken its beginning from the historical fact of an elect man in an elect place.” And this is the point of the liturgy, the particularity of the body and blood of Jesus Christ. Such liturgical movement that proceeds in a particular direction towards the Eucharist is a liturgy that tells a universal story of a particular embodied inhabitation (or Incarnation) that declared universal specialness to homemaking as an extension of the particularity of Christian place.

The Eucharist and Liturgical Homemaking

It’s Sunday morning, you’re seated in silence while waiting for the service to commence. There are others seated in silence around you. The music begins and everyone stands as a crucifer processes along with servers and ministers down the center aisle to the chancel. Inside the chancel there are various things that occupy space. There is the centerpiece, the Eucharistic table. A credence table with bread, wine, and water. The ministers and servers are robed and walk in a particularly reverent form. Things are slow and deliberate. Things are placed in a particular way, and things are done in particular ways that denote specialness – the place becomes sacred through action. These actions tell a story and within the actions the story itself is read and spoken Sunday after Sunday. Perhaps Christian art surrounds you where you sit and you begin to move from image to image, learning the story through color and light all while music envelops you, repeating the story to your ears. And through time and experience the liturgy migrates into your very being until it is inseparable from your own story. The participant now becomes the performer of the liturgy inside and outside the church building. As William McAlpine writes, “Many of the activities that occur in ‘places,’ particularly sacred places, are designed and exercised as a means of acting out a myth, custom, or rite deemed essential to those participating.”

Pope Benedict XVI in his book The Spirit of the Liturgy describes Christian liturgy and worship as “[Giving] us a share in heaven’s mode of existence, in the world of God, and allows light to fall from that divine world into ours . . . . [it] has the character of anticipation.” This anticipatory understanding of liturgy is certainly an aspect of how such Christian rituals should be understood; however, William Cavanaugh writes under the heading “Christian Liturgy Is Not Sacred,” these words: “Christian liturgy knows no distinction between sacred and secular, spiritual and material. To participate in the liturgy is to bless God as God blessed all of material creation, to respond to God’s blessing by blessing God.” These two statements are interesting because they, seemingly, represent two different understandings of Christian liturgy. One maintains liturgy as “other-worldly,” while Cavanaugh’s understanding is very “this-worldly.” Now, Cavanaugh is interacting with the theme of Alexander Schmemann’s The World As Sacrament, in declaring that “the world [is] the material of one all-embracing Eucharist” and he would doubtless adjudicate too narrowly between the Pope’s understanding and his own; however, these two descriptions together form something quite important for our understanding of the role of Christian liturgy in relation to urban housing.

The central act of Christian liturgy and worship is the Eucharist, and when beginning a reflection on ritual space, liturgical movement, and urban housing there is no better point from which to begin. The Eucharist brings together elements of both Pope Benedict’s understanding of liturgy and Cavanaugh’s in relation to Christ’s presence in heaven and our anticipation for his return and restoration of all things on earth, however, the Eucharist is also a rite performed on earth and it is for the people and things of the earth. Moreover, the Eucharist is a rite that comes from particularity, but one which extends universally. It is here that Schmemann offers an apt reflection: “Centuries of secularism have failed to transform eating into something strictly utilitarian. Food is still treated with reverence. A meal is still a rite – the last ‘natural sacrament’ of family and friendship, of life that is more than ‘eating’ and ‘drinking.’” So then, from gathering around the table of particularity, we participate in a celebratory meal that is then taken out from the church and performed in our communities and homes, so that through the days and weeks and years of our lives there is a continual movement from the liturgy to the home.

In the Eucharistic liturgy there is also the element of inclusion and embrace, it is a celebration of homecoming where Christ is present with his people and in his people. Here there is diversity and variety in age, ethnic, and socioeconomic identity. It is a celebration where there is a giving and reception of Christ. And Cavanaugh points out that unlike capitalist economies, “In the divine economy . . . the gift is not alienated from the giver, but the giver is in the gift, goes with the gift . . . . this type of giving is perfected as the dualism of giver and recipient are collapsed; Christ is the perfect return of God to God.” So then, there is no Eucharistic transaction which reflects or creates a disparity between the giver and receiver, nor is there a return. Furthermore, the Eucharist is not property that can be bought or sold. Christ is not a bank, nor is he a property developer, but rather he is the gift and in him there is homecoming and an embodied inhabitation of God with creation, for creation, and for God. Here Cavanaugh concludes that “property and dominium are thus radically questioned.”

There is another element of the Eucharistic liturgy that questions the way that we think about our urban dwellings; it is the element in the Eucharistic prayer known as the anamnesis. This word means in essence “to remember.” As the Eucharistic liturgy is spoken there is a remembrance of Christ; however, this memory is not solely located in those moments directly preceding his crucifixion, but rather they are located in the fullness of his person, his life and work including his death and resurrection. Moreover, in the anamnesis we are called to remember the future as well as it becomes what Geoffrey Wainwright refers to as a “‘throwing forward’ of Christ’s final advent into the present.”

Under the poignant heading of “Martyrdom and Eucharist,” Cavanaugh stresses the importance of understanding the anamnesis not only as remembering the past or anticipating the future, but that this element of Eucharistic liturgy is “the making present of a past event.” It calls into present the life of Christ, so that when we partake of him we partake of his life and ministry, death and resurrection, and we partake of his realized rule over the “rulers and authorities in the heavenly places” (Eph. 3.10). Bruce Morrill concludes that “as imitation of Christ, faith is itself a praxis, a purposeful way of life shaped by the definite content of narrative memories about Jesus . . . . [and] just as the narrative memory of Jesus is of his kenotic service in solidarity with the suffering even unto death, so the imitatio Christi is about a life lived with interest in the suffering of others.”

A Liberating Liturgy: Urban Housing and Gentrification

I suppose the proper question now is “So what?” What do Abraham and exile or Eucharist and liturgy have to do with urban housing and gentrification? To begin I would point back to the Old Testament and suggest that it is precisely the story of Israel that teaches the church to look beyond its walls and into the neighborhood and see the plurality of places that God’s has called sacred. To see people, their homes and communities as sacred spaces, and to understand that they are sacred because in heaven and in earth “Christ fills all things” (Eph. 4.10; Col. 1.17; Ps. 119.57;64). The church is witness to this through it liturgical activity as it remembers and performs the story of Israel and Christ and the world through the movement of the liturgy each week. It is the church that remembers and enacts the life and work of Christ in their community, even as they have consumed him in the Eucharist, so they become Christ to those outside the church’s walls.

I have several suggestions, specific to East Dallas and particularly the area of Knox-Henderson/Fitzhugh, for how the church can begin to “prophetically imagine” new possibilities for enacting community transformation in the form of liturgical centeredness. First, remembering the story of Abraham and Israel, the church must radically rethink the nature of national boundaries. This is particularly important when considering that the neighborhood of Knox-Henderson/Fitzhugh is predominantly Hispanic. Christianity is not a national religion. And the church cannot support immigration policies, federal or local, that are unjust to the immigrant and consider itself remaining committed to the witness of Jesus Christ. Christ judges such exclusionary practices most pointedly through Eucharistic practice (1 Cor. 11.17-33).

Secondly, the Eucharist is not a transaction, nor does it reflect or create a disparity between gift and giver. Rather, in the Eucharist the gift and giver are one and we receive them both. Moreover, as Cavanaugh writes, “Christ himself is found not only in the center but at the margins of the Body, radically identified with the ‘least of my brothers and sisters’ (see Mt. 25.31-46) with whom all members suffer and rejoice.” In a gentrifying community such as Knox-Henderson/Fitzhugh, transactions are happening beyond the reach of the inhabitants of the neighborhood, and by their very nature those transactions create a disparity between haves and have-nots. The Hispanic construction worker and his family are not a family of means, nor is their home important. They can relocate. However, through the Eucharist the church is necessarily connected to its neighbors, and it is called to be in solidarity with those whose homes are being threatened and, as Christ, be present with them along the periphery and the margins.

