The Statesman

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Submissions Invited: Education Symposium

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Submit your article ideas now!

Imagine the most ideal education system where children learned, flourished, and grew up to contribute to the common good of society. What does that system look like? How is it structured?

That’s a difficult enough question--but it gets even harder when you try to build something like it in the context of the real people, institutions, habits, and idiosyncrasies of contemporary American society.

We invite educators and thinking citizens to participate in our next symposium, which seeks to explore the future of education in our modern American context.

We are particularly interested in entries in two general areas:

(1) What should constitute “education?”

We are pretty used to certain things being taught in schools--some are ancient, traditional areas of study; others seem mainly geared to get us into college. Then there might be things that aren’t typically taught, like how to interact well with our neighbors, or how to make wise decisions.

For the purpose of this symposium, we will assume that the purpose of education is, broadly speaking, to train people in the art of their inherited (and accumulated) humanity--which might include things like to teach them to love truth, goodness, and beauty; to ponder and discuss our shared human condition; to pass on the best of our heritage; and to teach the arts necessary for the citizens of a free republic.

Within that context, entries in this area should explore what gets to count as education in 21st century America--what should we ensure all our children are learning in order to be the kind of grownups our society needs? Where should they learn it, and from whom? What should education mean, and look like, in tomorrow’s America?

(2) How can we build it?

Education reformers across America, from both sides of the aisle, agree that the current public education system is failing our students. According to data from the National Center for Educational Statistics, one in three fourth graders cannot read at a basic level, in most of our largest cities graduation rates hover around 50 percent, among high school seniors only 26 percent are proficient in math and 38 percent are proficient in reading, and American students continue to perform in the middle of the pack compared to international competitors.

Despite concurrence on system failure, proposals for a solution from policy professionals and lawmakers are not always the same. And too often those who shape policy are disconnected from those who produce the pedagogy and content that shape students. We must therefore understand and correctly order the structure of the American education system because informs the substance of that education.

Entries in this area will explore questions like: should educational decision making preside first at the smallest levels of accountability (parents, teachers, districts), or at the largest levels of accountability (federal and state government)? What about textbook development? Legislative and political obstacles to reform? Dynamics between public and private and home education? Teacher quality standards and pay? Educational standards and benchmarks?

Dates/deadlines/details:

For examples of the kind of style and substance we are looking for, you can read up on our previous symposia, on the Christian Imagination, Modern Conservatism, and Home.

Soliciting several articles in the 400-800 word range. Soliciting 1-3 articles in the 800-1600 word range. Intended audience: John Jay alumni-level readership.  Author can assume the readership is college-educated and has an active, serious interest in political, cultural, and religious topics, but is not necessarily active in academia. Tone: Thoughtful, informed, and with appropriate citations, but accessible and concise (not an academic journal). Internet-friendly. Content: Light on summarizing others’ content; heavy on the author’s (hopefully fresh) argument. Concepts due September 1. If approved, first drafts will be due September 15, with the symposium to begin running October 15.

To submit an article proposal:

Click here.

Who do you know who should write for this?

Toward a More Sacramental Neighborhood

Pursuing Beauty In Our Immediate Spaces

"Together we can do something beautiful for God." – Mother Teresa of Calcutta

My grandfather, who turns 92 this year, has lived most of his life on the outskirts of Nashville, Tennessee, in a middle-class suburban home nestled amid three acres of land. He has a tree-lined creek at the edge of the backyard, and the neighborhood houses – simple, yet varied in architectural design – serve as artifacts in a sense, reminding us of the beauty of uniqueness in times past. Indeed, in this day and age, large yards and neighborhoods brimming with structures of varying shapes, sizes and designs have gone out of vogue. As a result, many of the cookie-cutter housing and commercial developments popping up in our communities are impoverishing our sensitivity to beauty and preventing our neighborhoods from serving the sacramental function of drawing us closer to the Divine.

Recently, my wife and I began searching for a newly built home in a middle-class neighborhood where the environment is mostly natural, lot sizes are larger than an eighth of an acre, houses are not uniform throughout the block, and there are a few big trees in the area. Our search for a home within these parameters has been difficult. In the 1960's, Joni Mitchell sang in Big Yellow Taxi, "They paved paradise and put up a parking lot." Today, where my wife and I live and in many other suburban areas, they paved paradise and put up townhomes (at least Mitchell's line has the delight of alliterative iambic pentameter).

Thomas Aquinas, one of the great philosophers and theologians of the Medieval period, believed beauty to be one of the five pathways to God. During the Medieval period, while many private homes were basic and practical, cathedrals and other public buildings were extravagantly constructed. Architects looked upon the world as a great sacrament, a channel to God in all its splendor of beauty, and they reflected that sacramental nature in painstakingly creating beautiful architecture, which lifted the mind to God and assisted in the onlooker's eternal salvation. Few of our homes and neighborhoods reflect the sacramental outlook of Medieval artists and architects. The reasons for our desensitization to beauty and the desacramentalization of our communities are numerous, but I believe they are symptomatic of a materialism manifested in cost-efficiency, uniformity and a lack of natural green spaces.

In the construction of homes, cost-efficiency ranks high in importance. Real estate is expensive and governmental regulations have restricted how much space developers are given to build on tracts of land. This usually leads developers to pack in as many units as they can to make as big a profit as possible. Of course, developers will build only what buyers want to buy, or are willing to settle to buy. Be that as it may, the small yards might be pardoned if homes were more unique from one another in architectural design. As it is, the mass-produced, materialistic feel of so many neighborhoods seems to stem from a people who value money more than they value beauty and beauty's connection to the Divine.

In his 2003 Lenten Message, Pope John Paul II connects today's monomaniacal quest for money and the impoverishment of humanity when he says, "The quest for profit at any cost and the lack of effective, responsible concern for the common good have concentrated immense resources in the hands of a few while the rest of humanity suffers in poverty and neglect." Although the pope is referring to a poverty of basic material necessities resulting from unbridled capitalism, this outlook contributes to desacramentalization and the loss of aesthetics in our neighborhoods.

Carrie Rollwagen, in her book The Localist, writes of how behemoth, "big box" corporations, along with consumers' obsession for getting the best deal in the most efficient manner possible, aid in vanquishing beauty from our natural landscape. Rollwagen writes, "Wal-Marts aren't surrounded by trees, ponds and walking paths; they're surrounded by boxy architecture so bland that what used to be our communities can now be confused with a line of cereal boxes on the discount aisle. As most any designer or architect will tell you, this kind of monotony affects our psyches. A world devoid of curves and plants is bad for us as people, and putting efficiency and practicality before beauty has led to an ugly landscape."

Is it possible, then, to prevent our further desensitization to beauty and to create homes and neighborhoods more sacramental in nature?

I think so, but before we can save our communities with beauty, we must first save our souls. To that end, we must strive to become more virtuous, more holy – and thus better sacraments – ourselves. "Unless souls are saved, nothing is saved," Fulton Sheen writes in Peace of Soul. "Nothing happens in the external world that has not first happened within a soul." And when we are on our way to becoming better channels of God's grace, even though we may not all be real estate developers or government leaders, we can start doing three simple and practical things to aid in the beautification of our homes and communities.

First, we can scale back our busy lifestyles so that we have time to cultivate a deeper appreciation for our yards and to landscape them with more trees, shrubs and flowers. For those of us living in apartments or condominiums, we can at least landscape our porches or balconies with pots of flowers and plants. It doesn't cost much or take much time, and it gets us outside more, where we might interact with a neighbor and breathe fresh air.

Second, we can beautify our neighborhoods by shopping at local businesses and farmers' markets rather than big chain stores. In the long run, this will pave the way for the opening of more local businesses that provide unique services in unique aesthetic spaces. Although buying local sometimes costs more, frugality should not always trump beauty.

Third, we can keep abreast of proposed developments in our neighborhoods through local media outlets, which often report agenda items to be discussed at city and county planning commission meetings. These meetings often allow time for community residents to speak up about proposed commercial zonings and businesses trying to gain footholds in the community. City and county commissioners take our feedback seriously and, if enough residents speak out against a proposal, commissioners will take heed and vote against it.

If we start doing these simple things – no matter if we live in the city, suburbs or rural area, or are a common citizen or politician – we can begin to make an aesthetic, sacramental difference in our homes and neighborhoods. But if we merely settle for a dearth of natural and architectural aesthetics around us, our sensitivity to beauty and to God's presence is at risk of being further impoverished. So let us return to the Medieval project of building a sacramental world and pray that our desire for beauty ultimately proves stronger than our desire for Mammon.

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.

Toward a More Sacramental Neighborhood

Pursuing Beauty In Our Immediate Spaces

"Together we can do something beautiful for God." – Mother Teresa of Calcutta

My grandfather, who turns 92 this year, has lived most of his life on the outskirts of Nashville, Tennessee, in a middle-class suburban home nestled amid three acres of land. He has a tree-lined creek at the edge of the backyard, and the neighborhood houses – simple, yet varied in architectural design – serve as artifacts in a sense, reminding us of the beauty of uniqueness in times past. Indeed, in this day and age, large yards and neighborhoods brimming with structures of varying shapes, sizes and designs have gone out of vogue. As a result, many of the cookie-cutter housing and commercial developments popping up in our communities are impoverishing our sensitivity to beauty and preventing our neighborhoods from serving the sacramental function of drawing us closer to the Divine.

Recently, my wife and I began searching for a newly built home in a middle-class neighborhood where the environment is mostly natural, lot sizes are larger than an eighth of an acre, houses are not uniform throughout the block, and there are a few big trees in the area. Our search for a home within these parameters has been difficult. In the 1960's, Joni Mitchell sang in Big Yellow Taxi, "They paved paradise and put up a parking lot." Today, where my wife and I live and in many other suburban areas, they paved paradise and put up townhomes (at least Mitchell's line has the delight of alliterative iambic pentameter).

Thomas Aquinas, one of the great philosophers and theologians of the Medieval period, believed beauty to be one of the five pathways to God. During the Medieval period, while many private homes were basic and practical, cathedrals and other public buildings were extravagantly constructed. Architects looked upon the world as a great sacrament, a channel to God in all its splendor of beauty, and they reflected that sacramental nature in painstakingly creating beautiful architecture, which lifted the mind to God and assisted in the onlooker's eternal salvation. Few of our homes and neighborhoods reflect the sacramental outlook of Medieval artists and architects. The reasons for our desensitization to beauty and the desacramentalization of our communities are numerous, but I believe they are symptomatic of a materialism manifested in cost-efficiency, uniformity and a lack of natural green spaces.

In the construction of homes, cost-efficiency ranks high in importance. Real estate is expensive and governmental regulations have restricted how much space developers are given to build on tracts of land. This usually leads developers to pack in as many units as they can to make as big a profit as possible. Of course, developers will build only what buyers want to buy, or are willing to settle to buy. Be that as it may, the small yards might be pardoned if homes were more unique from one another in architectural design. As it is, the mass-produced, materialistic feel of so many neighborhoods seems to stem from a people who value money more than they value beauty and beauty's connection to the Divine.

In his 2003 Lenten Message, Pope John Paul II connects today's monomaniacal quest for money and the impoverishment of humanity when he says, "The quest for profit at any cost and the lack of effective, responsible concern for the common good have concentrated immense resources in the hands of a few while the rest of humanity suffers in poverty and neglect." Although the pope is referring to a poverty of basic material necessities resulting from unbridled capitalism, this outlook contributes to desacramentalization and the loss of aesthetics in our neighborhoods.

