Review of Whole and Reconciled

I recently reviewed Al Tizon’s new book, Whole and Reconciled for Missio Alliance.

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One of the defining and disappointing characteristics of western Christianity has been our instinct to bifurcate the church’s mission. Consider, for example, the countless ways we find to debate whether evangelism or justice should be our priority. Is it the church’s primary mission to address the material sources of a person’s present suffering or the spiritual nature of their future? These either-or debates often happen within privileged confines among those with the ability to theorize about these things. It’s probably not surprising that communities relegated to the margins have often held together the same attributes of Christian identity that others of us have torn apart. I’m thinking of the many African American congregations in my neighborhood whose services end with an old-school altar call and whose bulletins are filled with opportunities for their members to seek justice throughout the week.


In Whole and Reconciled: Gospel, Church, and Mission in a Fractured World, Al Tizon applauds those who have attempted to bridge theological bifurcations such as this by encouraging, in the language of the Lausanne Movement, “the whole church to take the whole gospel to the whole world.” By emphasizing whole—or, in other contexts, holistic—these theologians and practitioners are advancing a version of mission that cares about word and deed, evangelism and justice. Importantly, the church beyond the west is included in this vision. Rather than the old assumptions about western missionaries being sent to the majority world, mission is now from everywhere and to everywhere.


Whole and Reconciled is a paradigm-shifting book with the potential to enlarge how our churches envision and participate in God’s mission. Here are four ways Tizon succeeds in challenging us to think bigger about everything, beginning with reconciliation.

Read the rest over at Missio Alliance.

The Color of Life

I recently reviewed Cara Meredith’s new book, The Color of Life, for The Englewood Review of Books.

On October 1, 1962, James Meredith enrolled in the University of Mississippi for his final year of college. What should have been a straightforward process involving applications and recommendations was anything but easy. Riots broke out on campus two nights before the arrival of the 29-year-old incoming senior. The possibility of the first African American student at Ole Miss was significant enough to draw concerted opposition from the governor of Mississippi and intervention by Robert Kennedy, then the U.S. Attorney General. Reflecting later, Meredith, a veteran of the U.S. Air Force, remembered his time at the university as a war, one which he won by forcing the federal government to intervene to defend his civil rights. This was a war against white supremacy and Meredith was willing to lead the charge, no matter how violent the response.

It is impossible not to think about Meredith regularly while reading The Color of Life and not only because the author regularly weaves his story through her narrative. Cara Meredith is the daughter-in-law of the civil rights icon, married to his son James. Also, she is white.

Read the rest of the review at Englewood.

Five Favorite Books of 2018

Once again it’s been tough to narrow down the books I read and enjoyed this year to just five. And as much as I recommend the books below, the entire exercise is pretty subjective; there are some terrific books that I’m passing over here. For example, He Held Radical Light by Christian Wiman is every bit as beautiful as his last book and, similarly, reads somewhere between memoir and meditation on mystery, desire, and faith. I started the year with Ron Chernow’s thick biography on Ulysses S. Grant. Maybe it’s because I keep returning to this era of American history – I’m currently in the new Frederick Douglass biography – but I found the story of this famous general and, in Chernow’s estimation, misunderstood president to be totally fascinating. The section about reconstruction after the Civil War was especially interesting and, inevitably, maddening. Marylinne Robinson’s new collection of essays is excellent and I finally finished Augustine’s City of God, a book I probably should have begun again as soon as I finished. My friend José Humphreys’ new book, Seeing Jesus in East Harlem, is many things – memoir; theological reflection on geography, race, culture, church, and more; the church-planting guide we need – but it is first of all beautiful and eye-opening.  Anyway, you get the idea: the books below are great and there are a bunch of others that could have joined them on my little list.

What I read this year was significantly impacted by the book I’m writing. The first four books on this list are ones I’ve engaged with in one chapter or another, but their appeal should be much larger than my relatively narrow focus on race and discipleship. My manuscript is due early next year and I’m looking forward to picking up some of the books that have had to sit on the shelves this year.