This also means that the church must think creatively about ways in which to obliterate distinctions between giver and receiver. There is great difficulty in understanding how to approach this imperative; however, when we limit ourselves to a particular, local community then opportunities can become more accessible. For example, some churches have cultivated communal gardens in urban spaces to become common meeting and working places for parishioners and their neighbors. Another example is an urban church in Toronto that operates a lunch program for at-risk or homeless persons uses a rotation of kitchen staff including volunteers and the program’s guests, so that there is always a balance of both. They also incorporate guests into their leadership and planning sessions allowing them a voice in leadership, thus averting unnecessary alienation. This is one way that this particular church has discerned opportunities to foster communal development.

Thirdly, in relation to the disparity between giver and receiver, the church must understand the community in which it is situated. What are its streets like? Who are it’s people? Ethnic and socioeconomic identity aside, for Christ knows no such distinction, how can the church use its liturgy to connect with the material experiences of its neighbors? Where do they intersect? When one walks the streets of Knox-Henderson or Fitzhugh, what music does he or she hear? What are people doing on Monday, Friday, or Saturday nights? How can the church incorporate such things into its life in the community? One example may be to take the liturgy from the church building and into the sacred spaces that surround it. Another may be to use Antonia Lynn’s example of using urban streets as a labyrinth for urban prayer.

Fourthly, in the section concerning the anamnesis we reflected on the nature of remembrance and particularly how through the anamnesis we call into present the life of Christ, so that when we partake of him we partake of his life and ministry, death and resurrection, and we partake of his realized supremacy over the “rulers and authorities in the heavenly places” (Eph. 3.10). When the church partakes of Christ’s realized rule through the Eucharist, it is empowered to engage with what Walter Wink names “domination systems.” Gentrification can be such a system that consumes property through displacement and disorientation. It can disrupt families and social networks and can ultimately create homelessness. Wink writes that domination systems such as these “always induce a sense of powerlessness.” However, as he notes, “The church has no more important task than to expose these delusionary assumptions as the Dragon’s game.” Having such a prophetic imagination and voice within the community will only come through the power of Christ, remembered and received in the Eucharist, and enacted in the life of the community.

Conclusion

William Cavanaugh writes, “The role of the church is not merely to make policy recommendations to the state, but to embody a different sort of politics, so that the world may be able to see a truthful politics and be transformed. From week to week we hear a story repeated in the liturgy, a story of the sacredness of Israel and the sacredness of the world, a story that remembers and calls to present the life of Christ which we embody, performing his actions in our communities and neighborhoods. And in that performance we declare that all space is sacred and especially the dwelling places of those who are along the periphery and margins of society, for it is in them that Christ is particularly present. We engage in warfare, but not the sort that is common to the nation-state, but “against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world” (Eph. 6.12 KJV). It is through the power of Christ in the Eucharist that we are called perform his works, and it is through Christ that we are called to embody his life to the world.

Steven Bouma-Prediger and Brian J. Walsh, Beyond Homelessness: Christian Faith in a Culture of Displacement (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2008), 56-64.

Oliver O’Donovan, “Loss of a Sense of Place,” 318.

William R. McAlpine, Sacred Space for the Missional Church: Engaging Culture through the Built Environment (Eugene, Oregon: Wipf and Stock, 2011), 127.

Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, The Spirit of the Liturgy, trans. John Saward (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2000), 21.

William T. Cavanaugh, Migrations of the Holy: God, State, and the Political Meaning of the Church (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2011), 119.

Alexander Schmemann, The World As Sacrament (London: Darton, Longman, and Todd, 1966), 16.

William T. Cavanaugh, “The City,” Radical Orthodoxy: A New Theology, ed. John Milbank, Catharine Pickstock, and Graham Ward (New York: Routledge, 1999), 195.

Geoffrey Wainwright, Eucharist and Eschatology (London: Epworth Press, 1971), 92.

William T. Cavanaugh, “Dying For The Eucharist Or Being Killed By It? Romero’s Challenge To First-World Christians,” Theology Today, 58, no. 2 (July 2001): 182.

Bruce T. Morrill, Anamnesis As Dangerous Memory: Political and Liturgical Theology In Dialogue (Collegeville, Minn.: The Liturgical Press, 2000), 189.

Antonia Lynn, “Prayer in the Streets: The Labyrinth as Symbol and Tool for an Urban Prayer Life,” Discovering the Spirit in the City, ed. Andrew Walker and Aaron Kennedy (New York: Continuum, 2010), 16-28.

Walter Wink, “Unmasking the Domination System,” Urban Theology: A Reader, ed. Michael Northcott (London: Cassell, 1998), 143.

Part II – A Liberating Liturgy: How The Eucharist is Related to Gentrification and Why Urban Housing Is Sacred

Urban Housing and Gentrification

Before we begin to examine elements of the church’s liturgy and look for its connections to our urban neighborhoods, some introductory matter is necessary. We must first define the terminology, describe the setting, and understand the demographic which will provide the context for this paper’s thesis.

Defining the Terminology

Gentrification is a relatively recent phenomenon that began in the 1950s and 60s in London, England, and in numerous U.S. cities. It can be defined as “the transformation of a working-class or vacant area of the central city into middle-class residential and/or commercial use.”1 However, it should be noted that there are other nuanced definitions of what gentrification is; moreover, gentrification is not necessarily limited to urban centers, but is currently being experienced in rural settings as well.2 Yet for our context the above definition adequately describes the process of transformation that the proposed community is currently experiencing. And although there are differing opinions concerning gentrification’s positive or negative effects upon a community, we will only focus on the most prominent consequence of displacement, which Rowland Atkinson and Gary Bridge outline as “Displacement through rent/price increases; Secondary psychological costs of displacement; Loss of affordable housing; and Homelessness.”3

Describing the Setting

The setting for this paper will be Dallas, Texas, and particularly a community in the northeast quadrant of the city-center commonly known as “Knox-Henderson.” In recent years this area has undergone significant redevelopment due to its close proximity to Uptown Dallas, a burgeoning community of White, young professionals who may occupy any of the numerous upscale apartment buildings or condominiums that have recently been constructed in the area. Interestingly, Uptown Dallas was historically known as Freedman’s Town or North Dallas. Beginning after the Civil War freed slaves began to buy small tracts of land, which now borders the Central Expressway, and to develop its own burgeoning community. However, this all changed in the 1940s and 50s when the the city of Dallas began to institute particular changes that transformed the community into what it is today.4 The Knox-Henderson area has been slower to change, maintaining an ethnically diverse population, which now incorporates a significant percentage of Hispanics. Yet transformation is occurring in the form of upscale residences and restaurants along N. Henderson and N. Fitzhugh Avenues.5 

Understanding the Demographic

The population of the Knox-Henderson/Fitzhugh section is predominantly Hispanic and it forms the western boundary of East Dallas that lies between the Central Expressway and I-30 including the area surrounding Fair Park. The Dallas Independent School District (DISD) demographics for this section are overwhelmingly Hispanic with averages from most elementary, middle, and high schools maintaining Hispanic percentages near or above 75%. For example, Robert E. Lee Elementary School is an elementary school within the the Knox-Henderson/Fitzhugh section and its demographic is 75% Hispanic, 11% African-American, and 12% White. Nearby Ben Milam Elementary School is 87% Hispanic, 7% African-American, and 4% White. The entire district’s percentages are 67% Hispanic, 25% African-American, and 5% White.6 Another interesting statistic is the percentage of students that are eligible for free/reduced lunches. DISD states the following parameters for qualification: 

“Children in households receiving Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program benefits (SNAP–formerly Food Stamps) or TANF may be eligible to receive free meals regardless of household income. Also, if your household income falls within Federal Income Chart limits, your children may be eligible to receive free or reduced-price meal benefits.”7

According to Robert E. Lee Elementary’s demographics, 78% of their students qualify for free/reduced lunches, while the entire district is at 87%.8

These statistics are important because they indicate the ethnic and socioeconomic disparity between Uptown Dallas and the Knox-Henderson/Fitzhugh area. And they are particularly important in considering the gentrification that is already occurring in this section of the city. The demographic of Knox-Henderson/Fitzhugh indicates that as gentrification continues it will displace poor, Hispanic families, many of whom have emigrated from Mexico and Central America.9 There’s a particular liminality that accompanies poverty and especially poverty within immigrant families where home and permanence have been left behind in Central America. However, that is exactly what is being threatened by gentrification that is occurring within this area through rent/price increases and the displacement of social capital in the form of family, friends, and neighbors who are forced to move.