Carrie Rollwagen, in her book The Localist, writes of how behemoth, "big box" corporations, along with consumers' obsession for getting the best deal in the most efficient manner possible, aid in vanquishing beauty from our natural landscape. Rollwagen writes, "Wal-Marts aren't surrounded by trees, ponds and walking paths; they're surrounded by boxy architecture so bland that what used to be our communities can now be confused with a line of cereal boxes on the discount aisle. As most any designer or architect will tell you, this kind of monotony affects our psyches. A world devoid of curves and plants is bad for us as people, and putting efficiency and practicality before beauty has led to an ugly landscape."

Is it possible, then, to prevent our further desensitization to beauty and to create homes and neighborhoods more sacramental in nature?

I think so, but before we can save our communities with beauty, we must first save our souls. To that end, we must strive to become more virtuous, more holy – and thus better sacraments – ourselves. "Unless souls are saved, nothing is saved," Fulton Sheen writes in Peace of Soul. "Nothing happens in the external world that has not first happened within a soul." And when we are on our way to becoming better channels of God's grace, even though we may not all be real estate developers or government leaders, we can start doing three simple and practical things to aid in the beautification of our homes and communities.

First, we can scale back our busy lifestyles so that we have time to cultivate a deeper appreciation for our yards and to landscape them with more trees, shrubs and flowers. For those of us living in apartments or condominiums, we can at least landscape our porches or balconies with pots of flowers and plants. It doesn't cost much or take much time, and it gets us outside more, where we might interact with a neighbor and breathe fresh air.

Second, we can beautify our neighborhoods by shopping at local businesses and farmers' markets rather than big chain stores. In the long run, this will pave the way for the opening of more local businesses that provide unique services in unique aesthetic spaces. Although buying local sometimes costs more, frugality should not always trump beauty.

Third, we can keep abreast of proposed developments in our neighborhoods through local media outlets, which often report agenda items to be discussed at city and county planning commission meetings. These meetings often allow time for community residents to speak up about proposed commercial zonings and businesses trying to gain footholds in the community. City and county commissioners take our feedback seriously and, if enough residents speak out against a proposal, commissioners will take heed and vote against it.

If we start doing these simple things – no matter if we live in the city, suburbs or rural area, or are a common citizen or politician – we can begin to make an aesthetic, sacramental difference in our homes and neighborhoods. But if we merely settle for a dearth of natural and architectural aesthetics around us, our sensitivity to beauty and to God's presence is at risk of being further impoverished. So let us return to the Medieval project of building a sacramental world and pray that our desire for beauty ultimately proves stronger than our desire for Mammon.

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.

Our Painful Relationship with Home

Exiles of Eden

Home is like a ghost— existing just out of reach—unattainable but unforgettable. A desire for a home is so deeply rooted, it seems essential to life. And yet no matter how pleasant the place we live, that longing is never satisfied. Like a ghost, this desire will not leave us alone. The only way to reconcile our bittersweet yearning for home is to learn how to live in the tension we feel.

When we speak about home, we are really talking about life, because home, in all its grit and glory, is the canvas where life happens. Home is that delightful magic that takes an ordinary place and transforms it into a place where you belong. At home we find the simple charms of living - coffee, fresh baked bread, fireplaces - which in themselves are so small as to be almost nothing. And yet, they are immeasurably important, the bones that hold us up. These delights of life are the lingering last notes of a song; that song was the perfect home we lost in Eden. And now, like all earthly things, home falls short of what it could be. Conflict, loss, poverty, and other ills abound. Home, we find, is another thread of the creation, fall, redemption tapestry of the Gospel. An ideal home does not fool us into thinking it is our permanent residence, but rather, it takes on just enough qualities of Eden to keep our hearts looking forward to our future reunion with Christ.

Echoes of Eden

Over the past three months, I have been semi-nomadic. My experience with home lately has been chaotic and tumultuous. For six weeks, I lived in my friends’ unfinished basement in a tent. There was something oddly homey about this tent—it reflected the place I vacated, with its books, shelves, and a memento or two. Our earthly homes are much the same way. As exiles of Eden, we try to recreate the qualities of that perfect home we lost.

Understanding home as God originally designed it can help us to understand what we were, and are, meant for. God made Eden as a place where life thrived, and where people flourished. In particular there were three aspects of the garden that supported human flourishing: place, purpose, and people.

After God created Adam in Genesis 2, the next thing He did was to create Eden, Adam’s home. The Lord filled the garden with good things: trees with delicious fruit, rivers, and rare stones. Our hearts feel most at home in a beautiful space, because God made us to enjoy and dwell in beauty. This beauty can be personal. I love gardens, wood floors, and rooms with lots of windows. For you, an attractive home may look different. It is the space itself that is important.

Later in verse 15, God put man into the Garden to work and keep it. In perfection, there was stewardship. God made us to be active agents in His world. We flourish as we help the world around us flourish. The possibilities for this are numerous: I know many people who keep vegetable gardens, or raise chickens in their back yards. One woman I know spins her own wool and makes blankets for the house. I know an engineer who creates efficient spaces within his home. We are rooted to place: we are drawn to its beauty, and we desire to protect it. But nothing is so important to home as the people we share life with.

Often quoted, in Genesis 2:18 God says, "It is not good for man to be alone." In God’s order, love produces life in us and in the world around us. We need companionship, and the good things God created are more fully enjoyed when we share them with others. This happens through community, whether through family or the larger communities in which we live. We long for days with no more broken and lonely hearts.

Having a healthy nostalgia towards Eden can help us understand our restlessness for the world God intended. Most importantly, Eden is where we walked with God, our heart’s greatest desire. To remember Eden is to remember Him, and through those memories to remind ourselves of the future restoration He promises.

Remembering Calypso after the Fall

The poet Tennyson said, "Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all." But while loving and losing may be the better choice, it is also the more painful one. Talking about the ideal of Eden is wonderful, until the real world hits and we realize we can never work hard enough to bring Eden back. This loss is what is so particularly painful about home.

To me, the pain of losing Eden is like the pain of losing a loved one. When I stumble on their picture, or see a sweater they wore all the time, my heart lurches at the memory. There are some forms of grief we should hold close to our hearts—they are precious because of what they represent. These sorrows come concurrently with joy. We cannot have the goodness of Eden or of God’s Restoration, without the pain now. An empty ideal, full of sentimental promises, can be more treacherous than suffering.

The physical and spiritual needs of the world, and the loss of Eden, should break our hearts. They should keep us longing for Christ to restore the earth. How does the knowledge that this is not our true home change how we live today? How much of our energy is spent on crafting comfortable earthly homes? How much of our time and effort do we expend on achieving good things for ourselves now? God has given us many blessings, and these are good to enjoy without shame. However, it is worth remembering that we don’t need to work toward our own material good now, because God is working for our future good. J.R.R. Tolkien, says: "The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater."((Tolkien, J.R.R. The Fellowship of the Ring. New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1994.)) Since love is mingled with grief, let us learn to live with our grief. Sometimes, our greatest hopes hurt us.

During Odysseus’s long and treacherous journey, Calypso offers him a reprieve from his struggle to return home, and temporarily helps him forget his wife. Calypso retains Odysseus for eight years, his greatest distraction. Sometimes Satan confronts us with trials, but often, he tries to convince us there is nothing wrong at all. God made us for a beautiful world, with perfect relationships, a sense of belonging, and a role in supporting the flourishing of life. To remember these things will cause heartache, but to forget them for empty pleasures here, is to forget who we are.

Living in the Tension

Living with grief is not easy; in fact, it is impossible. The only way we can manage it is through Christ Himself, who gives us comfort and strength. He has brought about our hope, and He reminds us of His promise. From Eden we shape our ideals of home as God intended it to be. However, in the reality of the loss of perfection, these ideals are unattainable (And anyone who says otherwise is selling something).

So what should our homes look like now while we wait? Here are a few characteristics that offer at least a place to start building a healthy (fallen) home.

In a world full of pain, home should be a place that supports recovery and healing. Home should be a place where you can cry. There is conflict at home too, but it is important to be able to learn to heal, and to forgive, at home. Home should be a place that does not actively perpetuate temptation or sin. For instance, a struggling alcoholic would best not take residence in a bar. Though we can’t eliminate sin from our lives, homes that encourage deep-rooted habits of sin and addictive behaviors are a cancer to home and those within it.

Home should be hospitable – in the largest sense of the word. Not only should we have open doors and invite people into our homes, but those within a home should also be hospitable towards each other. The more we practice openness and vulnerability, the more others can come alongside us to encourage and support. Homes where people have walls between one another become places where growth is slowed, and we lose our ability to live fruitfully in the tension of beauty and pain.

Home is phantasmal. We long for the ideal of home and are ever searching for Eden, but our hearts will not find their rest until Christ returns. Till that time, we should pursue beauty, but accept pain, and constantly remember the hope for home that we have in Christ’s promise to us. The best that home can do on earth is to remind us of the true goodness we long for, but not to pretend to satisfy our desires. If we spend our lives listening to those echoes of Eden which bounce around in our very own rafters, then we may find that, like Psyche in C.S. Lewis’ Till We Have Faces, we can say, "The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing [for home]… to find the place where all the beauty came from… For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back."((Lewis, C.S. Till We Have Faces. Orlando: Harcourt Books, 1984.)) Though now we are exiles in a distant land, we know that one day we will return home.

 

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.

Our Painful Relationship with Home

Exiles of Eden

Home is like a ghost— existing just out of reach—unattainable but unforgettable. A desire for a home is so deeply rooted, it seems essential to life. And yet no matter how pleasant the place we live, that longing is never satisfied. Like a ghost, this desire will not leave us alone. The only way to reconcile our bittersweet yearning for home is to learn how to live in the tension we feel.

When we speak about home, we are really talking about life, because home, in all its grit and glory, is the canvas where life happens. Home is that delightful magic that takes an ordinary place and transforms it into a place where you belong. At home we find the simple charms of living - coffee, fresh baked bread, fireplaces - which in themselves are so small as to be almost nothing. And yet, they are immeasurably important, the bones that hold us up. These delights of life are the lingering last notes of a song; that song was the perfect home we lost in Eden. And now, like all earthly things, home falls short of what it could be. Conflict, loss, poverty, and other ills abound. Home, we find, is another thread of the creation, fall, redemption tapestry of the Gospel. An ideal home does not fool us into thinking it is our permanent residence, but rather, it takes on just enough qualities of Eden to keep our hearts looking forward to our future reunion with Christ.

Echoes of Eden

Over the past three months, I have been semi-nomadic. My experience with home lately has been chaotic and tumultuous. For six weeks, I lived in my friends’ unfinished basement in a tent. There was something oddly homey about this tent—it reflected the place I vacated, with its books, shelves, and a memento or two. Our earthly homes are much the same way. As exiles of Eden, we try to recreate the qualities of that perfect home we lost.

Understanding home as God originally designed it can help us to understand what we were, and are, meant for. God made Eden as a place where life thrived, and where people flourished. In particular there were three aspects of the garden that supported human flourishing: place, purpose, and people.

After God created Adam in Genesis 2, the next thing He did was to create Eden, Adam’s home. The Lord filled the garden with good things: trees with delicious fruit, rivers, and rare stones. Our hearts feel most at home in a beautiful space, because God made us to enjoy and dwell in beauty. This beauty can be personal. I love gardens, wood floors, and rooms with lots of windows. For you, an attractive home may look different. It is the space itself that is important.

Later in verse 15, God put man into the Garden to work and keep it. In perfection, there was stewardship. God made us to be active agents in His world. We flourish as we help the world around us flourish. The possibilities for this are numerous: I know many people who keep vegetable gardens, or raise chickens in their back yards. One woman I know spins her own wool and makes blankets for the house. I know an engineer who creates efficient spaces within his home. We are rooted to place: we are drawn to its beauty, and we desire to protect it. But nothing is so important to home as the people we share life with.