As always, I’d love to know what good stuff you read this year.


 

Raising White Kids: Bring Up Children in a Racially Unjust America by Jennifer Harvey (2018).

Raising White Kids

I wasn’t expecting to like this book as much as I did. While I really appreciated Jennifer Harvey’s previous book, Dear White Christians: For Those Still Longing for Racial Reconciliation, I wasn’t sure what to anticipate from a book that focuses so narrowly on white children. After having highlighted passages on just about every page, I’m now ready to force this book upon every unsuspecting parent of white children I come across! There a few things that make this book so engaging and Harvey such a trustworthy guide. First, her starting point is a commitment to racial justice – and raising white children with this commitment – rather than vague appeals to appreciating cultural diversity. The difference this makes is hard to overstate. Second, though her concern in this pages is for white children along with their parents and guardians, Harvey is herself situated among a racially diverse community. Her voice, in other words, is shaped and tempered by the wisdom that can only come from being in a genuine relationships with people of color. It’s not hard to find white authors who approach topics like this one with the tone-deafness and blind spots that betray the racial homogeneity of their own experiences. Thankfully the reader will find none of this in Raising White Kids. Finally, Harvey never oversimplifies. She allows what must be complicated and even incomplete to remain so. Her goal when it comes to raising racially conscious white children has more to do with character than a long list of specific competencies.

The History of White People by Nell Irvin Painter (2011).

The History of White People

It took me some time to make my way through historian Nell Irvin Painter’s study on the development of white people as a recognizable category of people. In part this had to do with how totally comprehensive she is but I was also slowed down by the regular realizations of just how strange the very fact of white people is. If there’s one thing that comes up over and over again in Painter’s many short chapters, it’s that there was never anything inevitable about racial whiteness; the construct itself represents this devious mix of malicious intentionality and the strange accidents of history. Most interesting to me were Painter’s portrayals of the key figures who advanced the development of whiteness or who embodied these developments in some way. People like Emerson and Teddy Roosevelt join other lesser-known figures to help us see the very human side of something that has become so systemic that it takes a book like this one to remind us of how absurd the entire thing is.

I’m Still Here by Austin Channing Brown (2018).

I'm Still Here

I realize the first three titles in this list have some variety of “white” in their title, but such has been the nature of my reading this year. And yes, I’ve already written about my friend Austin’s book, but I couldn’t help by mention it again. For a book that I read in one sitting  – both times I read it – I’m Still Here covers a lot of ground. It’s a testament to Austin’s wisdom that she includes so much depth in a succinct space. One of the themes she covers with insight is the experience of black people and other people of color in organizations that are white. Those of us who are white and lead organizations of any kind can benefit greatly from how these experiences are narrated with tenderness and nuance. Sure, sometimes its large and visible moments which force a largely white organization to confront the assumptions and biases its hidden from itself. But, as Austin shows, just as often its moments that seem much smaller from the organization’s vantage point but which, of course, wreak havoc in the life of the person of color who must bear the weight of the racism.

I’ll say one last thing about this book. Earlier this year I helped with a weekend racial reconciliation journey through the American South. During our final debrief, one of the participants, an older woman who’d grown up in a institutionally segregated southern town, pulled out Austin’s book. As she described how important I’m Still Here has been to her I couldn’t help but thank God for what a gift Austin has given to so many of us.

Liturgical Theology: The Church as Worshiping Community by Simon Chan (2006).

Liturgical Theology

When I began writing a chapter about liturgy for my book I reached out on social media for suggestions and this was one of the recommendations that came back. (Each time I’m tempted to quit social media I’ll have an exchange like that one!) I ended up drawing pretty heavily on Chan’s work, in part because I came to this chapter aware of my own limited knowledge about how the church has thought about the Sunday liturgy, but also for how he frames the liturgy within a very robust ecclesiology. In the first chapter, “The Ontology of the Church,” Chan asks this framing question: “Is the church to be seen as an instrument to accomplish God’s purpose in creation, or is the church the expression of God’s ultimate purpose itself?”  For the author the answer is the latter which to many Christians may not seem all that significant, but it’s a game-changer in terms of how we think about the purpose of the church. The implications for liturgy – for how the church worships – are many, but it was this unexpected starting point that hooked me from the beginning.