1 Loretta Lees, Tom Slater, and Elvin Wyly, Gentrification (New York: Routledge, 2008), xv.

2 Ibid, 135.

3 Rowland Atkinson and Gary Bridge, eds., Gentrification in a Global Context: The New Urban Colonialism (New York: Routledge, 2005), 5. 

4 Marsha Prior and Robert V. Kemper, “From Freedman’s Town to Uptown: Community Transformation and Gentrification in Dallas, Texas,” Urban Anthropology and Studies of Cultural Systems and World Economic Development, 34 no. 2/3 (Summer-Fall 2005): 183. 

5 Steve Brown, “Fitzhugh’s Gentrification Moves Into Retail Site Makeovers,” The Dallas Morning News 25 June 2010. 

6 “Scorecards,” Dallas Independent School District, http://www.dallasisd.org/scorecards (accessed December 8, 2012). 

7 “Free and Reduced Price Meals,” Dallas Independent School District, http://www.dallasisd.org/Page/931 (accessed December 8, 2012). 

8 “Scorecards,” Dallas Independent School District. 

9 I understand this to be indicated by the percentage of students that are “Limited-English-Proficient” students in the district. For example, 31% of the students at Robert E. Lee Elementary are “Limited-English,” while the district as a whole is at 38%.

A Liberating Liturgy: How The Eucharist is Related to Gentrification and Why Urban Housing Is Sacred

The words “Eucharist” and “gentrification” may seem to be quite disparate in their context and meaning. One alludes to ceremony, tradition, religion, and sacrament, while the other connotes cities, housing, displacement, and economics. They are seemingly worlds apart. However, it is my contention in this paper that these worlds are not so far apart as they may initially appear. Rather they are connected at a foundational level through their respective understandings of place. What is it? Is it special? To whom does it belong? And do any of these things matter? As Christians we are a part of a story, a story that is centered, interestingly, on a particular understanding of place. Rooted in the Old Testament narrative of Abraham and Sarah and the stories of exile, the Scriptures are intent upon forming our understanding of the inherent specialness of place. Moreover, Christian tradition speaks to that same understanding through the development and process of its liturgy. Particularly, through the Eucharistic liturgy we are told a story week after week of the specialness of sacred space and our place. So then in this paper I will begin to build a bridge from Christian liturgy to our urban neighborhoods and explore how an understanding of the Eucharistic liturgy can provide the urban church with a prophetic voice against redevelopment at the cost of displacement.  

The Biblical Story: From Abraham to Exile

The story of Israel begins with migration. Abraham was called to journey from Ur to the somewhat obscure “land of promise” (Gen. 12). This was the land that would be the subject for the whole of the Old Testament and the land from which Jesus would be born and the mission of the church would emanate. It was a particular place and in it would develop a particular religion.  However, it is important to remember that the story begins with displacement and migration. To this Walter Brueggemann writes, “The Bible itself is primarily concerned with the issue of being displaced and yearning for a place.” Moreover he adds, “Land is a central, if not the central theme of biblical faith. Biblical faith is a pursuit of historical belonging that includes a sense of destiny derived from such belonging.” Displacement and migration, homelessness and belonging – these are themes that begin with Abraham and are present throughout the story of Israel. 

And it is important to remember that it was a divine voice that called for Abraham’s initial migration and displacement in order that ultimate belonging could be realized. So this migration was inherently a religious movement, and one might even propose that it was liturgical. Throughout the story of Abraham’s migration there are references to his recognition that this movement and the land were both sacred. This was done primarily through the building of altars and memorials to God (Gen. 12.7,8; 13.18). Moreover, there were sacramental liturgies performed on the land, sacred rites such as the meeting of Abraham and the king/priest, Melchizedek who offers bread and wine to the patriarch. Also, there is the important rite in Genesis 15 where God establishes his covenant with Abraham promising him possession of the land. This promise was established with the rite in Genesis 15 and is reiterated through the rites of Genesis 17 and again in chapter 22. Reflecting on these passages Craig Bartholomew summarizes, “[The land is holy] because it is the place where [God] keeps revealing himself to Abraham and the place which he bequeaths as a gift to Abraham and his descendants. It is the particular presence and word of God in and through Abraham that makes the land holy.”

But what are we to do with the particular holiness of the place when the people are removed from the land? Displacement and migration, homelessness and belonging, themes in Israel’s story are nowhere more poignant than in the exile in Babylon. As the exile approached Jeremiah prophesied, “[Thus says the LORD of hosts] I will take from them the voice of joy and the voice of gladness . . . . This whole land will be a desolation and a horror, and these nations will serve the king of Babylon seventy years” (Jer. 25.10-11 NASB). The altars, the liturgies, the temple – gone. However, it was forced migration from their particular place which taught them that their understanding itself would have to migrate from particularity to a plurality of place. God was not to be found exclusively in the land of Israel, but universally with his people in all places. Oliver O’Donovan in his essay, “Loss of a Sense of Place,” comments, “Precisely as [Israel] understood its holy place to have fallen under YHWH’s condemnation, and was forced to consider the question of its future from a distance, it entertained a hope of restoration that would involve it in a new international context.”

In this migration Israel would move from Psalm 137 where the exiles exclaim, “How can we sing the LORD’s song in a foreign land?” to the words of Psalm 119, “The LORD is my portion . . . . [and] The earth is full of your lovingkindness, O LORD; teach me your statutes” (119.57;64). Sacredness now extends beyond the confines of particularity and it continues throughout the whole space of the world. The world is sacred. Such sacredness is most pointedly observed in the incarnation of Christ in the world. Holy places become unfixed and might be found in the region of Tyre and Sidon, the home of a tax-collector, or upon a wooden cross. Such a reality is prepared for us in the Jewish exile. From particular to universal, their context has now moved beyond what was once exclusively sacred. 

Telling the story of how Israel moved from the particular to the universal is essential to establishing how the church must move beyond the particularity of its sacred spaces and into the plurality of sacred spaces that surround it. However, before this move can occur one thing must be addressed. In writing about such movement from particular to universal are we not simply subsuming one space into another so that nothing remains particular or unique? O’Donovan recognizes the potential of this assumption, and he responds by asserting, 

“A universalism that responds to God’s initiative has taken its beginning from the historical fact of an elect man in an elect place. If it transcends holy places, then, it does so not by subsuming them into a universal, but by proceeding from their unique, once-for-all role to new general possibilities in the history that follows them. The elect places of history are the matrix in which meetings between God and mankind are shaped.”

This is precisely what this paper is calling for, a “new general possibility” for the church to use the particularity of its understanding of sacred space to influence the spaces that surround it. To become a prophetic voice within a changing neighborhood whose inhabitants are being subjected to displacement through redevelopment and gentrification. It is the particularity of its space and the uniqueness of its liturgy that form and shape how a church can begin to teach its neighbors concerning their own particular and unique spaces and place within the community.

__________

Walter Brueggemann, The Land: Place as Gift, Promise, and Challenge in Biblical Faith, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002), 2-3. 

Craig G. Bartholomew, Where Mortals Dwell: A Christian View of Place for Today (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2011), 51.

Oliver O’Donovan, “Loss of a Sense of Place,” Bonds of Imperfection: Christian Politics, Past and Present (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2004), 313.

Poverty: Can’t live with it, can’t live without it.

I (Joshua) hope that you don’t in any way find the flippant use of the word poverty in this blog title as offensive or even lighthearted, for I surely don’t intend that in any way. Actually, I am being deadly serious. Poverty is a reality that has left and is leaving countless numbers of people feeling hopeless. This is not a reality that exists only in “third-world countries,” but in our very own backyards (if we just open our eyes). Poverty is a reality that must be acknowledged and addressed, but the increasingly difficult question of how is something that seems to continue to baffle us. How to “fix” poverty isn’t the goal of this post, though that’s certainly a question that we ought to continually ask. The goal of this post is much more modest. I simply hope to put a few thoughts down that will help us think a little more clearly about poverty, and how we respond to it.