Often quoted, in Genesis 2:18 God says, "It is not good for man to be alone." In God’s order, love produces life in us and in the world around us. We need companionship, and the good things God created are more fully enjoyed when we share them with others. This happens through community, whether through family or the larger communities in which we live. We long for days with no more broken and lonely hearts.

Having a healthy nostalgia towards Eden can help us understand our restlessness for the world God intended. Most importantly, Eden is where we walked with God, our heart’s greatest desire. To remember Eden is to remember Him, and through those memories to remind ourselves of the future restoration He promises.

Remembering Calypso after the Fall

The poet Tennyson said, "Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all." But while loving and losing may be the better choice, it is also the more painful one. Talking about the ideal of Eden is wonderful, until the real world hits and we realize we can never work hard enough to bring Eden back. This loss is what is so particularly painful about home.

To me, the pain of losing Eden is like the pain of losing a loved one. When I stumble on their picture, or see a sweater they wore all the time, my heart lurches at the memory. There are some forms of grief we should hold close to our hearts—they are precious because of what they represent. These sorrows come concurrently with joy. We cannot have the goodness of Eden or of God’s Restoration, without the pain now. An empty ideal, full of sentimental promises, can be more treacherous than suffering.

The physical and spiritual needs of the world, and the loss of Eden, should break our hearts. They should keep us longing for Christ to restore the earth. How does the knowledge that this is not our true home change how we live today? How much of our energy is spent on crafting comfortable earthly homes? How much of our time and effort do we expend on achieving good things for ourselves now? God has given us many blessings, and these are good to enjoy without shame. However, it is worth remembering that we don’t need to work toward our own material good now, because God is working for our future good. J.R.R. Tolkien, says: "The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater."((Tolkien, J.R.R. The Fellowship of the Ring. New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1994.)) Since love is mingled with grief, let us learn to live with our grief. Sometimes, our greatest hopes hurt us.

During Odysseus’s long and treacherous journey, Calypso offers him a reprieve from his struggle to return home, and temporarily helps him forget his wife. Calypso retains Odysseus for eight years, his greatest distraction. Sometimes Satan confronts us with trials, but often, he tries to convince us there is nothing wrong at all. God made us for a beautiful world, with perfect relationships, a sense of belonging, and a role in supporting the flourishing of life. To remember these things will cause heartache, but to forget them for empty pleasures here, is to forget who we are.

Living in the Tension

Living with grief is not easy; in fact, it is impossible. The only way we can manage it is through Christ Himself, who gives us comfort and strength. He has brought about our hope, and He reminds us of His promise. From Eden we shape our ideals of home as God intended it to be. However, in the reality of the loss of perfection, these ideals are unattainable (And anyone who says otherwise is selling something).

So what should our homes look like now while we wait? Here are a few characteristics that offer at least a place to start building a healthy (fallen) home.

In a world full of pain, home should be a place that supports recovery and healing. Home should be a place where you can cry. There is conflict at home too, but it is important to be able to learn to heal, and to forgive, at home. Home should be a place that does not actively perpetuate temptation or sin. For instance, a struggling alcoholic would best not take residence in a bar. Though we can’t eliminate sin from our lives, homes that encourage deep-rooted habits of sin and addictive behaviors are a cancer to home and those within it.

Home should be hospitable – in the largest sense of the word. Not only should we have open doors and invite people into our homes, but those within a home should also be hospitable towards each other. The more we practice openness and vulnerability, the more others can come alongside us to encourage and support. Homes where people have walls between one another become places where growth is slowed, and we lose our ability to live fruitfully in the tension of beauty and pain.

Home is phantasmal. We long for the ideal of home and are ever searching for Eden, but our hearts will not find their rest until Christ returns. Till that time, we should pursue beauty, but accept pain, and constantly remember the hope for home that we have in Christ’s promise to us. The best that home can do on earth is to remind us of the true goodness we long for, but not to pretend to satisfy our desires. If we spend our lives listening to those echoes of Eden which bounce around in our very own rafters, then we may find that, like Psyche in C.S. Lewis’ Till We Have Faces, we can say, "The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing [for home]… to find the place where all the beauty came from… For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back."((Lewis, C.S. Till We Have Faces. Orlando: Harcourt Books, 1984.)) Though now we are exiles in a distant land, we know that one day we will return home.

 

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.

Home: A Conclusion

Final Thoughts on Our Symposium on Home

Our symposium on Home in a Changing World is drawing to a close, and we want to thank all of our readers, writers, and editors for their hard work and participation! These essays have delved deeply into our topic, exploring concepts of home, family, and culture from many angles. Through them, we’ve been asked to consider questions like what home looks like for the homeless, how we see home with new eyes after returning to it, what home may mean for children who have lived in multiple countries since a young age, how to fashion and fill our homes, and how our homes might prefigure our heavenly home.

We also saw the concept of home play out in multiple works of art, including Huck Finn’s rejection of false homes, the strange but loving home in Howl’s Moving Castle, the contrasting types of homes at play in Anna Karenina, and the impact of the American spirit on homes in True Grit.

We’ve been led to reconsider how we need to value our real family connections over our self-centered house designs and manic busyness. We’re reminded that we must look for opportunities to be hospitable and not let the ideals of the perfect home (or the Pinterest home) get in the way of opening our homes to others. We’ve been shown great examples of how essential the liturgies and routines of the home are to the well being of families. And we’ve seen how vital the small particulars, personal experiences, and memories of our homes can be to understanding both ourselves and our broader world.

Home has always been a central reality of the human experience, and we are wise to consider the questions it asks and the answers we might have in response. But at the end of the day, we all return to some kind of home, where the ideas must be woven into the fabric of lived reality. Whatever the texture of your home life, above all we hope that you come away from this Symposium with a renewed awareness of vital truths about your own home and a fresh intentionality, perhaps even eagerness, about the life you live in it and from it.

We have truly enjoyed this conversation with you and our writers and are eager for it to continue within your own homes!

Sincerely, The Home Symposium Editors

lizhorst-270x300Special Guest Editor

Liz Horst holds a degree in English literature from Grove City College. She works as a Suzuki violin teacher in the Washington, D.C. area and, in her spare time, enjoys immersing herself in great books and poetry.

anna-smithJJI Editor

Anna Smith holds an MA in biblical studies from Westminster Seminary California and a BA in political science from Geneva College. She works at Westminster and lives in Southern California with her husband, where she loves the ocean but misses her native Midwest. She (mostly re-)tweets @AnnaSpeckhard.

lauren-bobbittJJI Editor

Lauren Bobbitt, a 2009 John Jay Institute fellow, has a background in literature and earned her MA at Marquette University. She currently works in communications for an organic dairy farm, where she enjoys the smell of manure and striving to reflect the good life in her living and writing.

Zac-Gappa-SmallerJJI Managing Editor

Zachary Gappa has a degree in Political Theory from Patrick Henry College and currently works as both Managing Editor for the John Jay Institute’s Center for a Just Society and Operations Manager at Gappa Security Solutions. Most recently he has been enjoying trying to stay warm in Wisconsin while planning family activities for Summer.

 

Home: A Conclusion

Final Thoughts on Our Symposium on Home

Our symposium on Home in a Changing World is drawing to a close, and we want to thank all of our readers, writers, and editors for their hard work and participation! These essays have delved deeply into our topic, exploring concepts of home, family, and culture from many angles. Through them, we’ve been asked to consider questions like what home looks like for the homeless, how we see home with new eyes after returning to it, what home may mean for children who have lived in multiple countries since a young age, how to fashion and fill our homes, and how our homes might prefigure our heavenly home.

We also saw the concept of home play out in multiple works of art, including Huck Finn’s rejection of false homes, the strange but loving home in Howl’s Moving Castle, the contrasting types of homes at play in Anna Karenina, and the impact of the American spirit on homes in True Grit.

We’ve been led to reconsider how we need to value our real family connections over our self-centered house designs and manic busyness. We’re reminded that we must look for opportunities to be hospitable and not let the ideals of the perfect home (or the Pinterest home) get in the way of opening our homes to others. We’ve been shown great examples of how essential the liturgies and routines of the home are to the well being of families. And we’ve seen how vital the small particulars, personal experiences, and memories of our homes can be to understanding both ourselves and our broader world.

Home has always been a central reality of the human experience, and we are wise to consider the questions it asks and the answers we might have in response. But at the end of the day, we all return to some kind of home, where the ideas must be woven into the fabric of lived reality. Whatever the texture of your home life, above all we hope that you come away from this Symposium with a renewed awareness of vital truths about your own home and a fresh intentionality, perhaps even eagerness, about the life you live in it and from it.

We have truly enjoyed this conversation with you and our writers and are eager for it to continue within your own homes!

Sincerely, The Home Symposium Editors

lizhorst-270x300Special Guest Editor

Liz Horst holds a degree in English literature from Grove City College. She works as a Suzuki violin teacher in the Washington, D.C. area and, in her spare time, enjoys immersing herself in great books and poetry.

anna-smithJJI Editor

Anna Smith holds an MA in biblical studies from Westminster Seminary California and a BA in political science from Geneva College. She works at Westminster and lives in Southern California with her husband, where she loves the ocean but misses her native Midwest. She (mostly re-)tweets @AnnaSpeckhard.

lauren-bobbittJJI Editor

Lauren Bobbitt, a 2009 John Jay Institute fellow, has a background in literature and earned her MA at Marquette University. She currently works in communications for an organic dairy farm, where she enjoys the smell of manure and striving to reflect the good life in her living and writing.

Zac-Gappa-SmallerJJI Managing Editor

Zachary Gappa has a degree in Political Theory from Patrick Henry College and currently works as both Managing Editor for the John Jay Institute’s Center for a Just Society and Operations Manager at Gappa Security Solutions. Most recently he has been enjoying trying to stay warm in Wisconsin while planning family activities for Summer.

 

The Oasis Mirage

Is Your Master Bedroom Hurting Your Family?

"Oasis." It is such a calming word; we all hear it, and we want to disappear – to bathe in the crystal blue waves of the Mediterranean or sip a Margarita under the sunlit palms on the coast of Mexico.

When you look up "oasis" in a dictionary, you will find that it has several definitions – the first of which describes an area in a desert surrounded by lush foliage and fresh water. The remaining definitions are sprinkled with phrases like "refuge from," "retreating to," and "escaping from." We in modern America generally use the term "oasis" as a catch-all word that describes a desperate cry to escape from the stresses of modern life. Even the apartment complex where my husband and I live – in the middle of the dry, desert-scape of Colorado – is called "The Oasis Apartments."

But today, the ideal of an "oasis" has also attached itself to the search for master bedrooms among today's homebuyers, and developers have caught on and designed their bedroom suites to become that longed-for place of refuge. However, whether the designers realize it or not, the way modern bedrooms are designed, for both adults and children, is shaping the family and may even be contributing to isolation and fragmentation in what were, a few decades ago, healthier communities.

My husband and I have a guilty pleasure: watching HGTV and reveling in home design makeovers and renovation jobs in older outdated residences. It's loads of fun, but it gives you a striking look into the psychology of today's homebuyers, particularly those interested in single family homes. We've probably watched fifty episodes, and I can't remember a single episode where the buyers of the homes didn't use the word "oasis" in relation to their master-bedroom.

Today's society has changed when it comes to the nuclear family. I have seen it over the years in my work with youth in various communities: today's family has become more secluded and less involved in volunteering and outreach, becoming instead more self-oriented and inwardly focused. It seems that this widespread and unfortunate trend was set, often unintentionally, by many well-meaning parents. The parents of today's young children and teenagers do their utmost to drive their kids into success. These efforts are all well-intentioned, but they play out in an unhealthy way: Boy scouts, band, ballet, soccer, character-building camps, piano lessons, and tutoring have all consumed the parents' time so that they leave the house at six and don't come home until 9:00 at night. The parents, who once swore "til death do us part," suddenly are "parted" every day, all day, until exhaustion drives them into separation emotionally, physically and relationally.