Black Elk The Life of an American Visionary by Joe Jackson (2016).

Black Elk

Over the past few years, under the direction of a friend who is Oglala Lakota, I’ve been reading Native American authors and trying to slowly fill in the massive gaps in my knowledge about the history – and ongoing presence – of the many people and nations who inhabited North America long before my ancestors arrived here. This summer, on our drive home from Washington State, our family spent an afternoon at the Little Bighorn Battlefield. It ended up being a pretty powerful experience for me: listening to the Native ranger talk about the battle interspersed with his own more current experiences, walking through the quite hills past markers of fallen soldiers, trying to remember my little knowledge about what happened before and after this one particular moment.

Black Elk participated in that battle and earlier during the summer I’d picked up some paperbacks that narrate his reflections and experiences. This biography fills in a of the backstory to this particular healer and holy man whose life has to be read to be believed. Black Elk traveled the world, fought alongside his people, experienced immeasurable loss all while bearing the burden of a spiritual vision that pointed toward a day of peace for all people. It was a remarkable life and many more should know about this fascinating and important man.

I’m Still Here

I'm Still Here Austin Channing BrownI recently reread Ta-Nehisi Coates’ Between the World and Me and I’m Still Here by Austin Channing Brown. I’ve written before about the way Coates’ writing often provokes people to ask whether he is hopeful, particularly in the realm of racial equity and justice. I’ve suggested that because what so often passes as hope for Americans is actually more like optimism, Coates’ apparent hopelessness is a more Christian expression of our reality than the one espoused by many Christians, privileged ones like me in particular.

Austin has also noticed this obsession with hope in how people look to Coates for some sort of comfort. She writes, “People read his words about America – about its history, about its present, about the realities of living in a Black body – and then demand hopefulness. It boggles the mind.” Indeed, though from the vantage point of those whose privilege has shielded us from this nation’s racism, maybe not. As Coates observers,

The mettle that it takes to look away from the horror of our prison system, from police forces transformed into armies, from the long war against the black body is not forged overnight. This is the practiced habit of jabbing out one’s eyes and forgetting the work of one’s hands. To acknowledge these horrors means turning away from the brightly rendered version of your country as it has always declared itself and turning toward something murkier and unknown. It is still too difficult for most Americans to do this.

And so, rather than face the realities which Coates describes, we ask about hope. Or, rather, we ask to be given hope. To be soothed with hope.

As with Coates, Austin’s book demonstrates the madness of these questions. In particular, it is her descriptions of working within predominately white spaces that gives us an idea about the assumptions behind these questions. There is something obscene about asking the person who has described the system of oppression that constantly crashes upon her body to make me feel better. Yet, time and again, this is how it goes down. When we ask about hope, many of us are actually saying,  Let us not talk anymore about your suffering or our complicity with it. Tell me, instead, that I will be OK.

For Austin, in order to remain engaged in the work of justice – not to mention the pursuit of dignity in a racist and sexist society – what passes for hope in this country had to die. “The death of hope gives way to a sadness that heals, to anger that inspires, to a wisdom that empowers me the next time I get to work, pick up my pen, join a march, tell my story.” This death, in other words, is not something to fear. And in this there is new life. Realignment. Rediscovery.”

On the other side of this death, says Austin, is the shadow of hope. From within this shadow we believe and work having shed all optimism. “It is working in the dark, not knowing if anything I do will ever make a difference. It is speaking anyway, writing anyway, loving anyway. It is enduring disappointments and then getting back to work… It is knowing that God is God and I am not.” Though she doesn’t quite say it, I think the shadow of hope that Austin describes is one in which faith is given an honored seat. Whereas American hope demands proof, no matter how deceptive, the shadow of hope allows us to move forward, even in the deepest shadows, by way of faith.