Because I am a Christian, I write from a Christian perspective. This is not to say that everyone, both Christians and non-Christians alike, shouldn’t be concerned about poverty. Certainly we all must be, and my hope is that we may all come together and work in unison to address this issue. But here I reflect as a Christian, and specifically, as one trying to take Jesus at his words.

Jesus was poor. There, I said it. But this is no surprise, right? Everyone knows that Jesus was poor. The early Christians knew this all to well.

“Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God as something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men.” (Phil 2:5-7)

But Jesus wasn’t just “poor,” in that he at one time dwelt with God in heaven and then decided to incarnate as man (though that certainly would have been enough!). He was actually poor. A day laborer of sorts, who wandered around accepting hospitality wherever he could find it. He kind of resembles a modern day bum, wouldn’t you say? He not only lived this way but called his disciples to live the same. They gave up their jobs (their livelihood) to follow him (Luke 5:11). They even gave up their families (Luke 14:26)! While Matthew may have spiritualized much of Jesus’ teaching, Luke lets it remain in its economic context (Luke 6:20b-21; 24-25). Again, we see how Matthew curiously spiritualizes what Luke lets remain “this worldly” (cf. Matt 19:27-30; Luke 18:28-29).

There are other sayings of Jesus we could look at that would continue to show how he admonished those who sought to follow him to give up their material possessions (Luke 18:22; 19:8). But at this point it should be clear enough, and I don’t think anybody will dispute: Jesus was poor and required (requires??) his would-be followers to be so as well. 

But now we must ask: So what of poverty? Should we understand Jesus as endorsing this global phenomenon which has left millions devastated? Certainly not. We must begin by making a distinction between poverty and destitution. We also must look more broadly at society as a whole (and specifically the Christian communities within those societies) and level a harsh critique for all the corruption and greed we find. Certainly our goal is to vanquish poverty. Dorothy Day said somewhere, and I paraphrase: there have been many saints who have sought to help those in the midst of poverty, but where are those saints who want to do away with poverty? Peter Maurin was often times credited with saying “we must seek to build a new society within the shell of the old.”

And here is my point: As long as there are some who seek to accumulate wealth and land (unregulated capitalism) without regard for the “have nots,” poverty will continue to be a thing of evil, because people will find themselves unable (contra capitalism) to “pull themselves up by their own bootstraps.” Not until we begin to implement a qualitatively different economic system will things change. And it is my contention that Jesus (along with other great teachers) shows us precisely how to do it.

By Christians and non-Christians alike, coming together – and living together! – we are provided with the opportunity to follow Jesus at his words. Christianity is a family matter and should not be attempted alone. I, as an individual, could give up everything I have but would most likely be left destitute. But if I have a community with whom I live and share a common vision of life, then we can all become poor (literally) and take care of each other (because everybody’s little is enough). Peter Maurin knew this all to well when he would say it is the God-given right of individuals (he was a personalist, remember) to own a little piece of land, but apart from community, this was impossible.

So this is at least a start at how I reconcile in my own mind how poverty can be such a devastatingly horrific thing, and at the same time be beautiful. I will leave us with the words of Peter from one of his “easy essays”:

1. The world would be better off, if people tried to become better.

2. And people would become better, if they stopped trying to be better off.

3. For when everybody tries to become better off, nobody is better off.

4. But when everybody tries to become better, everybody is better off.

5. Everybody would be rich if nobody tried to be richer.

6. And nobody would be poor if everybody tried to be the poorest.

7. And everybody would be what he ought to be if everybody tried to be what he wants the other fellow to be.

Immanuel, God is with us.

Well, we did it. Christmas day has arrived, and if you’re reading this, you’ve survived both the Mayan apocalypse as well as the chaos of Christmas preparation. Congratulations! There are many of us who struggle each year with the consumerism of this sacred day. We wonder how we might subvert the cultural understanding of Christmas and reclaim it (not that it was original our day to begin with) as our own. You may or may not have accomplished this year what you set out to do. But don’t beat yourself up, it’s not the end of the world (sorry, Mayans).

“And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Messiah the Lord (Lk 2:10-11).”

These are perhaps some of the most familiar words in all of scripture. This is both a good and bad thing, of course. At some point along the way we’ve domesticated both Jesus and Christmas. Both of them have become a simple addition to our consumeristic culture. But the words of scripture continue to point us back to “the reason for the season.” With the coming of Jesus the Messiah, we have an in-breaking of God’s long expected kingdom. God has become man, that man might become God.

“Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God as something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men (Phil 2:5-7).”

It is in the incarnation that we see most clearly the nature of God. Immanuel, God is with us. It is God’s nature to empty himself for the sake of the Other. This is what we celebrate on Christmas day: Love. Because God is love (1 Jn 4:8).

So as we move forward from here, thankful that all the hustle and bustle is over, let us remember to love. Let us remember that it was God who emptied himself that salvation might be extended to us. And as followers of this Way, let us keep in mind how we might empty ourselves for others. Life and salvation are not found in the accumulation of wealth or any material gain, but it giving it all away (Lk 18:22).

Merry Christmas to you all.

vocation & living up to one’s potential

Vocation. Over the past few years I’ve (Joshua) been thinking a lot about this word and what it means for me. Vocation. Is it a job? A calling? Can I even speak of “calling” anymore? What is vocation? Merriam-Webster define it quite simply:

“a summons or strong inclination to a particular state or course of action; especially : a divine call to the religious life.”

That’s basic enough, right?

Ever since I began trying to follow Jesus I’ve struggled with what it is I’m supposed to do with my life. A missionary? A pastor? A professor? A priest? A monk? But not until these last two options became real did the word vocation come up (most of my life has been spent in evangelical churches where the word “vocation” is scarcely used for some reason). Now, as an Anglican, we talk a lot more about vocation (I suppose “calling” is the evangelical’s way of saying the same thing).

For quite some time I have felt a keen awareness of the desire within myself to live among the marginalized. I have engaged in different “experiments,” if you will, in order to try and live out this desire. But never did I think about this as something springing from my vocation. I just assumed I didn’t have one. You may be tempted to ask at this point what it is I do “for a living.” For the past three and some odd years I’ve done behavioral therapy. I work with people, mostly kids and teenagers, with autism and other developmental disabilities. It truly is a blessing. I love what I do and I love being able to be so involved in the lives of people that feel isolated and often times helpless. I also like my job because it pays well enough that I don’t have to work a full-time schedule, so I’m freed up to spend my energy elsewhere. I say all this to make one point: Never have I considered therapy as my vocation. It’s something that I do. Yes, it’s incredibly meaningful and I enjoy it. But no, it’s not my vocation.

As I have mentioned in previous posts, I’ve been reading a lot about Dorothy Day and the Catholic Worker Movement (CWM). I have also been reading folks like the desert fathers and many other spiritual leaders who have followed in their paths. When I read these men and women of faith I really get the sense they understood what they’re doing as their vocation. Now Dorothy loved to read the desert fathers and mothers, and many of her favorite saints were those that lived isolated lives completely devoted to God (through work and prayer). But Dorothy also loved the poor, the hungry, the sick, and the destitute (I’m not saying these others didn’t love them). And her love for them led her to believe that she couldn’t see herself isolated in a monastery, but had to be living in solidarity with them. Dorothy’s lifelong struggle would be, to use biblical language, to live in the world but not of it. In other words, to make progress regarding her “interior life” but remain with others. This was her vocation, her “summons or strong inclination to a particular state or action.”

Now, at the risk of never being able to tie this all together (I may already have crossed that point!), I beg the reader for a little more time as I move on to the second part of this blog title. The other night I was having some drinks with a good friend of mine and we stumbled upon the topic of potential. What a messy and strange thing potential is! If someone is not doing all that well at something you may tell them, “You have potential.” Ouch. I never really liked hearing that, or using it for that matter. But I digress. This friend has a good job by many standards. It is regular, challenging, and allows him to interact with people. There have been many times he and I have likened it to a sort of monastic lifestyle: work (manual labor) and prayer. So I asked him the other day how it was going. “I don’t feel that I am living up to my potential,” was essentially his response to me. So we began talking about what that means for him. All in all it was a great conversation (bourbon certainly helps).

