Christians are part of the capital-C church. We all get the same imaginary membership card to put on a keychain with our Y gym pass and library card. But American Christians also carry membership cards to another club, whether or not we want to belong: the market.
The Church and market can’t help but collide, often to spectacularly brutal consequences. And whether or not I want to admit it, the consumer in me senses at some base level that the church should do something for me, as much as I should do something for the church. I can sense how I’m set up to expect an exchange.
The theologian Stephen Long writes about the way we frame our lives in Calculated Futures. While we used to orient ourselves around cathedrals in Europe and Latin America that are positioned to the east, “bearing witness to where Christian hope was directed—towards the homeland of Christ, who would one day return,” we now orient ourselves around highways that take us to Target.
It reminds me of the heartbreaking Ani DiFranco song “Subdivision,” when she sings, “And the old farm road’s a four-lane that leads to the mall.”
I go to Target for school supplies and buy my jeans at Madewell, and that’s fine. But how I buy is also a chance to reflect on the orientation of my heart. To ask myself, in a spiritual sense, am I walking towards the steeple or the checkout aisle?
Our flash-in-the pan retail obsessions are mostly like first crushes. I love Glossier “Boy Brow”. I use it for a few months, then I try the “Essential Brow Natural Volumizing Brow Gel” from Ilia, which advertises plant-based ingredients. I have little loyalty. Mom did—to Mr. Clean and unscented Dove soap.
“The patterns and practices of our lives orient us in the world first and foremost as consumers,” Long writes in an essay co-authored with the Mennonite writer Tripp York. They argue that the outcome of the “competing practices” of the market and Christianity depend on us orienting ourselves to the gift of liturgy—rather than the contract of economic exchange. The way we build our lives, then—our patterns of purchasing, working, and, if we have the luxury, resting—can become space for the Christian story to strengthen and inform how we interact with the market.
When I was a kid, I tried to gain some shred of popularity (or at least not lose my tepid social status) by the clothes I wore. Most kids around me did, too. Some of us were more successful. In middle school, my husband shuffled to his locker with his backpack strategically covering the knock-off Guess jeans logo on his butt with the triangle pointing up instead of down.
While there was a classic popularity structure in high school, the possibilities for gaining social capital in my suburban church were nil. Arty-ish youth group kids intuitively wanted a way to express ourselves with a new aesthetic. Which led us to Christian counterculture in the 90s. We wanted to find music, art, and hair colors that were unlikely, full of life and emotion. Interesting and infinite.
In my mid-to late teens, my identity as an arty kid, or whatever, was reinforced by what I found, rummaged, and re-purposed to wear to school. Poly cop pants with stripes down the side were my prize possession. Dozens of thrifted 70s oversized maxi dresses and itchy 80s Pendleton pull-over sweaters popped out of my closet like stuffing.
Catholic theologian and ethicist William Cavanaugh argues that consumerism is a compelling frame for theology because it shapes our “spiritual disposition.” It is a posture. One that started in 80s suburban childhoods, moved into 90s thrifting, and stretches into ship-lapped life today. Do my shopping habits reflect my soul? Do they also reflect my middle-aged, white lady-ness? Does my lack of loyalty for what I buy make me savvy and good at decorating my porch at a certain price point—or does it indicate a quiet impoverishment?
In addition to what we buy, modern American culture assigns self-worth to a second spoke on capitalism’s wheel: lifestyle.
Cultural capital and consumerism are explored on an episode of the Hidden Brain podcast featuring public policy researcher Elizabeth Currid-Halkett. She wrote about the “aspirational class” after observing how folks today that identify as upper middle class, or affluent, less often flash fancy cars or watches or buy silver spoons. Instead, Currid-Halkett argues that, today, class manifests itself culturally through “healthy” choices like breastfeeding, doing yoga, and buying organic.
Right now in Seattle and a lot of other places, the “aspirational class” definitely owns a Peloton, breastfeeds, and shops at Whole Foods. I do online barre videos, believe “breast is best” if a mother has that option, and try to avoid the “dirty dozen” in the produce section. This is not a judgment on which specific purchases and actions are ok or not ok—but an observation about what they come together to imply culturally.
In my experience living in the city, there’s also a norm that the aspirational class does not attend church or identify as Christian. At least not without having to tack on a lengthy and awkward “I’m not that kind of Christian” disclaimer. Spirituality is always cool, but Christianity as a descriptor, at least in urban cores, is more and more complicated for a lot of reasons. It also doesn’t line up with the culture of the aspirational class.
I wonder, what does the aspirational class look like in affluent American Christian culture? It might be how well versed we are in the enneagram, the size of our essential oil collection, how many meals on wheels we deliver, the number of likes we get on inspirational posts, or any other banners we carry that inch higher than our truest identities as people of faith.
Christianity’s message is decidedly “un-aspirational”. Jesus was born in the middle of nowhere to powerless people, a revolutionary teacher and outsider in a classist culture. Jesus was born in a town like those from my Rust Belt youth that folks wondered if anything good could come out of.
The Christian story redefines our identities away from people who produce and purchase. And as Christians, we’re called to consider how Jesus can untether our worth from work and lifestyle, inviting a loosening of our grip on the things we buy and the way we fill up our time.
Read & Listen
LSD was my friend. My mercurial, exhilarating, terrifying, abusive friend. [Fathom]
In her lifetime, Day was called a Communist. She was called naïve. She was called a threat to the church. She was none of these things. [NYT]
There’s no funeral when your church leaves you. [Perennial Gen]
Nothing in the Bible says you can’t wear a mask. But religious objectors know that. [NBC]
A recently released New Testament translation adopts Native American descriptors for God—the Creator and Great Spirit. (And it is so beautiful!) [CT]
LISTEN: Can trauma you experienced as a kid still affect you now? What about the traumatic experiences of our parents and grandparents? [Everything Happens]
LISTEN: Did anyone else hear the quiver in Mike Cosper’s voice when he interviewed Josh Harris at the end of this Rise and Fall of Mars Hill episode? I want to listen to the second part of this conversation again. [CT]
Dear Sara:
I think I'm beginning to understand why, after spending decades under an evangelical banner, I still can't shake the feeling that I've been attempting to pour my square shape into a round hole.
There must be other Christian traditions that I could explore that aren't so.....transient.
Contemplatively,
PhiL >^•_•^<