Austin has given us something far better than the hope so many have clamored for. She’s given us the truth.

Five Favorite Books of 2017

One way I know that it’s been a great reading year is by how hard it was to narrow the list of the books I’ve read in 2017 down to just these five. And I’ve left off some fantastic stuff, including The Color of Law which I’ve probably recommended more than any other this year but which I’ve already reviewed. Others worth your attention include The Pietist Option (review forthcoming at The Englewood Review of Books), Eight Years We Were in Power (a collection of, mostly, already published essays by Ta-Nehisi Coates but worth the read for the new introductions to each chapter and how it charts a particular experience of the Obama years), and The Tech-Wise Family by Andy Crouch (Maggie and I read it together and it’s provided loads of good conversation fodder for how we’d like our family to engage “easy everywhere” technology.). I’ve been reading deeply on housing segregation and policy (again, The Color of Law) and have learned a lot from Making the Second Ghetto by Arnold R. Hirsch and, particular to our church’s community, Jim Crow Nostalgia by Michelle R. Boyd. Gentrifiers by John Joe Schlichtman, Jason Patch, and Marc Lamont Hill is the best I’ve read on that impossibly complicated topic.

As always, not much fiction in my reading though one novel makes this list. There were some good memoirs – The Shepherd’s Life and H is for Hawk – and I’ve included the excellent new Dorothy Day biography here. I reread Day’s beautiful memoir during Lent and found it just as remarkable the second time.

The books on this thoroughly subjective list represent some of my more satisfying and eye-opening reading experiences this year. I hope one or two of them can provide you with similar moments.


Dorothy Day: The World Will Be Saved by Beauty by Kate Kennessy (2017)

Dorothy Day The World Will Be Saved By Beauty

Kate Hennessy is Dorthy Day’s granddaughter, the daughter of Day’s only child, Tamar. The biography she’s written capitalizes on her grandmother’s name to draw us in but ends up being much more than a portrait of the woman who founded the Catholic Worker Movement and wrote a still-popular spiritual biography. While the author covers this ground, her real interest lies in the relationship between the larger-than-life Day and the quiet daughter who grew up amid the chaos of her mother’s work and the eclectic social networks that formed around her. In many ways Tamar is Dorothy’s opposite and we sense how the affection they shared was also fragile, how the woman who communicated to the eager and idealistic masses found it a struggle to connect with her own daughter. For all of Day’s exceptional traits and experiences, she ends up being a pretty average parent.

I’m drawn to biographies, like this one, that manage to honor their subject without deifying them. Even better when the person’s faith is taken seriously and not explained away. Hennessy does both and much more and the result serves as a beautiful introduction to a woman many of us thought we already knew.

Shalom and the Community of Creation by Randy Woodley (2012)

Shalom and the Community of Creation

Earlier this year a new friend recommended that I begin reading Randy Woodley, a Keetoowah Cherokee and professor of faith and culture. In Shalom Woodley offers a theology of creation and peace through an indigenous lens and his vision is fresh, compelling, and regularly convicting. While the book covers a lot of ground, the themes circle back to the pervasive significance of creation. Christian people, the author wants us to remember, cannot think about who we are apart from the world where God has placed us. He reminds us that, “Jesus, like so many in his day, was comfortable in a constant conversation with natural creation. He was not estranged from the creation in the way most of us in the western world our today.” In contrast, “the Euro-western mind” usually doesn’t see the creation as the start of “a continuous conversation with the Creator. The western view of creation has proven to be pitifully anthropocentric and utilitarian. Christianity has simply followed suit.” I’m afraid our current political moment has provided a large segment of American Christianity to confirm Woodley’s assessment which makes a book like this one even more essential.