He told me about a book he was reading. This book talked about how people are self-limiting. He concluded that indeed he was self-limiting, and this conclusion has led him to think about how he may pursue something that will let him reach his full potential. This is all well and good. I encouraged him to do so if that’s what he felt was best. But it got me thinking about my life. Am I self-limiting? Am I living up to my full potential? In other words, what is my vocation and does that allow my full potential to be reached?

After thinking a few days about these questions I realized something: I don’t like these questions at all. At least for me personally, they’re the wrong questions. In my mind, “potential” is not something I should be too concerned about. Take my job, for example. I could go back to school for just a few more years and get some different letters after my name which would qualify me to make more money as well as have more of a voice in the autism community. That’s good, right? Sure, but it’s not for me. Because for me vocation and potential are very different things.

You will all be very pleased to know that I have discovered my vocation (hallelujah!). It’s a vocation not unlike that of Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin, as well as the countless Catholic Workers that have gone after them. And to be honest with you, I’m not sure my vocation allows for me to reach my “full potential,” what ever that is. I have a divine call to a certain religious life. But not a life that will lead me inside the walls of a monastery, but one that will lead me to the slums of east Dallas. One that will lead me to maintain a lifestyle where I do not make much money (according to typical standards) and what I do make I count not as my own. A lifestyle that will allow me to live monastically, giving great importance to the “interior life,” while constantly struggling with just how to do that because of my surroundings. I dare say a life where I embrace Lady Poverty, that beautiful companion of so many who have gone before us. I hesitate to use the word “poverty” because it’s so very relative. Perhaps “simplicity” is better? I don’t know, these are things I’m continuing to have to work out, and thankfully, I don’t have to work them out alone.

Tension at the Border: Jesus and Radical Hospitality in Luke (Conclusion)

“A Drain on the Economy”: The Folly of the Samaritan and Radical Hospitality

“Who is my neighbor?” exclaimed the lawyer in Jesus’ midst. Jesus had just answered an earlier question from the man regarding how he might inherit eternal life. His question was a kingdom question and, as Sylvia Keesmaat notes, “[It was] about having a share in the coming of God’s new age . . . . [it was] a question about resurrection . . . . and resurrection, of course, was the classic description of Israel’s restoration in the land.”13 She goes on to write that this question centred on an “eschatological expectation” that restoration would not only include the historic border, but that the whole earth would be theirs.14 This vision of expansion is important for the context of Jesus’ following parable; however, it also bears certain significance when one considers a similar expectation rooted in American history.

In 1823 President James Monroe issued what became known as the Monroe Doctrine, which was, essentially, preemptive rhetoric to keep European nations from interfering in the Western Hemisphere. Yet, there was an undercurrent of ideology present in 1823 that began to influence American policies and politics on the continent during the 19th and 20th centuries. This quasi-spiritual ideology became known as “Manifest Destiny,” a belief that according to Jay Sexton, “proclaimed the divine right of the nation and its superior Anglo-Saxon constituents to expand across the North American continent.”15 So then, the lawyer’s expectations for first century Israel are very similar to those expectations and ideologies that are influencing current American policies in relation to the border and beyond. There is the inherent understanding that if there is to be expansion, then we will be in control; and others will maintain their intrinsic “otherness.” All the more applicable (and potent) is Jesus’ response to the question, “Who is my neighbor?”

If the exposition of Luke 4 provided the parameters of hospitality, then Luke 10 provides important contextualization for Israel and for us as well. And there are two focal-points in this story that are important for our purposes which we will explore next – the Samaritan and the inn. The Good Samaritan is a common figure to most; however, because he is so common the truly radical nature of his actions is sometimes missed. There are at least two reasons why the Samaritan would have been hated and seen as an unlikely person to manifest hospitality and mercy. First, he would have been hated simply because he was a Samaritan. Second, there are interesting details in the story that point to the Samaritan being a tradesman or merchant. Joachim Jeremias notes that because of his wares, oil and wine, and the fact that he rode upon a donkey, it can be deduced that he was a merchant.16 Douglas Oakman agrees with Jeremias, also pointing to the Samaritan’s usage of the public inn, “a typical stopping place for commercial people.”17 And importantly, Oakman notes that the listeners would have immediately related his trade with oppression, particularly oppression of them.18 Yet it is this radical hospitality of the Samaritan that Jesus uses in contrast with the norms of Jewish hospitality, which usually only existed within particular social parameters.

The inn is a second focal-point in the story and one that Douglas elaborates upon as socially distinctive for those listening. Quoting various ancient sources he summarizes, “Inns were notorious in the ancient world for being ‘primitive, dirty and noisy.’”19 They were contemptible places and certainly not the sort of resting place for a wounded traveler. Furthermore, not only does the Samaritan employ the services of the inn, but he writes the innkeeper a blank check (10.35)! For these reasons, Douglas has renamed this the story of the “Foolish Samaritan.” Not only was his foolishness manifested in his rescuing the Jew from the ditch, an act that would have made him susceptible to the violence of the robbers, but he chooses an inn where he is quite likely to be exploited financially. However, I think that there is something important about these two focal-points. First, Jesus teaches from Luke 4 and 10 that the kingdom is more expansive in its scope that what first-century Israel had expected. This kingdom will be a kingdom of foreigners and they, with Israel, will fill the earth together. Second, Luke 10 continues this expansion to describe not only the parameters and content of inclusion, but also the nature of inclusion. Jesus teaches a hospitality that is radical and seemingly foolish. This foreigner, the Samaritan, has made himself susceptible to violence and to economic loss because of his hospitality! Certainly, this aspect of the story correlates so well to current immigration issues that it just may promote uneasiness. Jesus is saying, “Practice hospitality, the radical sort of hospitality that may cause you to sacrifice your both your security and economy!”

Throughout this paper there has been a dialogue between Jesus’ ministry and teaching and our current state of affairs. In the opening section there was a brief history of Mexican immigration that culminated with the creation of NAFTA. In this agreement, the United States opened their borders to fill their pockets. It was a calculating move, and one that has proven extremely profitable for American corporations, while depressing local communities and individual lives in Mexico (not to mention rural American communities as well). It remains, perhaps, the most significant impetus for migration from the south to the north. So then, there is already injustice that is happening between neighbors, something to be condemned in itself; however, America has gone further. In all of the current conversations related to immigration one will hear these words and phrases: “national security;” “American-worker displacement;” “drain on the economy;” “drain on social services.” Interestingly though, when Jesus tells the story of the Good (of Foolish) Samaritan, the man places himself in a position where he could be threatened by the robbers; where he could lose his job; where he certainly did suffer economic loss! All this for the sake of radical hospitality for the other!

Casa Juan Diego and the Houston Catholic Worker

Throughout this paper I have attempted to reshape our understanding of immigration and particularly, undocumented immigration, through the lens of Jesus’ ministry and teaching in Luke 4 and 10. I have placed these passages within the context of the U.S.-Mexico Border and emphasized their importance for our disposition towards undocumented immigrants. But what I have not attempted to do is reshape current immigration policies. That has not been the purpose of the paper. There are many books and articles on this topic, some of which have appeared in the paper’s opening section on Mexican immigration, whose authors are adept political and sociological theorist that are more capable than I of suggesting positive alternatives to our current federal and state policies. However, the argument of this paper is that within the ministry and teachings of Jesus hospitality is not an option, but rather a mandate to respond with radical inclusion to whomever is in need. And within this argument there is the anticipation of what Peter Maurin called, “Personalism.”20 The meaning is simple. We are not called to defer hospitality to the government or other organizations, but to take personal responsibility for whomever is in need.

Mark and Louise Zwick of Houston, Texas, provide such an example of personalism and radical hospitality for the foreigner in their Catholic Worker House, Casa Juan Diego. Throughout the past thirty years of their work in Houston, the Zwicks have provided hospitality and served thousands of undocumented immigrants in need of refuge.

