Ants Marching (A Confession)

I'm continuing to share words on the effect of the market on Christianity. Read here, then swing on over to Amber's for her series on revolution.


I can see the future.

In the future, we run like ants from sucker stem to sucker stem, suck the sweet from every last discardable ideology. We pile atop each other, voraciously claw for our bit of sugar. I'm atop you; you're atop me; we're scratching and clawing to claim the very last speck of what's useful, and in so doing, we claw each other to the death.

In the future, we've forgotten the deep well of intimacy, have traded it for a more white-washed kind. In the media, we call each other "friend," or "brother," which is, in all reality, our means of telling the watching world that we know each other. We are connected by this shared artifice, but I have never met your children and you have never met mine. You do not know whether I'm a good father, much less a serial killer who uses holy jargon for my own means. In the future, feigned intimacy is more a means of advancing platforms than a means for genuine human connection.

In the future, we've made the things of God fashionable. We've packaged love, mercy, and faith into a few quotable characters so that the masses know we care. We splash these talking points across the internet and claim that talking about Christian ideals is the same thing as living them. We grab a buck from the charity bucket on our way off the platform--it's an administrative fee, we say. We call it good; duty done, we go back to buying baubles. We've lost the common beating of hearts.

There churches of the future have monster platforms built by commercial construction crews. The platforms rest under a network of jumbotrons, but it's not what you think. The construction crews work more in the digital realm than they do in the tangible, and the jumbotrons comprise the millions of computer screens watched by the congregants in the isolation of their own homes. Words like "revolutionary," and "movement," are associated with the church, though most movement occurs with a mouse click and the typing of keys on a keyboard, and "revolutionary" pertains more to market building than overturning tables.

We're all plugged into the marketing machine in the future; we broadcast every Coca-Cola moment, every time we blow our nose with Kleenex. We have traded the taste for eternity with the acquired taste of the temporal. More, more, more: money, followers, digital real estate, sex. We're always looking for the instant orgasmic.

I can see the future because I can see the past, am seeing the present. What we've done, we'll do again, and we'll do it with more and more gusto. The trajectory has been set. By definition, a trajectory  is "the path followed by... an object moving under the action of given forces." The forces that compel us now will keep compelling us unless, of course, we meet an immovable object--perhaps, say, the mountain of Zion?


I've been reading Powers, Weakness, and the Tabernacling of God by Marva J. Dawn. She touches on some of these trends, recognizes them as products of the "powers" (both spiritual and worldly) influencing the life of the church. She writes:

[t]here is too much subjectivism to recognize our need for substantive doctrinal foundation, too much sexual pleasure and too many internetted multi-relationships to distract us from our need for genuine fellowship, too much luxury to enjoy a simple feast of bread and wine, too much politics to be engaged in to pray, too much technology by which to be dazzled, too much mammon to be gained, too many other gods to waste our time worshipping the crucified Christ--in short, too many competing powers for people to realize that what they long for most of all is to worship God and to be weak so that [the indwelling of God] could ensue.

I am a product of my culture. There's no denying it. I am a distracted fellow, a man who might opt for the virtual-shallow over the present-deep. Perhaps I elevate the powers because of my own fear of weakness. Perhaps I'm afraid to be poor, unknown, or irrelevant.

This is a sort of confession, but it's a sort of prayer too.

A blind man once screeched like a raven to the passing Jesus--"Son of David, have mercy on me!" I figure we'd better start taking up the raven's song.


On the Market Machine, Christianity, and the Idea Factories (Part II)

This is a continuation of my exploration of "Market Christianity." This piece might not be for everyone, fair warning. After you take a gander here, though, jump over to Amber's site for her series on revolution.



"I wish Christianity would stop being so profitable."  This he said over his cheeseburger with no hyperbolic flourish. It was an emphatic statement, less of wish and more of a manifesto.

To be clear, he used the word "profitable" in the sense of monetary return, not in the sense used by Paul when he indicated "all scripture is breathed by God and profitable for teaching..." (2 Tim 3:16) I don't suppose I blame him. He was a Christian businessman in a Christian business that was charged with the task of delivering competing metrics to its investors--a monetary return on investment to the investors, and a spiritual return on investment represented by lives changed. He'd seen the ugly side of things when the desire for inflated metrics set in, when the machine needed more money to grow bigger and affect more lives. 