In this light, the desire for a master "oasis" makes sense; the parents have a subconscious desire to rekindle their romance – and not necessarily in a sexual way. They simply feel the desperate need to relax and reinvigorate themselves and their relationship before the rat-race of life drives them mad.

And unfortunately, the master bedroom is not the only room in the house that has expanded, to detrimental effect. Bedrooms in general have gotten bigger, and grown in number. Family sizes are shrinking, but bedroom numbers and bedroom sizes are growing.

Sometime within the last 15-20 years it became disgraceful for two children to share the same bedroom. If parents have a five bedroom house and four kids, two boys and two girls, each child will have their own room, rather than each gender sharing a room and leaving at least one room available for other family activities or guest accommodations.

I remember watching one episode of HGTV's "Love it or List it" in which a couple had a three-year-old daughter with a massive bedroom, large bed, princess toys, bookshelves and ample space, but they told the real-estate agent that it was "unfair" to their daughter to give her so little space to use as she pleased. What does this lavishness do to the child?

This societal demand to give children individual rooms and to increase those room sizes simply gives the children more excuses to lock themselves in their rooms and avoid contact with each other. The kids turn to social media, video or internet games, and sadly even, and all too often, porn. No guidance from parents (usually simply because they are too busy) and no contact with siblings increases the solitude of each child, and they miss out on the beauty and goodness of conflict and resolution, love and encouragement, and accountability.

Though sharing a room with siblings creates conflicts of its own, the benefits far outweigh those conflicts.When I was a child, I witnessed the seclusion instigated by separate bedrooms in my friends' homes, and as I grew older, I began to recognize the contrast to my own family's experience. In my childhood home, two boys and two girls each shared bedrooms in a very small house, and, partly due to sharing these small spaces with each other, became best friends. We fought, and we made up. We got jealous, and we got over it. We shared secrets whispered in the dark of night, played pranks on each other, and told stories after lights' out that created memories for years to come. That relationship and those memories were so precious to my sister that she lovingly mentioned them in her maid-of-honor toast at my wedding.

It is not a simple solution; decreasing bedroom size and sharing living spaces does not necessarily solve all of these relational problems. But these seemingly minor adjustments can play a large role in defining who the family is as a whole and who the members become as individuals. I don't think anyone can blame today's parents for wanting a "master-oasis" - a place of their own away from the children where they can live adult lives. But a spa bathroom with a rainfall showerhead, jetted tubs, and a king-sized bed with multi-thousand dollar bedding is not the answer.

A home with less individualized space and more community-based "hang-outs" is much more conducive to healthy, happy people. Such a home would have rooms designed for and dedicated to communal activities: music rooms for mini "concerts" or sing-alongs around the piano on holidays; parlors where girlfriends can gather and share coffee, crumpets and conversation; that old-fashioned smoking room complete with cigar boxes, brandy, and business talk; large oversized dining rooms for hosting guests and loved ones; family rooms centered around conversation spaces instead of the television; and other such purposefully designed spaces. Through such rooms , our homes can help us give back to society by living generously and living well and, in turn, living the beautiful life we all long to live.

 

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.

Image above from Flickr use Jeremy Levin via Flickr Creative Commons license.

The Oasis Mirage

Is Your Master Bedroom Hurting Your Family?

"Oasis." It is such a calming word; we all hear it, and we want to disappear – to bathe in the crystal blue waves of the Mediterranean or sip a Margarita under the sunlit palms on the coast of Mexico.

When you look up "oasis" in a dictionary, you will find that it has several definitions – the first of which describes an area in a desert surrounded by lush foliage and fresh water. The remaining definitions are sprinkled with phrases like "refuge from," "retreating to," and "escaping from." We in modern America generally use the term "oasis" as a catch-all word that describes a desperate cry to escape from the stresses of modern life. Even the apartment complex where my husband and I live – in the middle of the dry, desert-scape of Colorado – is called "The Oasis Apartments."

But today, the ideal of an "oasis" has also attached itself to the search for master bedrooms among today's homebuyers, and developers have caught on and designed their bedroom suites to become that longed-for place of refuge. However, whether the designers realize it or not, the way modern bedrooms are designed, for both adults and children, is shaping the family and may even be contributing to isolation and fragmentation in what were, a few decades ago, healthier communities.

My husband and I have a guilty pleasure: watching HGTV and reveling in home design makeovers and renovation jobs in older outdated residences. It's loads of fun, but it gives you a striking look into the psychology of today's homebuyers, particularly those interested in single family homes. We've probably watched fifty episodes, and I can't remember a single episode where the buyers of the homes didn't use the word "oasis" in relation to their master-bedroom.

Today's society has changed when it comes to the nuclear family. I have seen it over the years in my work with youth in various communities: today's family has become more secluded and less involved in volunteering and outreach, becoming instead more self-oriented and inwardly focused. It seems that this widespread and unfortunate trend was set, often unintentionally, by many well-meaning parents. The parents of today's young children and teenagers do their utmost to drive their kids into success. These efforts are all well-intentioned, but they play out in an unhealthy way: Boy scouts, band, ballet, soccer, character-building camps, piano lessons, and tutoring have all consumed the parents' time so that they leave the house at six and don't come home until 9:00 at night. The parents, who once swore "til death do us part," suddenly are "parted" every day, all day, until exhaustion drives them into separation emotionally, physically and relationally.

In this light, the desire for a master "oasis" makes sense; the parents have a subconscious desire to rekindle their romance – and not necessarily in a sexual way. They simply feel the desperate need to relax and reinvigorate themselves and their relationship before the rat-race of life drives them mad.

And unfortunately, the master bedroom is not the only room in the house that has expanded, to detrimental effect. Bedrooms in general have gotten bigger, and grown in number. Family sizes are shrinking, but bedroom numbers and bedroom sizes are growing.

Sometime within the last 15-20 years it became disgraceful for two children to share the same bedroom. If parents have a five bedroom house and four kids, two boys and two girls, each child will have their own room, rather than each gender sharing a room and leaving at least one room available for other family activities or guest accommodations.

I remember watching one episode of HGTV's "Love it or List it" in which a couple had a three-year-old daughter with a massive bedroom, large bed, princess toys, bookshelves and ample space, but they told the real-estate agent that it was "unfair" to their daughter to give her so little space to use as she pleased. What does this lavishness do to the child?

This societal demand to give children individual rooms and to increase those room sizes simply gives the children more excuses to lock themselves in their rooms and avoid contact with each other. The kids turn to social media, video or internet games, and sadly even, and all too often, porn. No guidance from parents (usually simply because they are too busy) and no contact with siblings increases the solitude of each child, and they miss out on the beauty and goodness of conflict and resolution, love and encouragement, and accountability.

Though sharing a room with siblings creates conflicts of its own, the benefits far outweigh those conflicts.When I was a child, I witnessed the seclusion instigated by separate bedrooms in my friends' homes, and as I grew older, I began to recognize the contrast to my own family's experience. In my childhood home, two boys and two girls each shared bedrooms in a very small house, and, partly due to sharing these small spaces with each other, became best friends. We fought, and we made up. We got jealous, and we got over it. We shared secrets whispered in the dark of night, played pranks on each other, and told stories after lights' out that created memories for years to come. That relationship and those memories were so precious to my sister that she lovingly mentioned them in her maid-of-honor toast at my wedding.

It is not a simple solution; decreasing bedroom size and sharing living spaces does not necessarily solve all of these relational problems. But these seemingly minor adjustments can play a large role in defining who the family is as a whole and who the members become as individuals. I don't think anyone can blame today's parents for wanting a "master-oasis" - a place of their own away from the children where they can live adult lives. But a spa bathroom with a rainfall showerhead, jetted tubs, and a king-sized bed with multi-thousand dollar bedding is not the answer.

A home with less individualized space and more community-based "hang-outs" is much more conducive to healthy, happy people. Such a home would have rooms designed for and dedicated to communal activities: music rooms for mini "concerts" or sing-alongs around the piano on holidays; parlors where girlfriends can gather and share coffee, crumpets and conversation; that old-fashioned smoking room complete with cigar boxes, brandy, and business talk; large oversized dining rooms for hosting guests and loved ones; family rooms centered around conversation spaces instead of the television; and other such purposefully designed spaces. Through such rooms , our homes can help us give back to society by living generously and living well and, in turn, living the beautiful life we all long to live.

 

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.

Image above from Flickr use Jeremy Levin via Flickr Creative Commons license.

Finding Home When Homeless

What does home mean for those without steady houses?

"We must recover the whole sense of gift, of gratuitousness, of solidarity. Rampant capitalism has taught the logic of profit at all costs, of giving to get, of exploitation without looking at the person… and we see the results in the crisis we are experiencing! This Home [homeless shelter] is a place that teaches charity, a "school' of charity, which instructs me to go encounter every person, not for profit, but for love."

This is a quote from my favorite homily by Pope Francis. When I first read it in 2014, I was on top of the world. By the standards of the world, I had made it. After growing up in poverty, I had attended college on a full scholarship, had graduated with honors and two bachelors degrees, and was now preparing for the comprehensive examinations to complete my graduate program. I was the American "success story," the child who escaped the cycle of poverty through hard work, getting into college and earning multiple degrees. My future was bright, and I was filled with joy, knowing how blessed I was by God.

Nine months later, I was once again reading the same homily from Pope Francis. Although the words on the page remained the same, my life could not have changed more radically. I had been a happy graduate, newly employed with my dream job; a few short months later, I was homeless.

The last week I spent in my dream apartment was the week before Thanksgiving. The majority of my possessions were in storage, all except my mattress, a duffle bag of clothes, my laptop, and a stack of books. It was one of the most difficult weeks of my life, sitting in the emptiness of that apartment, thinking of my failures and lost dreams, anticipating that at the end of the week, I would not even have the empty space. While others would sit down to give thanks, enjoy a great meal, and spend time with family, I would hand in the keys to my apartment, to my home, all alone.

"It will only be for a few days, maybe a month," I told myself. I had plenty of interviews scheduled and applications sent out. People were networking and making calls. Even more people were praying for me. Something was going to come through soon.

At this point, it has been a little over four months since I became homeless.

My homelessness came from trying to escape the poverty I grew up in and, by the world's standards, failing. As a former perfectionist, that word makes my heart ache when I use it to describe my own life. This experience has been both humbling and humiliating.

Most of my days, (which I call dignity challenging days), I am treated in terms of profit. There is a point where someone looks at me and decides that I am not worth the cost. My dream job decided not to keep me on, and the jobs I apply to now decide I'm not worth the risk. It is hard, especially when I feel that I have done everything right: I worked hard, I overcame everything thrown at me, and I stayed out of trouble. I am fortunate that I have never had to sleep on the street or in my car; many people have made sure I have somewhere to sleep, and for that I am most grateful. But there does not seem to be an end in sight for me, and it seems harder to hope as more weeks go by and nothing changes.

I never really knew just how much home, even the broken ones, have meant to me until I have been without a bed to call my own. The temptation to be sad and to despair can be crippling. I often cry and miss my bed. I long for a home that no longer exists.

Missing my home causes me many different kinds of daily suffering. I am constantly worried that those who have taken me in will see me as a burden and will throw me out one day. Part of this distrust comes from never having a completely stable home, but I also worry because I have not known everyone whom I have stayed with.