In 1977 Mark and Louise spent six months in San Salvador during the political turmoil of that country that eventually took the life of Archbishop Oscar Romero. According to them,

“Our months in El Salvador had a great impact on us, not only in our understanding of what was going on in the country, but in our spiritual lives. While there we read books by Dorothy Day, which helped our reflections. We were confirmed in our commitment to be New Testament Christians despite our human weaknesses. What limited talents and abilities we had, we would use [them] to serve others in some way.”21

They began by renting a old building on Washington Ave, christening it Casa Juan Diego, and accepting donations. Not long after what they call their “un-grand opening,” they began to receive requests from immigrants to stay in the building.22 In reading their accounts of these early years one is taken aback at how simple their beginning was. And yet, it stands in beautiful contrast to the immense bureaucratic organizations, governmental or otherwise, that are oftentimes weighed down by paper and scales determining who is eligible and who is not. Casa Juan Diego has only one scale – everyone who is in need is welcome. They are not under the Archdiocese of Houston-Galveston, nor do they have endowments.23 They simply live and live simply from one year to the next, prayerfully expectant in God’s provision.

Not only has Casa Juan Diego responded to the mandate of hospitality that Jesus proclaims in Luke 4 and 10, but they offer a visible response to immigration issues at present in the United States. Certainly these issues are complex, and the Zwicks themselves confess that they are not in favor of undocumented immigration for the reasons that it “destroys families, separates parents and children, and ruins marriages.”24 However, despite what may be ideal, the needs remain present. Response is not optional. For them the imperative lies in Dorothy Day’s words in The Catholic Worker from 1940 when she writes, “We cannot live alone. We cannot go to Heaven alone. Otherwise, as [Charles] Péguy said, God will say to us, ‘Where are the others?’”25

Conclusion

In the midst of the current debate regarding the border and immigration, Christians are pulled into tension because of their faith and, perhaps, their political affiliations. Both Democrat and Republican rhetoric is oftentimes needlessly polemical, and yet, such rhetoric is influential in shaping the public’s perceptions of undocumented immigrants. For Christians, however, there is another rhetorician that speaks into the chaos of the border and immigration. Jesus teaches that the foreigner is someone to be included within the community (Luke 4), and someone to whom hospitality, even radical hospitality, should be given (Luke 10). And despite the rhetoric around “national security” and “economic loss,” Christians are called “to preach the gospel to the poor, to proclaim release to the captives, to set free those who are oppressed, and to proclaim the favorable year of the Lord.”

¹³Sylvia C. Keesmaat, “Strange Neighbors and Risky Care,” The Challenge of Jesus’ Parables, ed. Richard N. Longenecker (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 276.

¹⁴ Ibid, 276.

¹⁵ Jay Sexton, The Monroe Doctrine: Empire and Nation in Nineteenth-Century America (New York: Hill and Wang, 2011), 98.

¹⁶ Joachim Jeremias, The Parables of Jesus, rev. ed. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1963), 204-5.

¹⁷ Douglas E. Oakman, “Was Jesus a Peasant? Implications for Reading the Jesus Tradition (Luke 10:30-35),” The Social World of the New Testament: Insights and Models, ed. Jerome H. Neyrey and Eric C. Stewart (Peabody, Mass: Hendrickson Publishers, 2008), 133.

¹⁸ Ibid, 133.

¹⁹ Ibid, 133-35.

²⁰ “The Aims and Means of the Catholic Worker Movement,” The Catholic Worker, May, 2012.

²¹ Mark and Louise Zwick, Mercy Without Borders: The Catholic Worker and Immigration, (New York: Paulist Press, 2010), 16.

²² Ibid, 32.

²³ Ibid, 37.

²⁴ Ibid, 256. However, they are quick to qualify that “the United States should [undocumented immigration impossible] by insisting our companies in Latin America pay a living wage, instead of the slave wages that force people to emigrate (to a place where they’ll then be attacked for migrating),” 256.

²⁵ Dorothy Day, “Aims and Purposes of the Catholic Worker Movement,” The Catholic Worker, February 1940.

Tension at the Border: Jesus and Radical Hospitality in Luke (Part II)

No Human is Illegal: Jesus and “Foreigners” in Luke 4

It is a dangerous thing to challenge ideologies, especially when those ideologies are represented by the majority. To speak out against borders of injustice, enmity for the foreigner, or indefinite detention of any human being – such rhetoric might get you crucified, or as in the story of Jesus in Luke 4, people may just try to push you off a cliff. However, challenging ideologies is exactly what Jesus’ ministry is all about. In this passage, Jesus’ usage of the prophet Isaiah, shatters long awaited expectations for how the prophecies of Isaiah would come to fulfillment in the land of Galilee. Among other things, these expectations centered on the nature and place of the foreigner within the borders of the land.

In the progression of Luke’s narrative, Jesus, after having been baptized by John, entered the wilderness where he was tempted by the devil. His ministry had commenced along with his temptation; however, he emerged victorious from the wilderness and entered Galilee where Luke writes that “news about him spread through all the surrounding district” (4.14). Jesus then journeys to his home, Nazareth. Often conjuring up many warming images, home, in this narrative, may be where the heart is, but it is not necessarily where the home-team plays best! Through his reading of Isaiah in the synagogue, Jesus incites anger within his listeners precisely to the point where their preconceptions of the kingdom were challenged. So then, what was it that he said?

Luke 4.18-19 constitutes the beginning of Jesus’ polemic when he says,

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are oppressed, to proclaim the favorable year of the Lord.”

Here Jesus is reading from Isaiah; however, he (or Luke) is also editing the prophet’s words, for two passages of Isaiah are included: Isa 58.6 and 61.1-2a. Also edited is the remainder of Isa 61, which was important for the socio-political context of Nazareth, where Jesus ends his reading before the prophet proclaims that “they will rebuild the ancient ruins” and “repair the ruined cities” (61.4). Moreover, Jesus excludes the words, “Strangers will stand and pasture your flocks, and foreigners will be your farmers and your vinedressers” (61.5). Kenneth Bailey has delved into the historical background of Nazareth and made some interesting conclusions regarding the absence of Isa 61.4-5.

Bailey comments that in the second century Nazareth was founded as a Jewish colony in Galilee by Aristobulus the Maccabean in a pursuit to resettle what had become “Galilee of the Gentiles” (Isa 9.1).8 He identifies Nazareth as a colonial Jewish stronghold that was highly nationalistic, which is further proven by twenty-four courses of priests that fled Jerusalem for Nazareth after the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE; Bailey observes, “It had to have been a conservative, all-Jewish town for this to have happened.”9 Therefore, in first century Galilee and especially in a strongly nationalistic town such as Nazareth, there would have been certain expectations regarding Isaiah’s words regarding “strangers.” To them, the prophet Isaiah was clear in 61.5 that these strangers were going to be pasturing their flocks and working as day-laborers in their fields. This was going to be vindication for years of oppression under Roman hegemony in their land! Yet Jesus chose not to read these words from Isaiah.

At first it seems that the people of Nazareth have not noticed Jesus’ exclusion of Isa 61.5. Moreover Luke notes that “[They] all were speaking well of him, and wondering at the gracious words which were falling from his lips” (4.22). However, Jesus doesn’t end here. He continues, almost provokingly, by telling the people that even though they may ask for healing, as had been done in Capernaum, he will not do it in Nazareth. It is at this point that Jesus elaborates on his earlier reading of Isaiah, perhaps, as a commentary on his choice of texts and his exclusion of others.

He cites the ministry of the prophets Elijah and Elisha and invokes the memory of the widow of Zarephath and Naaman the Syrian. Jesus declares to the people that although their were many Israelite widows during the famine, Elijah was not sent to any of them, but rather to a widow of Zarephath, a town just below Sidon along the Mediterranean. Then there was Elijah’s successor, Elisha, who forwent healing the many lepers of Israel only to heal the leader of the Assyrian army. This second memory had to be particularly poignant for the people. For it was Naaman who had been conducting raids along the border of Israel, capturing young, Israelite girls and making them slaves. And yet, it was a foreigner such as he that was healed.