We Gon’ Be Alright by Jeff Chang (2016)

We Gon Be Alright

In this short collection of essays Chang has written a sharp critique of our times. He proves to be an especially astute observer to – and participant in – some of the more painful and culturally divisive moments of the past few years, including the protests in Ferguson. In that essay he avoids large-scale cultural criticism, instead choosing to hold our attention on Mike Brown’s lived experience in that Missouri suburb.

In “The In-Betweens” Chang writes about his experience of being Asian-American: “You went days and weeks feeling like you had never been seen. You were conspicuous and invisible at the same time.” From his lived reality in a country that reduces its racial insight to a blunt black-white binary, the author stakes out his own ground, and what he claims is essential to our times. In the same essay he writes about immigration: “‘Migration’ centers bodies. ‘Immigration’ centers bodies of law. The immigrant is therefore always troubled by questions of status: ‘legal’ or ‘illegal.’ When the immigrant is between the migrant and the citizen, their freedom – and others’ freedom, in turn – depends on the answer.”

Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather (1927)

Death Comes for the Archbishop

This quiet novel is a sort of historical fiction. It’s two main characters, the first Roman Catholic archbishop of New Mexico and his close friend and vicar, are based on real men and other figures from history make occasional appearances. Cather imagined their lives through a series of roughly chronological vignettes; the narratives are generally contained to a chapter. Both men are generally portrayed sympathetically, including their expressions of faith. They’re imperfect and their humanity shows, but generally it seems the author wanted her readers to respect these two men of the cloth. And maybe it’s that I’m accustomed to literature in which the clergy is ignored, portrayed as out-of-touch, or assumed to have some devious motives or maybe its just that I’m a pastor looking for some role models, but it’s always satisfying to find a member of the clergy written as, you know, a person. (See also Marilynne Robinson’s GileadHome, and Lila.) But even if you’re not a pastor or don’t care much for pastors, Death Comes is worth the read, the perfect antidote to our loud and demeaning times.

The Half Has Never Been Told: Slavery and the Making of American Capitalism by Edward E. Baptist (2014)

The Half Has Never Been Told

One of the many strange things that surfaced this year was the many American citizens who hold romanticized views of the Civil War and the antebellum South. White nationalists have rallied around Confederate monuments, those same monuments have provoked fierce debate, and a candidate for the Senate suggested that life was better for everyone during slavery. This on top of the perennial argument that the Civil War was never actually about slavery but about states’ rights.

Though Baptist’s book was published a few years ago, reading it feels as though he anticipated this moment and replied with a devastating response. His thesis is simple: The financial rewards of American capitalism (in the south and the north) never would have been possible without the free labor extracted from kidnapped and enslaved Africans. Slavery, the author claims, was not on an inevitable decline in the face of northern industrialism; it was the foundation of industry and the appetite for more agricultural land and enslaved bodies showed no signs of abetting before the war.

The books does many things well, but two are worth highlighting. First, the author blends loads of data about the spread of slavery and its economic benefits to the nation with intimate narratives about those whose terrorized labor remains this nation’s great shame. Second, Baptist always focuses on the experience of those who were enslaved. His stories include names and histories as well as the visceral sense of survival under the harshest circumstances. The resilience and resistance of the women and men who are centered in Baptist’s narrative deserve to be told of again and again.

Book Review: The Color of Law

The Color of LawA new $23 million bicycle bridge is being built in our church’s neighborhood of Bronzeville in Chicago two blocks from an elementary school. The bridge will be beautiful, and when it is completed cyclists will cruise past the school on their way to the bike path. Maybe some of them will notice the crumbling entryway to the elementary school and wonder how our city can find money for a pedestrian bridge while our schools are asked to do more with less. Maybe they’ll notice the empty lots where public housing high-rises used to stand or the low-rise mixed income developments that are slowly replacing them. Maybe they’ll wonder why this neighborhood is mostly African American and why the neighborhood to the west has historically been white.