When you try to escape poverty and fail, it is often worse for you than it was before. I am exhausted from trying to get help, being treated like a criminal, and then trying to navigate the terrible systems of both governmental and charitable aid, which sometimes take the humanity out of the process of giving and receiving. I know that there are many out there who abuse these systems and take advantage, but I hope that I am never one of them. Even just a small bit of help could make it easier.

My chronic illnesses are often made worse by environmental changes, so the more I move around, the sicker I get. The longer I am continuously sick, the harder it gets to function and be able to help myself.

Then there are the more shallow problems that feed into the bigger ones.

The constant moving around makes it impossible to get anything done. I feel scattered in all aspects of my life, and I feel that I run out of time to get so little completed. There is the brokenness and the emotional complexities I suffer through: worry, about not getting everything done because a delay means a missed opportunity that could change my situation; sadness, when I am tired and want to go take a nap, or have a moment to myself, and I have nowhere to go; rejection, because I have had many, many friends leave me or mistreat me since I became homeless; criticism, because since I failed in the eyes of the world, I suddenly am incapable of having opinions or making decisions without receiving judgment; disregard, because I have so many gifts, talents, and skills that are going unused even by the people who know they are there; helplessness, because my survival is dependent completely on the generosity and kindness of others; and finally, the loss of things that make you feel like a human being. It is no longer fun to socialize with people because I can't relate anymore, because discussions can be hurtful, or because as a homeless person, I am judged. Often in conversations about careers or life matters, I feel that many people no longer trust my opinions because I have failed at obtaining a career and maintaining my own life. Once again, I am seen in terms of profit, even in my own social circles.

One of my friends recently told me how much she values the time I still spend in trying to socialize. She said I do not make others feel bad about their wealth and the way they choose to spend it. She said that, to her, my presence was worth more than any cost to have me there.

In her kind words, my friend reminded me of what home actually is and what family is to me.

My family right now are the hundreds of people who are praying for me, the dozens who have come to my assistance in providing me with food, shelter, and clothing, and most especially the handful of people who wipe my tears when I cry and hold my hand in the difficult moments. My home is in the many homes where I have stayed throughout the last few months, especially the ones where I am welcomed with open arms, being taught to grow in patience, trust, hope, and openness, and receiving the gift of mutual love, without expectation, judgment, or qualification.

The home I am living in right now as I write this, is a place of the most unexpected, deepest healing and consolation. I never imagined that I could find that in a time like this. Even when things are at their worst, God is still full of beautiful surprises. I am not any less blessed than I was before, but instead I am even more blessed to be able to be stripped materially in order to know God. Though the burden is heavy, the ache is deep, and the temptation to give up is overwhelming, I cannot lose hope, which is even greater. One day, I will find that house that God is building for me, where no stone goes unused or is rejected, and all of this will be a memory that, I hope, allows me to help others. I desire to be seen, not for profit, but for love, and that is how I hope I can change the world for others who are marginalized and rejected through the brokenness of home. This part of my life is a time given by God, to prepare me for an extraordinary home and family that awaits me.

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.

Image above from Flickr usecuyahogajco via Flickr Creative Commons license.

Finding Home When Homeless

What does home mean for those without steady houses?

"We must recover the whole sense of gift, of gratuitousness, of solidarity. Rampant capitalism has taught the logic of profit at all costs, of giving to get, of exploitation without looking at the person… and we see the results in the crisis we are experiencing! This Home [homeless shelter] is a place that teaches charity, a "school' of charity, which instructs me to go encounter every person, not for profit, but for love."

This is a quote from my favorite homily by Pope Francis. When I first read it in 2014, I was on top of the world. By the standards of the world, I had made it. After growing up in poverty, I had attended college on a full scholarship, had graduated with honors and two bachelors degrees, and was now preparing for the comprehensive examinations to complete my graduate program. I was the American "success story," the child who escaped the cycle of poverty through hard work, getting into college and earning multiple degrees. My future was bright, and I was filled with joy, knowing how blessed I was by God.

Nine months later, I was once again reading the same homily from Pope Francis. Although the words on the page remained the same, my life could not have changed more radically. I had been a happy graduate, newly employed with my dream job; a few short months later, I was homeless.

The last week I spent in my dream apartment was the week before Thanksgiving. The majority of my possessions were in storage, all except my mattress, a duffle bag of clothes, my laptop, and a stack of books. It was one of the most difficult weeks of my life, sitting in the emptiness of that apartment, thinking of my failures and lost dreams, anticipating that at the end of the week, I would not even have the empty space. While others would sit down to give thanks, enjoy a great meal, and spend time with family, I would hand in the keys to my apartment, to my home, all alone.

"It will only be for a few days, maybe a month," I told myself. I had plenty of interviews scheduled and applications sent out. People were networking and making calls. Even more people were praying for me. Something was going to come through soon.

At this point, it has been a little over four months since I became homeless.

My homelessness came from trying to escape the poverty I grew up in and, by the world's standards, failing. As a former perfectionist, that word makes my heart ache when I use it to describe my own life. This experience has been both humbling and humiliating.

Most of my days, (which I call dignity challenging days), I am treated in terms of profit. There is a point where someone looks at me and decides that I am not worth the cost. My dream job decided not to keep me on, and the jobs I apply to now decide I'm not worth the risk. It is hard, especially when I feel that I have done everything right: I worked hard, I overcame everything thrown at me, and I stayed out of trouble. I am fortunate that I have never had to sleep on the street or in my car; many people have made sure I have somewhere to sleep, and for that I am most grateful. But there does not seem to be an end in sight for me, and it seems harder to hope as more weeks go by and nothing changes.

I never really knew just how much home, even the broken ones, have meant to me until I have been without a bed to call my own. The temptation to be sad and to despair can be crippling. I often cry and miss my bed. I long for a home that no longer exists.

Missing my home causes me many different kinds of daily suffering. I am constantly worried that those who have taken me in will see me as a burden and will throw me out one day. Part of this distrust comes from never having a completely stable home, but I also worry because I have not known everyone whom I have stayed with.

When you try to escape poverty and fail, it is often worse for you than it was before. I am exhausted from trying to get help, being treated like a criminal, and then trying to navigate the terrible systems of both governmental and charitable aid, which sometimes take the humanity out of the process of giving and receiving. I know that there are many out there who abuse these systems and take advantage, but I hope that I am never one of them. Even just a small bit of help could make it easier.

My chronic illnesses are often made worse by environmental changes, so the more I move around, the sicker I get. The longer I am continuously sick, the harder it gets to function and be able to help myself.

Then there are the more shallow problems that feed into the bigger ones.

The constant moving around makes it impossible to get anything done. I feel scattered in all aspects of my life, and I feel that I run out of time to get so little completed. There is the brokenness and the emotional complexities I suffer through: worry, about not getting everything done because a delay means a missed opportunity that could change my situation; sadness, when I am tired and want to go take a nap, or have a moment to myself, and I have nowhere to go; rejection, because I have had many, many friends leave me or mistreat me since I became homeless; criticism, because since I failed in the eyes of the world, I suddenly am incapable of having opinions or making decisions without receiving judgment; disregard, because I have so many gifts, talents, and skills that are going unused even by the people who know they are there; helplessness, because my survival is dependent completely on the generosity and kindness of others; and finally, the loss of things that make you feel like a human being. It is no longer fun to socialize with people because I can't relate anymore, because discussions can be hurtful, or because as a homeless person, I am judged. Often in conversations about careers or life matters, I feel that many people no longer trust my opinions because I have failed at obtaining a career and maintaining my own life. Once again, I am seen in terms of profit, even in my own social circles.

One of my friends recently told me how much she values the time I still spend in trying to socialize. She said I do not make others feel bad about their wealth and the way they choose to spend it. She said that, to her, my presence was worth more than any cost to have me there.

In her kind words, my friend reminded me of what home actually is and what family is to me.

My family right now are the hundreds of people who are praying for me, the dozens who have come to my assistance in providing me with food, shelter, and clothing, and most especially the handful of people who wipe my tears when I cry and hold my hand in the difficult moments. My home is in the many homes where I have stayed throughout the last few months, especially the ones where I am welcomed with open arms, being taught to grow in patience, trust, hope, and openness, and receiving the gift of mutual love, without expectation, judgment, or qualification.

The home I am living in right now as I write this, is a place of the most unexpected, deepest healing and consolation. I never imagined that I could find that in a time like this. Even when things are at their worst, God is still full of beautiful surprises. I am not any less blessed than I was before, but instead I am even more blessed to be able to be stripped materially in order to know God. Though the burden is heavy, the ache is deep, and the temptation to give up is overwhelming, I cannot lose hope, which is even greater. One day, I will find that house that God is building for me, where no stone goes unused or is rejected, and all of this will be a memory that, I hope, allows me to help others. I desire to be seen, not for profit, but for love, and that is how I hope I can change the world for others who are marginalized and rejected through the brokenness of home. This part of my life is a time given by God, to prepare me for an extraordinary home and family that awaits me.

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Huck Finn’s Home

How Twain viewed home through Huck's eyes

Americans idealize the nuclear family, but not every American fits into the nuclear mold. Somewhere deep in our consciousness we know this, but many of us fail to recognize it. Most literary discussions of home focus on idealistic circumstances and don’t examine what it means to not have a home at all. What do home and family mean to an orphan? In specific, what does it mean to someone like Huckleberry Finn and what does that mean for the rest of us?

Huck leaves behind one family—an abusive, drunken one—to encounter family after family as he travels down the Mississippi River, from the feuding Grangerfords to the grieving sisters to the cozy Aunt Sally. He also invents fake families, one after another, whenever he needs a good tall tale to spin. In the end, Huck leaves behind both his potential new family with Aunt Sally and his family-like bond with Jim and Tom to become a true orphan, setting out for the territories.

The novel begs the question: why would Huck Finn aspire to be and remain an orphan? In Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain shows us the kinds of broken homes that drive Huck to decide that being an orphan is the best option out there.

Huck’s own family is a broken one. His drunken father, Pap, sends him on the run looking for a better life. It turns out that the wider world is not much better than the home Huck left. People treat him as an outcast and fail to protect him from abuse, all while believing themselves to be moral people. The hypocrites that Huck encounters on his journey encourage him to become an orphan.

So, in a broader sense, what is Twain telling us through Huckleberry Finn about family and home in our society? Through Huck’s encounters, Twain indirectly voices his concerns and beliefs about the family values of the time period and his ideal home.

Huck’s life with his drunken father mirrors societal problems in the Gilded age. It was common during this time for some men of working-class families to pursue their desires at the expense of their families, contributing to the ballooning number of fatherless families. Huck is obviously a result of such a family and therefore represents the problem of societal fatherlessness. The rest of polite society does not make up for Huck’s lack, but instead compounds it through its judgment and hypocrisy. Because of this response, Huck ultimately decides to follow in the footsteps of his father, yearning for freedom and detaching himself from the obligations and responsibilities of the home or family, further compounding the societal problem.

Can we decipher Twain’s idea of a good family so that we don’t end up like Huck, or at least avoid the world of Huck Finn? Twain grew up in a stable family with responsible, caring parents. His household exemplified values such as loyalty, responsibility, honesty, courage, and sacrifice. Throughout the novel, Twain introduces us to families such as his own, but they were too few and far between to convince Huck that family life is worthwhile. Twain focuses on families that illustrate qualities that he disapproved of who drive Huck to keep moving on as a vagrant himself, ultimately embracing everything he despised about his father. The families he met only increased his distrust of families and home. That made his vagabond lifestyle an easy choice.

Every culture contains divided and struggling households that leave broken people in their wake. Although difficult to address, Twain’s message is resoundingly clear: without kindness, selflessness, courage, sacrifice, love, and honesty in family life, an orphan’s life can be preferable to family life. These virtues sustain families and the larger society. If we employ these principles we have the best chance at having a happy home. We need to listen to him now.