These stories told in the context of Jesus’ reading of Isaiah and his subsequent exclusion of Isa 61.5 prove to incite rage within those who were in the synagogue. They were not going to be praised for their nationalistic pride, nor would they be encouraged to maintain their closed borders. They had looked for the coming kingdom where they would bask in the glory of a growing economy and strong, national borders; where menial labor would only be done by those “wetback” Gentiles. Yet to such illusions as these Jesus declares an end as Aaron Kuecker writes, “Jesus presses home his subversion of the Nazarene assumption that privileged identity leads to a privileged entitlement by implying that the benefits of God are available beyond the primary category altogether.”10

In many ways, there are obvious parallels between Luke 4 and contemporary American culture.11 One could imagine Isa 61.5 being used as commentary on immigration during the Bracero Program where immigrants flooded the agricultural fields of America. Echoing Kuecker’s words, there is an air of “privileged entitlement” that hovers over this nation, a certain racial superiority that dictates the free flow of capital where wages can be lowered and people can be oppressed by multi-national corporations. Yet that same superiority maintains that while capital is movable, labor is not. “We’d rather oppress you in your own country, thank you.”

The complexities of the border and immigration are immense; however, from a Christian perspective, especially that of Luke 4, there is a clarion call for radical inclusion. The alternative is an exclusion that eventually leads to the cliffs of Nazareth. As Miroslav Volf writes,

“Vilify all boundaries, pronounce every discrete identity oppressive, put the tag ‘exclusion‘ on every stable difference – and you will have aimless drifting instead of clear-sighted agency, haphazard activity instead of moral engagement and accountability and, in the long run, a torpor of death instead instead of a dance of freedom.”12

⁸ Kenneth E. Bailey, Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes: Cultural Studies in the Gospels (Downers Grove, Ill: Intervarsity Academic, 2008), 152.

⁹ Ibid, 152.

¹⁰ Aaron J. Kuecker, The Spirit and the ‘Other’: Social Identity, Ethnicity and Intergroup Reconciliation in Luke-Acts, Library of New Testament Studies, ed. Mark Goodacre (New York: T & T Clark International, 2011), 94.

¹¹ It seems somewhat curious to read Nazareth / Israel as a symbol of America. The most obvious parallel is that of Rome, the actual empire of that period. Israel was the oppressed. However, I suppose that my point is related to the way in which Israel read the prophecies of Isaiah. As is the case in Israel’s history, especially during the Golden Age of David and Solomon, Israel forgot their own story of exile and oppression. There always seems to be a simple back-and-forth motion between oppression and oppressor. My point here is that Jesus is commending them to a different way, a way in which the foreigner, whether Assyrian or Roman, will be welcomed into the land.

¹² Miroslav Volf, Exclusion and Embrace: A Theological Exploration of Identity, Otherness and Reconciliation (Nashville: Abingdon, 1996), 64-5.

Tension at the Border: Jesus and Radical Hospitality in Luke (Part I)

Introduction

Barricades, troops, and munitions are agglomerating; violence is escalating; civilian casualties are certain. The Bush Administration expanded on an already growing force that was prompted by the administrations of the 80s and 90s; however, in 2008 it reached a historic high of 18,000. Now, the ground patrol is over 21,000. Surprisingly, the area in question is neither Afghanistan or the Middle East – it’s the U.S.-Mexico Border. For many Americans, the border poses a critical threat to U.S. security and economic stability. Moreover, the idea of a “fortress America,” where the southern border is impermeable to undocumented immigrants, is purportedly becoming integral in preserving American identity. However, within this debate there lies a tension for Christians – Jesus. Particularly in the Gospel of Luke, we are brought to the realization that Jesus’ ministry is for the poor, the hungry, the marginalized, and the foreigner. And when this ministry is read through the lens of Luke 4.16-30, where Jesus extends the gospel of the kingdom to those outside of the covenant of Israel, we begin to understand the true vision of a hospitable faith. Such hospitality knows no border, no threat to security or economic loss. Nowhere is this better understood than through the story of the Good Samaritan (10.30-37). So then, throughout this paper, I will attempt to interpret Mexican immigration and the border issue through the lens of Jesus’ teaching in Luke 4 and 10, concluding with an example of the radical hospitality practiced at Casa Juan Diego, a Catholic Worker house in Houston, Texas.

At the Border: A Brief History of Mexican Immigration

The United States in the 20th century has seemingly oscillated between desiring immigrants and deporting them. And until recently, this decision was usually determined by the nation’s economic growth or recession. Before the 1940s the Great Depression marked the only significant shift in America’s disposition towards Mexican immigrants. Throughout the economic growth of the “Roaring Twenties,” Mexican immigration swelled, but the crash of 1929 brought about a change. The 1930s saw the Mexican population in the U.S. reduced by 41%, which was enforced by the recently created U.S. Border Patrol (1924) and enacted through deportations.¹

However, as the Second World War approached things began to change economically and sociologically. Not only was there an increase in production, but there was once again a labor shortage as had existed during WWI. Thus began what became known as the Bracero Program. Douglas Massey describes the shift from rural / agricultural to urban / industrial life as integral to the development of the Bracero Program. The war created a labor shortage through conscription, but also through increases in industrial production, thus prompting local migrations from rural to urban centers.² There were now shortages on the farms that had to be met, and would be through U.S. government recruitment of labor across its southern border. Immigration surged during the war and continued to grow throughout postwar economic expansion until the INS (Immigration and Naturalization Service) commenced “Operation Wetback” in 1954.

Despite having legal means whereby to emigrate, undocumented immigrants continued to  rise throughout the Bracero Era and this, combined with later economic slowing and the frenzied rhetoric of people like Senator Joseph McCarthy, caused a shift in immigration policies and procedures. In her recent book on the history of the U.S. Border Patrol, Kelly Lytle Hernandez describes how a fundamental shift occurred in the direction of the Border Patrol during “Operation Wetback.” She notes that beyond the deportation and voluntary exodus of Mexicans during the period, the Border Patrol’s mandate shifted, importantly, from immigration control to crime control.

“The Border Patrol’s explicit recoding of migration control as a site of policing crime and punishing criminals made the work of the immigration law-enforcement      officers at the nation’s borders resonate with the discourses and panics regarding social order and control in late twentieth-century America . . . . [they] bound their efforts in the borderlands to an increasingly central dynamic of American culture, politics, and governance.”³

Thus, “Operation Wetback’s” lasting effect was the way in which both the border and immigration law would be viewed and enforced.

Interestingly, much of the nation’s immigration issues today stem from what Massey refers to as the “cumulative causation” of the Bracero Program. He comments, “Each time a bracero departed, social capital was created among his [social circle], and that social capital in turn reduced the costs and risks of their own international movement and increased their access to U.S. employment.”⁴ Therefore, because of this increased social capital amongst Mexican immigrants and the subsequent failures of the Mexican economy, undocumented immigration increased rapidly throughout the 1970s and 80s.

However, just as the idea of the border and immigration shifted in the public mind during and after “Operation Wetback,” it also underwent changes after the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986. Reminiscent of the Depression Era, immigration was cast in terms of what Jorge Capetillo-Ponce names as “depressing wages” and “displacing American workers.”⁵ Yet, the years after IRCA saw increased bi-national work between the U.S. and Mexico. Due to its economic crisis, Mexico began to be more directly influenced by U.S. economic policies and theorists, which ultimately resulted in NAFTA taking effect in early 1994. The result of NAFTA was that just as immigration enforcement was tightening along the border, capital from the U.S. was becoming increasingly mobile, moving southward into Mexico. The ensuing economic results of NAFTA are too widespread and complex for treatment in this paper; however, despite the mantra, “Exporting Goods and Not People,” NAFTA did not positively alter undocumented immigration, conversely, it continued to rise.