Richard Rothstein asks these kinds of questions in his meticulously researched and well-written book, The Color of Law: A Forgotten History of How Our Government Segregated America. A research associate at the Economic Policy Institute, Rothstein points out that most Americans tend to talk about segregation as being de facto, something that simply happened as the result of individual choices and preferences. Important decisions by the Supreme Court have shared these assumptions and have thus been reticent to address the destructive implications of segregation in our nation’s neighborhoods and schools. But Rothstein convincingly demonstrates that segregation in America has never been de facto; the segregation that the cyclist pedaling through our neighborhood observes is in fact de jure, a social reality constructed by our laws and public policies.

Through the middle of the twentieth century racial discrimination was federal policy. African Americans were unable to apply for federally insured mortgages, and the Federal Housing Administration would not insure any housing development that planned to admit black families. These policies extended to the first public housing developments which were first constructed for working-class European immigrants. As the need for black labor increased in northern cities, the demand for housing grew and these developments slowly opened to black residents, but they remained segregated. As European immigrants made their way in white America, they were able to move out of the housing developments, leaving behind racially concentrated pockets of poverty which were then exacerbated by new federal policies that capped the income level of the residents while simultaneously underfunding them.

Read the rest at the Covenant Companion

5 Favorite Books of 2016

I took a few seminary classes this year which explains some of what’s on my 2016 reading list. None of those made my top-5 list, but a few could have: Kelly Brown Douglas’ The Black Christ and Sexuality and the Church were great introductions to womanist theology, Frederick Douglass’ Narrative proved immensely relevant during the election, and The Reason Why the Colored American is not in the World’s Columbian Exposition, edited by Ida B. Wells in 1893, was a fascinating look at a specific Chicago moment. Some of my reading in the latter half of the year was directed at trying to understand the president-elect’s appeal – Carol Anderson’s White Rage and the fascinating Hillbilly Elegy by J.D. Vance – and some was geared toward trying to form my imagination outside of this pressing political moment.  All in all, it’s been a great book year and there are some I’m gladly reading into 2017: Augustine’s City of God and Teju Cole’s collection of essays, Known and Strange Things among a few others on the night stand.

Here are five of my favorites from 2016 that I’d happily recommend to just about anyone.


The South Side by Natalie Moore (2016)

south side_MECH_01.inddNatalie Moore is a terrific Chicago reporter with the NPR station who has now written one of the definitive accounts of the city’s south side. I’d recently finished the massive and essential Black Metropolis when I picked up The South Side and it was great to read Moore as she interacted with Drake and Catyon’s work from the 1940’s while exploring more recent dynamics in our section of the city. While Black Metropolis is a bit of a slog – fascinating stuff but, still, pretty thick with detail – Moore’s narrative moves quickly and will engage even those barely familiar with Chicago and its complexities. She does this by telling her own story in the city as an entry into the wider forces which shape neighborhoods and communities.

Moore loves Chicago like so many of its long-time residents do: she isn’t blind to the massive inequities that plague many residents but neither does she overlook what makes the city so great, so inhabitable. She covers violence, education, housing, gentrification, and more with a gaze that is equal parts reporter’s objectivity and best-friend’s pride.

White Rage: The Unspoken Truth of Our Racial Divide by Carol Anderson (2016)

white-rageI might have read this book regardless of the political moment, but the presidential election sent me scrambling for it. Carol Anderson is a professor at Emory University and, although her subject isn’t Donald Trump explicitly, her look at previous moments in American history places the now president-elect in a particularly context. Anderson’s thesis is as simple as it is disturbing: “The trigger for white rage, inevitably, is black advancement.” Not that this rage is especially visible: “It’s not the Klan. White rage doesn’t have to wear sheets, burn crosses, or take to the streets. Working the halls of power, it can achieve its ends far more effectively.” This subtle racism was one of the more frustrating parts of my conversations with Trump supporters this fall. Barring smoking gun evidence, most of these folks simply couldn’t see how race played a role in Trump’s ascendancy or, for that matter, the anxiety he produced in so many people for whom America has never been so great.