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Image above from Flickr use velo_city via Flickr Creative Commons license.

Huck Finn’s Home

How Twain viewed home through Huck's eyes

Americans idealize the nuclear family, but not every American fits into the nuclear mold. Somewhere deep in our consciousness we know this, but many of us fail to recognize it. Most literary discussions of home focus on idealistic circumstances and don’t examine what it means to not have a home at all. What do home and family mean to an orphan? In specific, what does it mean to someone like Huckleberry Finn and what does that mean for the rest of us?

Huck leaves behind one family—an abusive, drunken one—to encounter family after family as he travels down the Mississippi River, from the feuding Grangerfords to the grieving sisters to the cozy Aunt Sally. He also invents fake families, one after another, whenever he needs a good tall tale to spin. In the end, Huck leaves behind both his potential new family with Aunt Sally and his family-like bond with Jim and Tom to become a true orphan, setting out for the territories.

The novel begs the question: why would Huck Finn aspire to be and remain an orphan? In Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain shows us the kinds of broken homes that drive Huck to decide that being an orphan is the best option out there.

Huck’s own family is a broken one. His drunken father, Pap, sends him on the run looking for a better life. It turns out that the wider world is not much better than the home Huck left. People treat him as an outcast and fail to protect him from abuse, all while believing themselves to be moral people. The hypocrites that Huck encounters on his journey encourage him to become an orphan.

So, in a broader sense, what is Twain telling us through Huckleberry Finn about family and home in our society? Through Huck’s encounters, Twain indirectly voices his concerns and beliefs about the family values of the time period and his ideal home.

Huck’s life with his drunken father mirrors societal problems in the Gilded age. It was common during this time for some men of working-class families to pursue their desires at the expense of their families, contributing to the ballooning number of fatherless families. Huck is obviously a result of such a family and therefore represents the problem of societal fatherlessness. The rest of polite society does not make up for Huck’s lack, but instead compounds it through its judgment and hypocrisy. Because of this response, Huck ultimately decides to follow in the footsteps of his father, yearning for freedom and detaching himself from the obligations and responsibilities of the home or family, further compounding the societal problem.

Can we decipher Twain’s idea of a good family so that we don’t end up like Huck, or at least avoid the world of Huck Finn? Twain grew up in a stable family with responsible, caring parents. His household exemplified values such as loyalty, responsibility, honesty, courage, and sacrifice. Throughout the novel, Twain introduces us to families such as his own, but they were too few and far between to convince Huck that family life is worthwhile. Twain focuses on families that illustrate qualities that he disapproved of who drive Huck to keep moving on as a vagrant himself, ultimately embracing everything he despised about his father. The families he met only increased his distrust of families and home. That made his vagabond lifestyle an easy choice.

Every culture contains divided and struggling households that leave broken people in their wake. Although difficult to address, Twain’s message is resoundingly clear: without kindness, selflessness, courage, sacrifice, love, and honesty in family life, an orphan’s life can be preferable to family life. These virtues sustain families and the larger society. If we employ these principles we have the best chance at having a happy home. We need to listen to him now.

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.

Image above from Flickr use velo_city via Flickr Creative Commons license.

Home: Leaving, Learning, Returning

A Familiar Place in an Unfamiliar World

Home is where the heart is. Well, my heart has always been in Florida, where I was born and raised. But I haven’t always lived here. I moved away from home for school and my career, and then I was fortunate enough to be able to move back. Though I don't live exactly where I grew up, I feel blessed to live in my home state within striking distance of most of my family. I have benefitted both from time away and from returning to my home state.

When I graduated from high school, I moved three hours north to Orlando to attend the University of Central Florida (UCF). After two years in Orlando, I moved back home, finishing my bachelor's degree at Florida Atlantic University. Then in my first major departure from my home state, I went to grad school at the University of Maryland. Soon I made plenty of friends and participated in clubs and activities. Upon graduating, I moved to Wilmington, Delaware to work for a nonprofit organization. I spent the next three and a half years in Delaware and Pennsylvania. My job required me to travel all over the nation, which I loved.

But as much as I loved my job and my time in the Northeast, I missed Florida. I don’t know if it was being so far from family, or the colder weather, or missing those Publix subs, but I knew that after more than six years (read: six winters) away, I wanted back in the Sunshine State.

My opportunity came in 2007 when I was offered a job at The James Madison Institute, a think tank focused on Florida public policy. It allowed me to pursue meaningful work while returning to my home state. Many young people are not so fortunate. They leave home only to find that they are unable to return, stuck on a career path that keeps them near the schools they attended or in major cities where the relevant jobs are. Happily, I was able to find a way to return home while still pursuing the interests, passions, and skills I gained in college, graduate school, and my first post-college job.

In January 2008, I started my new year back in Florida, but it wasn’t exactly the Florida I knew. It was Tallahassee, the state capital, about a seven-hour drive away from where I was raised. But my new position would require me to visit donors to my organization all over the state, so I knew I would be able to see my family regularly. When I visit South Florida, I'm able to stay at my parents’ home and see my family and old friends. This regular travel has allowed me to maintain a connection to the home of my birth.

Tallahassee quickly became a new home in my familiar state. I made lots of friends very quickly and it’s hard not to bump into someone I know anywhere I go around town. In a sense, I have the best of both worlds. I have been able to maintain my connection to the home of my birth while also establishing a new home in a rich community.

There is a subset of conservatives who strongly emphasize the importance of rootedness and home, and on the whole, I agree with what they have to say. But the reality is that our modern life often makes this impossible. Even if staying in one place was easier, there is much to be gained in spending time away from home, particularly early in your life when you are not limited by the responsibilities that come with an established career and family. Each time I have “uprooted” myself, I learned something new about myself. These experiences should not be seen as a threat to the home. In fact, my experiences outside of Florida have led me to appreciate my own home more than ever.

After a time of leaving, however, we all need to find our home. Americans have always been a people on the move, but setting down roots is fundamental to being a fulfilled human. I recommend doing it someplace familiar after first getting to know a few unfamiliar places. Many times in the past I longed to remove myself from the places I knew, only to realize finally my love and new attachment to the state I call home.

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.

Image above from Flickr use Daniel Piraino via Flickr Creative Commons license.

Home: Leaving, Learning, Returning

A Familiar Place in an Unfamiliar World

Home is where the heart is. Well, my heart has always been in Florida, where I was born and raised. But I haven’t always lived here. I moved away from home for school and my career, and then I was fortunate enough to be able to move back. Though I don't live exactly where I grew up, I feel blessed to live in my home state within striking distance of most of my family. I have benefitted both from time away and from returning to my home state.

When I graduated from high school, I moved three hours north to Orlando to attend the University of Central Florida (UCF). After two years in Orlando, I moved back home, finishing my bachelor's degree at Florida Atlantic University. Then in my first major departure from my home state, I went to grad school at the University of Maryland. Soon I made plenty of friends and participated in clubs and activities. Upon graduating, I moved to Wilmington, Delaware to work for a nonprofit organization. I spent the next three and a half years in Delaware and Pennsylvania. My job required me to travel all over the nation, which I loved.

But as much as I loved my job and my time in the Northeast, I missed Florida. I don’t know if it was being so far from family, or the colder weather, or missing those Publix subs, but I knew that after more than six years (read: six winters) away, I wanted back in the Sunshine State.

My opportunity came in 2007 when I was offered a job at The James Madison Institute, a think tank focused on Florida public policy. It allowed me to pursue meaningful work while returning to my home state. Many young people are not so fortunate. They leave home only to find that they are unable to return, stuck on a career path that keeps them near the schools they attended or in major cities where the relevant jobs are. Happily, I was able to find a way to return home while still pursuing the interests, passions, and skills I gained in college, graduate school, and my first post-college job.

In January 2008, I started my new year back in Florida, but it wasn’t exactly the Florida I knew. It was Tallahassee, the state capital, about a seven-hour drive away from where I was raised. But my new position would require me to visit donors to my organization all over the state, so I knew I would be able to see my family regularly. When I visit South Florida, I'm able to stay at my parents’ home and see my family and old friends. This regular travel has allowed me to maintain a connection to the home of my birth.

Tallahassee quickly became a new home in my familiar state. I made lots of friends very quickly and it’s hard not to bump into someone I know anywhere I go around town. In a sense, I have the best of both worlds. I have been able to maintain my connection to the home of my birth while also establishing a new home in a rich community.

There is a subset of conservatives who strongly emphasize the importance of rootedness and home, and on the whole, I agree with what they have to say. But the reality is that our modern life often makes this impossible. Even if staying in one place was easier, there is much to be gained in spending time away from home, particularly early in your life when you are not limited by the responsibilities that come with an established career and family. Each time I have “uprooted” myself, I learned something new about myself. These experiences should not be seen as a threat to the home. In fact, my experiences outside of Florida have led me to appreciate my own home more than ever.

After a time of leaving, however, we all need to find our home. Americans have always been a people on the move, but setting down roots is fundamental to being a fulfilled human. I recommend doing it someplace familiar after first getting to know a few unfamiliar places. Many times in the past I longed to remove myself from the places I knew, only to realize finally my love and new attachment to the state I call home.

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.

Image above from Flickr use Daniel Piraino via Flickr Creative Commons license.

The Blessing of a Home

The intangible benefits of hospitality

"What life have you, if you have not life together? There is not life that is not in community, And no community not lived in praise of God."((1. TS Eliot. (1934). Choruses from the Rock.)) ~TS Eliot

I never gave much thought to what my home looked like, growing up in a Latino family in an urban center, until a visit from my friend Laura when I was in college. We were sitting on our front porch after dinner; the air was crisp with the faint smell of café brewing, the hum of a few cars in the distance, and the chatter from a TV. Laura looked up and down the quiet street at the two-story brick row homes and then back at mine, and she asked, "Are we still in Camden?" I chuckled as I responded in the affirmative, but understood this environment was quite different from the stereotypical noise, chaos, and unfriendliness that many people associate with a city. My home did not share the brokenness that was so evident even a few streets away where Laura lived. She leaned back in the chair with a warm grin and said, "It's nice and homey."

My friend's words awakened me to the blessings of a home. I realized for me, the city is home, insofar as it is a vibrant community of people who stand beside one another providing support, love and friendship. Home has always been a place filled with people: my immediate family—Mami, Papi and my four siblings—but also my cousins and godparents who lived next door, as well as other family members who made habitual appearances. Whether it was a mid-day visit just to say hello, or an evening cup of cafe con leche with crackers and cheese, or the month-long stay of a relative or friend who was new to the area, each visit served to make our house a home. Home was a place where the welcome mat was followed by a Dios te Bendiga and a warm hug.

While the night Laura came over was indeed a quiet one, our home is frequently filled with movement of people coming and sharing, music and singing, talking and praying. This is the city that I know--a warm place, not entirely lacking strife, but with a strong-willed, close-knit community determined to not let disorder rule our behavior. Instead, there is much prayer. Prayer and faith are at the center of our home, and I am convinced it is what made our neighborhood as strong as it is.

As a child of parents who migrated to the US in their late teens, much of my family remained in Puerto Rico. As such, those relatives who were near combined with our church family to become our family. In Latina Evangélicas: A Theological Survey from the Margins, Dr. Conde-Frazier describes the significance of the church for immigrant families: "The congregation is a place to remake familia and a sense of stability and community in one's life...the new extended familia of choice." This familia of choice are people who not only share your faith but an understanding of culture, customs, and language, all walking together adapting to the new.((2. Conde-Frazier, Elizabeth; Pérez, Zaida Maldonado; Martell-Otero, Loida I. (2013-01-15). Latina Evangélicas: A Theological Survey from the Margins. Cascade Books, an Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers.))