In the ensuing years, undocumented immigration was not regulated either through NAFTA or immigration reforms, but rather through growing militarization along the border. During the Bush Administration (2000-08), the Border Patrol increased from 4,000-18,000. Now the U.S. Customs and Border Protection fields over 21,000 agents.⁶ Complete with drones, watercraft, and other such equipment, the Border Patrol now finds itself, interestingly, under the Department of Homeland Security. Operating on ideologies of economic prosperity and national security, many U.S. citizens view Mexican immigration, undocumented or otherwise, as a threat to American identity. Deep social stigmatization of our southern neighbors oftentimes borders, itself, on racism. In many ways it seems as though the nation has forgotten those hospitable and poetic words of Emma Lazarus when she wrote, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore, send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me.”

¹ Douglas S. Massey, et al., Beyond Smoke and Mirrors: Mexican Immigration in an Era of Economic Integration (New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 2002), 34.

² Ibid, 35.

³ Kelly Lytle Hernandez, Migra! A History of the U.S. Border Patrol (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010), 170.

⁴ Massey, 42.

⁵ Jorge Capetillo-Ponce, “Framing the Debate on Taxes and Undocumented Workers,” Keeping Out the Other: A Critical Introduction to Immigration Enforcement Today, ed. David C. Brotherton and Philip Kretsedemas (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008), 317.

⁶ “Snapshot: A Summary of CBP Facts and Figures,” U.S. Customs and Border Protection, http://www.cbp.gov/linkhandler/cgov/about/accomplish/cbp_snapshot.ctt/snapshot.pdf (accessed November 19, 2012).

Immigrant Justice in Amos: The Evil of Forced Migrations in the Divine Economy

He must have seemed somewhat out of place walking through Samaria. Bustling streets and busy people heading to their offices; others strolling more slowly, weighed down with their shopping bags and distracted by the advertisements of the stores. Perhaps they looked at him as they passed by with sidelong glances, their eyes moving from his face to his feet to his face again. “Where’s this guy from?” They may have asked themselves. “From the smell we’d say somewhere a little south of Jerusalem! Probably some farmer – the stench of the cows has left its mark!”

The prophet was out of place; he didn’t belong with the corporate types or the afternoon shoppers, Amos belonged in the fields south of Jerusalem. He belonged on the land. Yet he was called by God to go to the northern seat of power, to Samaria. God had called him to give voice to the oppressed and a hand to the weak; to condemn the injustice of the nations and the injustice of the nation, Israel. And in his poetic utterances so much can be understood as an indictment of our present state of affairs in relation to peoples along the margins of our society, for there’s an eternal resonance with his words in 5.27, “But let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (NASB).

Yet there is something particular in his prophecy to the people of Gaza that I want to focus on in this reflection. There have been economic transactions between Gaza and Edom that have dealt not in currency but in human lives. Massive deportation has caused the prophet of God to pronounce judgement upon this ancient, Philistine city, and now “fire will come down upon her walls and her citadels will be consumed.” God is angry. So then, in this brief reflection I want to look at God’s anger in relation to Gaza, thinking about the particularities of this deportation in relation to our own disposition towards deportation of immigrant peoples in our land.

“Thus says the LORD, ‘For three transgressions of Gaza and for four I will not revoke its punishment, because they deported an entire population to deliver it up to Edom’” (1.6).

Gaza belonged to the nation of Philistia which was situated between the Mediterranean Sea and Judah. The city is used much the same way as Damascus is in relation to Assyria. The condemnation exacted upon Gaza is intended to be applied to the entire nation. They have acted with great cruelty towards a particular people, unidentified in the text; however, their inhumanity has driven them to deport this people-group on a massive scale to the nation of Edom. The location of Edom in the biblical world is particularly interesting for this story and indicting, not only for Gaza and Edom, but perhaps also for Judah, which is situated directly between these two kingdoms. The question could be asked of how Gaza transported this massive herd of people to Edom? Did they cross Judah? At this time it is supposed that the historic enmity between Judah and Philistia had dissipated, with Philistine attention being focused on Israel to their north. And although Edom will later be condemned by Amos for breaking covenant with its “brothers,” there have been good relations between the two nations. So then, might Judah have been an intersection for slave-trade between Gaza and Edom? It is speculation, but due to Judah’s economic prosperity at the time, there may have been just these sorts of malevolent partnerships between nations.

Shalom Paul, in his commentary on Amos, notes that the sort of deportation that is happening in Gaza is best described as “entire / complete / mass exile.”This wasn’t a small-scale operation and likely one that Gaza had been invested in for some time, as was common for nations bordering the Mediterranean. Philistia may not have necessarily been the conquerors of these people, but silence in the text keeps us from attaching to much certainty to any one assertion. Whoever they were, they were likely not native people of Philistia. Simply put, they were strangers, foreigners forced against their will by a nation stronger than they. They were doomed, likely to either work in Edom’s copper mines or worse, to be traded further south to Arabia or Africa. These forced migrants were the scum of the ancient world, “wetbacks” made to work under the harsh sun of oppression. They had no rights, they had no home.

It is this very act of inhospitality, the unrighteousness of deportation that causes the God of Israel to condemn another nation, Philistia. Thus, he will tear down their citadels, reigning a righteous fire down upon their walls. God has made it clear in Scripture that he is the God of the stranger, the outcast, and the poor. Those migrant people that wander the land are just his sort of people. The story of God himself is rooted in such a people as they.

Think of the migrants, Abraham and Sarah, wandering from place to place, living in tents, and as Hebrews states, “[as aliens] . . . in a foreign land” (11.9). Also, there were those migrant workers, the Israelites. Living for four hundred years in a strange land, they became slaves, oppressed under the harsh rule of Pharaoh. Even in their exodus, they were wanderers for years until they reached Canaan. However, God’s story doesn’t end with their arrival to the land of promise, for he once again becomes the God of the migrants as they are taken into exile under Babylon and Assyria. This brings us to the words of Isaiah as he declares the Gospel of God when he writes, “The LORD has anointed me to bring good news to the afflicted; he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives and freedom to prisoners” (61.1-2). These are words that Christ will preach in the synagogue in Luke 4 as he pulls together the biblical story as one of liberation from sin, evil, and injustice. So then, it is at the heart of Jesus Christ, the Son of God and the Word of God, to have mercy on those forced migrants of Gaza. He was present with them in Amos’ prophecy and he is present with them in them in our day. Amos’ proclamation was that in the divine economy there is no sympathy for deportation; on the contrary, there will be judgment.

Through this reading of Amos, the question may be raised for those of us living the USA, “Are we guilty of Gaza’s sin?” This question is especially palpable for those who live near the border or in border states such as Texas. There has now been a long and tedious debate about the status of the border and state’s relation to immigrants coming over from Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, and nearly every other Central American country. Those who live near the border oftentimes find themselves in a militarized zone with soldiers occupying positions along the citadel walls. William Cavanaugh in his book, Migrations of the Holy, has polemically written, “Ronald Reagan’s famous admonition to the Soviets, ‘Tear down this wall!’ was evidently not transferable from Berlin to the Rio Grande.”

Cavanaugh observes that the longstanding status of the “border problem” is, perhaps, an indictment that the US isn’t as wholly concerned with solving the problem as it is with merely regulating it. For Cavanaugh this points to the nation’s underlying purpose for the border. He writes,  “The United States needs a readily exploitable source of cheap labor. The purpose of the border is not simply to exclude immigrants but to define them, to give them an identity. That identity is a liminal identity . . . and defines the person as being neither fully here nor there.”

It is here that Christians need to ask themselves the question, “Might our actions in relation to immigrant injustice be similar to that of Gaza’s?” What would the prophet Amos say to us if he were to walk the streets of East Dallas or Houston or San Antonio? Would he journey to Austin, to the seat of our state government and condemn our legislature and laws?

Gaza had given an identity to its forced migrants, to the deported masses. They were neither here nor there. One day at the ports and borders of Gaza, the next in Edom working as slaves and day-laborers in the copper mines. Perhaps the next year they were traded and deported to southern Arabia or Africa. Their status would forever be liminal; however, God would forever be with them. In the presence of Isaiah’s words and from the mouth of Christ himself, the Gospel was with them in their migrations and deportations. And this raises the question in 2012, “If God is with the migrant and the deported, might the judgment be with US?”