But this is the great strength of White Rage. By reviewing previous moments of white backlash to black advancement, Anderson helps us see the predictable pattern we’re now experiencing. She takes us through reconstruction, the Great Migration, desegregation, Civil Rights legislation, and the nation’s first black president and shows that, in each of these instances of significant black achievement, there have always been systematic and racially-oppressive responses.

A quick personal addition: Anderson’s book helped me see more clearly than before the gigantic gap between those who can acknowledge this history and those for whom it is tantamount to treason. Time and again this year I’ve experienced blank stares and utter confusion from those whose love for country won’t allow the truth of it to change their minds. White Rage helped me understand this dynamic though no book, I’m afraid, exists to tell us how to transcend it.

James Baldwin’s  Collected Essays (1998).

baldwin-collected-essaysThis one is kind of a cheat since it’s a collection of all of Baldwin’s non-fiction and I could have picked dozens almost at random for this list. There’s just so much good, beautiful, prescient writing in these essays. I’m not sure Baldwin was ever forgotten, but he has seemed incredibly relevant during these past few years of protest and unrest; he’s ripe for rediscovery.

Baldwin is always eye-opening; he makes places visible and people knowable. He does this in his travel essays and in his reflections about childhood in Harlem. He’s great on religion, especially the Christianity of his youth but also on Malcolm X and the Nation of Islam as well as King and the other preachers of the Civil Rights Movement. But it’s his insight into race – there in most essays, but never excessively so – which regularly grabbed me by the throat. He shows the reader around the experiences of many black people, dignifying the struggles and victories without ever succumbing to hagiography. And then he writes about white people and whiteness and white supremacy and I find that he understands these things far better than most white people do, myself included. This isn’t especially surprising because my majority culture self doesn’t have to think about whiteness. Baldwin, however, does more than understand- he rips the veil off, exposing the rotten assumptions that pass for normal and neutral in this country. And he does this while showing incredibly sympathy and understanding for white people. I’ve already returned to these essays and expect to frequently in the coming years.

 

Leisure: The Basis of Culture by Josef Pieper (1952)

leisureI stumbled onto this book in a short Christianity Today review and I’m so glad I did. Our church has some sermons about sabbath coming up and now, in addition to Abraham Joshua Heschel’s classic Jewish mediation on Sabbath, I have a German/Christian/Philosophic perspective to draw from. Writing during the years following World War II, Pieper was concerned with the growing honor given to productivity and efficiency which he saw as undermining the kind of culture for which humans were created. Culture, he believed, requires capacity for leisure which in turn requires divine worship.

The tendency to reduce people to their work (“What do you do?” is a first question we ask new acquaintances) is at least as common now as it was when Pieper wrote. If anything the problem is more acute today when we describe people as resources, objects to be used. He acknowledges that leisure – or Sabbath – will seem to us “morally speaking, unseemly: another word for laziness, idleness and sloth.” Given the pride most Christians take in breaking the fourth commandment, I think he’s right about this. This little book shows how wrongheaded we are about this and why the good life God intends for us is one that includes and prioritizes leisure.

A Different Mirror: A History of Multicultural America by Ronald Takaki (2008)

a-different-mirrorI was first told about this book while helping with a workshop about racial injustice for cross-cultural missionaries this summer. We had been discussing the tendency to reduce conversations about race to a black and white binary when A Different Mirror was suggested as a kind of antidote.  Ronald Takaki, a professor of Ethnic Studies, tells America’s story through the experiences of a variety of different communities. Here we read how Native Americans, Irish immigrants, Chinese laborers, resident Mexicans, and enslaved Africans came to make their homes in this country.

There’s no way for a multi-cultural history to be comprehensive, but Takaki provides a good, engaging overview. He includes the individual stories and voices which make good history come alive. Importantly, there is a lot of significant American history in these chapters that many of are only kind of aware of, if at all. These tend to be the stories and communities that only got passing mention in most of our history classes and textbooks. Anyone who wants a fuller view of this country’s past will do well to add this history to the one we already know.