Some of my earliest memories are of a group of women who took turns hosting prayer meetings. These ladies became second mothers to me and sisters to one another. They taught me compassion as they cried with those who mourned senseless deaths or served those who lost all they had. They were comadres. The title refers to godparents, but also to relatives and close friends who committed to walk with you in this journey, help you with decisions, pray, cry and laugh with you and look after your children. As children, we expected that loving care, occasional reprimand and most definitely a Christmas or Dia de los Reyes gift!

In this familia of choice, I learned to pray and that prayer takes faith. I also learned that with the support of this faith-filled community, we grew in strength and courage, believing that God was able. He was able to provide and He did. He was able to heal, and He did. He was able to make a busy and broken city into a loving neighborhood. It was here that I learned, as Dr. Gonzalez and Dr. Elizondo say it so well in Who Is My Neighbor?, that "Love requires the presence of others...The best context for practicing Christian life is not solitude, but the company of others."((3. Elizondo, Virgilio; Gonzalez, Justo L.(2007). Who Is My Neighbor?: Christian Faith and Social Action. Abingdon Press.)) This reality of family – both biological family and familia of choice - made a difference and Laura noticed it: our row house in the noisy, chaotic inner city was peaceful, "nice and homey."

Image above from Flickr user lydiashiningbrightly via Flickr Creative Commons license.

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.

The Blessing of a Home

The intangible benefits of hospitality

"What life have you, if you have not life together? There is not life that is not in community, And no community not lived in praise of God."((1. TS Eliot. (1934). Choruses from the Rock.)) ~TS Eliot

I never gave much thought to what my home looked like, growing up in a Latino family in an urban center, until a visit from my friend Laura when I was in college. We were sitting on our front porch after dinner; the air was crisp with the faint smell of café brewing, the hum of a few cars in the distance, and the chatter from a TV. Laura looked up and down the quiet street at the two-story brick row homes and then back at mine, and she asked, "Are we still in Camden?" I chuckled as I responded in the affirmative, but understood this environment was quite different from the stereotypical noise, chaos, and unfriendliness that many people associate with a city. My home did not share the brokenness that was so evident even a few streets away where Laura lived. She leaned back in the chair with a warm grin and said, "It's nice and homey."

My friend's words awakened me to the blessings of a home. I realized for me, the city is home, insofar as it is a vibrant community of people who stand beside one another providing support, love and friendship. Home has always been a place filled with people: my immediate family—Mami, Papi and my four siblings—but also my cousins and godparents who lived next door, as well as other family members who made habitual appearances. Whether it was a mid-day visit just to say hello, or an evening cup of cafe con leche with crackers and cheese, or the month-long stay of a relative or friend who was new to the area, each visit served to make our house a home. Home was a place where the welcome mat was followed by a Dios te Bendiga and a warm hug.

While the night Laura came over was indeed a quiet one, our home is frequently filled with movement of people coming and sharing, music and singing, talking and praying. This is the city that I know--a warm place, not entirely lacking strife, but with a strong-willed, close-knit community determined to not let disorder rule our behavior. Instead, there is much prayer. Prayer and faith are at the center of our home, and I am convinced it is what made our neighborhood as strong as it is.

As a child of parents who migrated to the US in their late teens, much of my family remained in Puerto Rico. As such, those relatives who were near combined with our church family to become our family. In Latina Evangélicas: A Theological Survey from the Margins, Dr. Conde-Frazier describes the significance of the church for immigrant families: "The congregation is a place to remake familia and a sense of stability and community in one's life...the new extended familia of choice." This familia of choice are people who not only share your faith but an understanding of culture, customs, and language, all walking together adapting to the new.((2. Conde-Frazier, Elizabeth; Pérez, Zaida Maldonado; Martell-Otero, Loida I. (2013-01-15). Latina Evangélicas: A Theological Survey from the Margins. Cascade Books, an Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers.))

Some of my earliest memories are of a group of women who took turns hosting prayer meetings. These ladies became second mothers to me and sisters to one another. They taught me compassion as they cried with those who mourned senseless deaths or served those who lost all they had. They were comadres. The title refers to godparents, but also to relatives and close friends who committed to walk with you in this journey, help you with decisions, pray, cry and laugh with you and look after your children. As children, we expected that loving care, occasional reprimand and most definitely a Christmas or Dia de los Reyes gift!

In this familia of choice, I learned to pray and that prayer takes faith. I also learned that with the support of this faith-filled community, we grew in strength and courage, believing that God was able. He was able to provide and He did. He was able to heal, and He did. He was able to make a busy and broken city into a loving neighborhood. It was here that I learned, as Dr. Gonzalez and Dr. Elizondo say it so well in Who Is My Neighbor?, that "Love requires the presence of others...The best context for practicing Christian life is not solitude, but the company of others."((3. Elizondo, Virgilio; Gonzalez, Justo L.(2007). Who Is My Neighbor?: Christian Faith and Social Action. Abingdon Press.)) This reality of family – both biological family and familia of choice - made a difference and Laura noticed it: our row house in the noisy, chaotic inner city was peaceful, "nice and homey."

Image above from Flickr user lydiashiningbrightly via Flickr Creative Commons license.

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.

Home and the Particular

How we can come home again

"Home," Robert Frost noted famously in "The Death of the Hired Man," "Is the place that when you have to go there, they have to take you in." An unreliable vagrant worker, who still cuts a sympathetic figure, returns to a place where he had been shown grace and compassion to die. With nowhere else to turn, he goes to the house where he knows he will not be turned away, and thus comes home. In this poignant poem, Frost illustrates that a home does not need to exist as one’s primary residence, a particular set of coordinates indicating longitude and latitude, or even as the matrix of direct biological kin. Home is the place that allows one to discover a deeper humanity in the interpenetration of one’s life with the lives of others.

Even the word "place" in this case is not limited to the idea of a point on a map. Speaking about place, Robert Farrar Capon says, "Location is accidental to its deepest meaning. What really matters is not where we are, but who—what real beings—are with us."

A "home" can be made anywhere.

Still, although a geo-specific location is not a necessary pre-condition for "home," it still matters. Consider the Hebrew Tabernacle and Temple. The Tabernacle was not a permanent structure and occupied no long-term territory. Still, it met all the necessary requirements for the presence of God (Shekinah) to dwell there (Exodus 40:34-35).

But the Tabernacle was not the ideal. The Most High was supposed to dwell in the Temple in the land God had promised the Israelites. The Tabernacle was a temporary provision until that was possible. Rootedness was the end goal. While accommodations were made for this nomadic period, it was not an excuse to forever put off creating a place, with a geographic location, for God to dwell.

While the coming of Christ allowed for a transcendence of Temple worship and its ties to a specific geographic location, it did not nullify the significance of particularity in worship. The Word took on flesh at a particular time in history, in a particular place in the world, coming to a particular people. Jesus came not as an illusory projection of ethereal truth but as a particular manifestation of the Word through which we can experience truth.

While God does not need a particular place to be worshipped, it is only in a particular place that we ever worship God.

While a "home" does not need any particular place to be experienced, it is only through a particular place that we experience home.

Home and Mobility

What is tragic about our culture’s understanding of "home" is that what was intended to be provisional has become normative, and is even held up as an ideal. While it is possible to pack up our home and move it to a new location, as the Israelites moved the Tabernacle, that doesn’t mean we always should.

We often refer to those who have achieved success in our culture as the "upwardly mobile" and, in some cases, even the "downwardly mobile." In either case the operative word is "mobile." The level of success has become equivalent to the amount of freedom one has achieved from restraint.

The path of the "mobile" person today might start with growing up in one to three rural or suburban areas. College would be in a new city or college town. Career opportunities would likely center around major urban areas throughout the twenties and into the mid-thirties. If making a family was in the cards, the next step would be moving out of the urban area and into a suburb for a good school district. Unless a different career opportunity called, roots might settle for a few decades. Years after child-rearing, responsibilities would include the flexibility to spend seasonal times in kinder climates, with a possible retirement in the gentlest climates of all.

I begrudge no one their enthusiasm to embrace a certain level of mobility in their lives. There can be many good reasons to move. I was raised in New Hampshire, attended college in Chicago, and spent my early years in the work force in Washington D.C., and I recognize the blessings and opportunities that have come to me in these places.

My experience moving from place to place has caused me to question the value of this gift of mobility, however, and to wonder if its value to my life may be less than I initially thought.

Home and Identity

Our identity is constructed not only by our past and our present, but also by our future possibilities. When we live knowing that we might be moving again any year and leaving our houses and apartments, neighborhoods and neighbors, places of worship and communities, local businesses and professional relationships, we are different.

By committing to a place, we are different in that place. To call a place "home" is not just a statement about something outside of ourselves but who we are. We are defining a discrete set of relationships as maintaining a certain level of privileged influence in our lives.

But physical location matters. In his book The Spell of the Sensuous, David Abrams details tribes in the Southwest of the United States and Australia whose traditions have tied moral teaching to place. Morality tales in these cultures always begin by referencing a particular geographic feature of the landscape of their home. The children learn those tales by repeating them when they pass that place, and they transmit them to the next generations in the same way. Other tribes in South America, he notes, have language directly influenced by unique bird songs particular to their area. This uniquely developed language creates a connection between the community and their surroundings that is not universally exportable.

Those who have left a home, only to return again years later, are well aware of the strength of memories that a particular place can evoke. It is able to tie one to the positive traditions and lessons learned in the past.

This past November, I was back at my family’s farm in New Hampshire for Thanksgiving and was building a "sugar shack" with my brother to house our evaporator to make maple syrup. It had been nearly twelve years since this farm had been my private residence, but over the past five years I had become increasingly aware that it had never really stopped being my home.

It was during a particularly frustrating moment of trying to cut solid steel rebar without the right saw blade and make 150-year-old salvaged beams fit together (a nearly impossible task), that I thought about what I was doing. I was standing on property that had been in the family for over 250 years. I was using wood from a building that had stood for over a century and been torn down, and was now being repurposed to house our small maple syrup operation. In a few short months, we would be collecting sap from a stand of maples that my uncle had spent decades clearing of competitors to ensure that they could produce the maximum amount of sap.

Through this lens, the twenty extra minutes it took to cut the rebar, and that project of putting up the sugar shack that took three times longer than we anticipated, were experiences transformed. I am a part of an inherited legacy of place stretching back to the end of the French and Indian War, with all the blessings and responsibilities that legacy incurs. Now my brother and I are putting up a structure that will be used for years (DEFINITELY not a century) to come. Our choices of which trees to keep and which to cut will have impacts for generations to come.

Two weeks later, I put in my notice at my job in Washington, D.C. Two months later, I came back home, and they had to take me in.

Developing native knowledge of a hill, tree, or stream over decades requires a special kind of patience, watchfulness and commitment. Our relationships with these things join with our memories and change us over time. No Wikipedia entry will ever rival the sort of knowledge gained by generations of farmers who observe a plot of land resting between their stone walls.

In the equations we all must figure as we make our lives and tell our stories, there very well might be good reasons to change our locations. But our movement changes us, and we shouldn’t keep on making those changes without asking how and why we are being changed.

It just might be that the most world-changing decision we could make is to return home, stay home, or spend our lives transforming into homes the places where we find ourselves.

Image above from Flickr user dbnunley via Flickr Creative Commons license.