Eventually, everything becomes about the money, powerful as it is. It is the unfortunate truth: in the free market, monetary return and spiritual formation are often at odds.


The word profitable finds it roots in Old French, and was first used to convey the specific sense of "money making." In the west, we've perfected the process of profitability, have turned everything into a printing press for the Dollar. Goods, services, information, sex, self (celebrity), justice, mercy--these are all for sale in today's economy, all subjects of profit-motive. And make no mistake, profit is not a bad thing. By profit, we meet the needs of our lives. By profit, we are able to facilitate good and holy work, too.

The profit-motive, though, carries with it unique challenges. Before we consider them, lets first consider the apparatuses needed to generate profit.

An effective market cannot function without the following component parts: (1) raw materials; (2) factories to shape those raw materials into products; (3) marketers to inform the consumer of the latest product; and, of course, (4) the consumer to purchase the product. These component parts are neither good nor bad, neither holy nor evil. They are, quite simply, necessities of an effective market complex.

We see this playing out across a broad spectrum of industries. To take a simple example, in the winter, the consumer demands heat. A workman, then, chops wood (raw material), sends it through a wood splitter (the factory), and takes out an ad in the local paper that says "WOOD FOR SALE" (marketing), which lures the consumer to the point of purchase.

Consider a second example. Needing energy, the market demands coal production. A mining company extracts the coal (raw material), sends it to the power plant (the factory), and produces commercials letting the consumer know of its clean-burning benefits (marketing). The consumers, then, purchase the energy produced to run their homes.

These market mechanisms, just like profit, are neither good, nor bad. They simply are.

But what happens when the lumberjack or coal factory get a taste for the finer things money can buy? What happens when they thirst for more profit, for the increased growth required to generate more profit? In the same vein, what happens when the consumer wants more heat, more power? What happens when the market demands the constant production of the material?

By way of avarice and over-consumption, by way of the profit-motive gone awonk, we cause powerful problems: deforestation and strip-mining.


Let's not be deceived. Every profit center is subject to the same pitfalls. No matter the market, if avarice and over-consumption sneak into the market apparatus, things go askew. We demand that the factories continue to produce, and produce, and produce. Raw materials become scarce, factories begin to wear out, the market becomes bloated. Eventually the cogs in the machine need replacing. Eventually the forests are no more, the tops of every appalachian mountain are scraped clean. Eventually, the market desires different products and businesses close, marketers are out of work, and factories shut down.

Do we delude ourselves when we believe that tie between commerce and religion is somehow immune from these results?

If Christianity is a marketplace, consider these questions:

1. What is the raw material? The message of God?

2. What is the factory? The messenger of God? The non-profit or missions organization?

3.  What is the product? The book? The sermon? The song? Worse yet, the objects of our ministry (the third-world, tribal nonbeliever)?

4.  Who are the marketers? The church? (Perhaps, here's where things have the potential to get wonky.)

5.  What is the price of avarice and overconsumption? Are we strip-mining the good news for gain?

Again, Christianity and the marketplace can function together in healthy and good ways. As I asked last week, without this joining of forces, what would have happened to the works of Augustine, Lewis, and even Voskamp? Would their works line my bookshelves, provide me with the encouragement I so often need? Without the ability of Paul to raise funds by making tents, would he have been able to advance the good news?

Anyone who argues that the Christianity has no place within the marketplace, then, discounts the healthy ways in which the market assists in the distribution of good and holy messages.

That being said, what happens when avarice and overconsumption creep into the Christian marketplace? What happens when the producers of the message seek growth for growth sake? Don't we require the factories to overproduce? Don't we strip-mine every raw material?


There is a tension here. Can you see it?

We use the marketplace to disseminate ideas. The market, subjected to the authority of God, held in check to the power of God, can be a good and holy thing. The market gone awonk, though, is a beast. When it demands more profit, more consumption, and growth-for-growth sake (even if that growth might have good results, as in the case of fair-trade Christian businesses), it chews up and spits out the messengers of God, and robs the raw materials of their power.

And if I'm honest, this--I think--is the grand travesty of modern American Christianity.

I do not wish that Christianity would cease being profitable. That kind of desire might have unintended consequence. That being said, perhaps my friend was on to something with the insertion of one little word. Perhaps we should hope that Christianity does not become "so profitable." In the "so" we find the roots of greed. In the "so" we find the seeds of overconsumption. In the "so" we find a market imbued with too much power.