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Home and the Particular

How we can come home again

"Home," Robert Frost noted famously in "The Death of the Hired Man," "Is the place that when you have to go there, they have to take you in." An unreliable vagrant worker, who still cuts a sympathetic figure, returns to a place where he had been shown grace and compassion to die. With nowhere else to turn, he goes to the house where he knows he will not be turned away, and thus comes home. In this poignant poem, Frost illustrates that a home does not need to exist as one’s primary residence, a particular set of coordinates indicating longitude and latitude, or even as the matrix of direct biological kin. Home is the place that allows one to discover a deeper humanity in the interpenetration of one’s life with the lives of others.

Even the word "place" in this case is not limited to the idea of a point on a map. Speaking about place, Robert Farrar Capon says, "Location is accidental to its deepest meaning. What really matters is not where we are, but who—what real beings—are with us."

A "home" can be made anywhere.

Still, although a geo-specific location is not a necessary pre-condition for "home," it still matters. Consider the Hebrew Tabernacle and Temple. The Tabernacle was not a permanent structure and occupied no long-term territory. Still, it met all the necessary requirements for the presence of God (Shekinah) to dwell there (Exodus 40:34-35).

But the Tabernacle was not the ideal. The Most High was supposed to dwell in the Temple in the land God had promised the Israelites. The Tabernacle was a temporary provision until that was possible. Rootedness was the end goal. While accommodations were made for this nomadic period, it was not an excuse to forever put off creating a place, with a geographic location, for God to dwell.

While the coming of Christ allowed for a transcendence of Temple worship and its ties to a specific geographic location, it did not nullify the significance of particularity in worship. The Word took on flesh at a particular time in history, in a particular place in the world, coming to a particular people. Jesus came not as an illusory projection of ethereal truth but as a particular manifestation of the Word through which we can experience truth.

While God does not need a particular place to be worshipped, it is only in a particular place that we ever worship God.

While a "home" does not need any particular place to be experienced, it is only through a particular place that we experience home.

Home and Mobility

What is tragic about our culture’s understanding of "home" is that what was intended to be provisional has become normative, and is even held up as an ideal. While it is possible to pack up our home and move it to a new location, as the Israelites moved the Tabernacle, that doesn’t mean we always should.

We often refer to those who have achieved success in our culture as the "upwardly mobile" and, in some cases, even the "downwardly mobile." In either case the operative word is "mobile." The level of success has become equivalent to the amount of freedom one has achieved from restraint.

The path of the "mobile" person today might start with growing up in one to three rural or suburban areas. College would be in a new city or college town. Career opportunities would likely center around major urban areas throughout the twenties and into the mid-thirties. If making a family was in the cards, the next step would be moving out of the urban area and into a suburb for a good school district. Unless a different career opportunity called, roots might settle for a few decades. Years after child-rearing, responsibilities would include the flexibility to spend seasonal times in kinder climates, with a possible retirement in the gentlest climates of all.

I begrudge no one their enthusiasm to embrace a certain level of mobility in their lives. There can be many good reasons to move. I was raised in New Hampshire, attended college in Chicago, and spent my early years in the work force in Washington D.C., and I recognize the blessings and opportunities that have come to me in these places.

My experience moving from place to place has caused me to question the value of this gift of mobility, however, and to wonder if its value to my life may be less than I initially thought.

Home and Identity

Our identity is constructed not only by our past and our present, but also by our future possibilities. When we live knowing that we might be moving again any year and leaving our houses and apartments, neighborhoods and neighbors, places of worship and communities, local businesses and professional relationships, we are different.

By committing to a place, we are different in that place. To call a place "home" is not just a statement about something outside of ourselves but who we are. We are defining a discrete set of relationships as maintaining a certain level of privileged influence in our lives.

But physical location matters. In his book The Spell of the Sensuous, David Abrams details tribes in the Southwest of the United States and Australia whose traditions have tied moral teaching to place. Morality tales in these cultures always begin by referencing a particular geographic feature of the landscape of their home. The children learn those tales by repeating them when they pass that place, and they transmit them to the next generations in the same way. Other tribes in South America, he notes, have language directly influenced by unique bird songs particular to their area. This uniquely developed language creates a connection between the community and their surroundings that is not universally exportable.

Those who have left a home, only to return again years later, are well aware of the strength of memories that a particular place can evoke. It is able to tie one to the positive traditions and lessons learned in the past.

This past November, I was back at my family’s farm in New Hampshire for Thanksgiving and was building a "sugar shack" with my brother to house our evaporator to make maple syrup. It had been nearly twelve years since this farm had been my private residence, but over the past five years I had become increasingly aware that it had never really stopped being my home.

It was during a particularly frustrating moment of trying to cut solid steel rebar without the right saw blade and make 150-year-old salvaged beams fit together (a nearly impossible task), that I thought about what I was doing. I was standing on property that had been in the family for over 250 years. I was using wood from a building that had stood for over a century and been torn down, and was now being repurposed to house our small maple syrup operation. In a few short months, we would be collecting sap from a stand of maples that my uncle had spent decades clearing of competitors to ensure that they could produce the maximum amount of sap.

Through this lens, the twenty extra minutes it took to cut the rebar, and that project of putting up the sugar shack that took three times longer than we anticipated, were experiences transformed. I am a part of an inherited legacy of place stretching back to the end of the French and Indian War, with all the blessings and responsibilities that legacy incurs. Now my brother and I are putting up a structure that will be used for years (DEFINITELY not a century) to come. Our choices of which trees to keep and which to cut will have impacts for generations to come.

Two weeks later, I put in my notice at my job in Washington, D.C. Two months later, I came back home, and they had to take me in.

Developing native knowledge of a hill, tree, or stream over decades requires a special kind of patience, watchfulness and commitment. Our relationships with these things join with our memories and change us over time. No Wikipedia entry will ever rival the sort of knowledge gained by generations of farmers who observe a plot of land resting between their stone walls.

In the equations we all must figure as we make our lives and tell our stories, there very well might be good reasons to change our locations. But our movement changes us, and we shouldn’t keep on making those changes without asking how and why we are being changed.

It just might be that the most world-changing decision we could make is to return home, stay home, or spend our lives transforming into homes the places where we find ourselves.

Image above from Flickr user dbnunley via Flickr Creative Commons license.

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.

Empty Houses, Fragile Homes

How do we cultivate a robust, healthy home when our house is empty?

Home is where… no one is. At least, that seems to be the modern trend. City dwellers lead hectic lives, our suburbs are "bedroom communities," and the talent of the next generation is quickly fleeing small rural towns. Home is typically understood as a place primarily inhabited by a family in which the family finds protection, comfort, and fellowship together, as well as a place to which we can invite others to partake in our lives. But when our houses are empty for the majority of hours in the day, can they even properly be called homes? As the amount of time we spend in our homes continues to decrease, this trend is steadily reshaping our society.

In some cases, it is easy to find valid, sympathetic excuses. Single parents run 30% of households in the U.S., a number that has tripled since 1960. Many of these parents are working multiple jobs to make ends meet, leaving little time to spend in the home. In other cases, we do not have good justifications. Our society tends to frown upon stay-at-home parents, or at least raise a doubtful eyebrow. Everyone is supposed to realize their full potential, and it's assumed that that potential can only be realized in a career. The message is pretty clear: If you're not working and instead staying at home, you're selling yourself short, you're giving up.

But what does research tell us about life in homes with two working parents? Currently 67% of households are dual income, and the market has adjusted to the new norm. The modern dual income household has comparable discretionary income to a single income household in the 1970s. So, there's no one at home for the kids, and it turns out we aren't any better off financially. We've traded family time and leisure so that both parents can "have a career." Is that a good trade for the next generation?

There is no doubt that parents today are trying hard. In fact, they actually spend a bit more time with their own kids than their parents did with them, but the total (20 hours/week combined) still leaves something to be desired. And those 20 hours include all types of shared time, including TV time and time spent in the same room with our heads buried in phones. Consider how the average student in such a home spends his or her time. They are in school for roughly 7 hours per day, they spend 1-2 hours on homework, they sleep another 7 hours (less than recommended, but can you blame them?), and they spend 3 hours per day in front of the computer or TV. That leaves only 5 free hours and we haven't begun to talk about sports, extracurricular activities, travel time, meals, time with friends, etc. How much time is left for the family? How many hours are spent in the house that aren't alone in a bedroom or in front of the TV? What is lacking in this child's experience and understanding of home that will impact the person he or she becomes?

In a distinct departure from historical precedent, and even from the home experience in other contemporary cultures, few American households today contain extended family. We are a transient society, with the next generation frequently living states away from their extended family. Even if family is near, who has the time to steward these relationships? Rushing to and from work, carting children around to various activities, staying fit… it's hard enough to manage the schedules of our own immediate family. Who has time for extended family? Aging family members most often end up in the care of special homes and services for the elderly, exonerating us from the time and responsibility of their care and perhaps indulging a similar impulse to that which lands our children in preschool seemingly earlier and earlier each year.

Yes, there are many victims of our empty homes – the most unacknowledged and significant of which is perhaps our leisure time. We simply don't have time for hanging around the house. The average full-time American worker spends 47 hours/week at work, and the average part-time worker spends 26 hours. Work clearly hasn't taken a time hit, and our children are doing more activities than ever, shuttled around, of course, by their parents. Throw in some basic chores, 6-7 hours of sleep, and time at the gym, and adults are barely left with energy or time enough to watch a couple of hours of TV with the kids. There is no margin for the kind of shared leisure that improves our minds and souls, enables us to educate our children beyond the four walls of a classroom, and strengthens familial bonds. Under the strain of such a harried pace, where is there room for contemplation, rest, sustained conversation, and other soul-crafting leisure activities that have traditionally played a role in the home as providing both a haven and an education for life?

In the face of the sobering state of our modern homes, we might hear echoes of familiar advice from elderly family members and friends: "Slow down, appreciate your children, they grow up so fast!" or "On your deathbed you won't regret not spending more time at the office." The combined wisdom of the aged seems in direct contrast to our current culture; how long can we ignore their collective shout - "Spend time with your family!"?

Instead, we heed the voice of our modern obsession with self-realization. We have convinced ourselves that our primary moral duty is to be all that we can be, which generally gets defined as a "career." As our highest individual imperative, this seeming obsession is actively dismembering our social structures. Since we must be all that we can be, our children, by extension, must be also. So we fill our time. We fill their time. Little time is left for family, and virtually no time is left for lasting, non-achievement-oriented relationships in our communities, churches, or extended families. Our homes are empty of children, parents, and guests. And what, we must ask, will be the impact on our society when its fundamental unit – the family – is functioning less and less as a unit? Who, or what, is shaping the rising generation beyond the schools and the media?

This survey of our current cultural landscape seems to leave us with a nation of self-obsessed commuting achievers whose most consistent day-to-day social relationships are with the government and media – making Aldous Huxley's Brave New World look frighteningly more prescient by the day. This problem is not new. Our empty homes are the result of many, many decades of cultural development. They are the inevitable result of our emphasis on self-actualization combined with the technological developments that have made travel and isolation easier choices. We are experiencing the logical ramifications of a self-oriented culture.

But I think that many people would rather not live this way. Regrettably, our broader culture has made alternatives difficult. It is now difficult to live on one spouse's income. It is now difficult to pull your child out of activities when every other family is doing it. It is now difficult to choose the incalculable benefits of family time and self-sacrifice when you could be spending time pursuing achievements that are so easy to rank and calculate.

Short of a complete cultural change, then, our houses seem likely to be empty for many years to come. But we can hope that our children, or perhaps their children, will turn against the tide of packed schedules and self-actualization to acknowledge anew the importance of true homes filled with people who spend time with and for each other. And we can act on this hope.

What do you think of this article?

Write a short response. It'll get sent to our symposium editors and, if approved, added to the symposium. People who read this article will see your response immediately following, and we'll promote your contribution individually to the John Jay Institute's network.