Earlier this summer I was in a large city and honed in on an Uzbek restaurant. There were others in town but this one caught my eye because it was literally in a non-descript store-front, in a run-down neighbourhood - a section of ghetto. It was in a dilapidated strip mall alongside a dollar store and some other businesses - but it had no sign, nothing to indicate it was a restaurant.
You walk inside and there are just a few tables inhabited by Central Asian looking men drinking chai and eating kebabs and other regional fare. The English was minimal but everyone was friendly enough. I ordered food, sat down at one of the tables, watched and waited.
It was interesting to see others come in and in some cases the seated patrons recognized the newcomer or vice versa. They would rise and with an over/under hand clasp, they would greet each other, and it was obvious they were catching up, making inquiries about family and work.
You realized there was a whole community and the restaurant functioned as a hub, a meeting place for them - visible but nebulous and certainly not understood by the larger society surrounding them. I wondered about mosques in the area and how that would work for Uzbeks and other Central Asians. For many, I believe the mosque is a more cosmopolitan experience as they will worship alongside Turks, Arabs, and other Muslims where there are language and cultural barriers - and even the way Islam is practiced can differ significantly.
But the Uzbek restaurant - I think for them it was a kind of homecoming. There are more popular ones in upscale neighbourhoods. I chose the backstreet option in the ghetto. I enjoyed it and the experience.
Reflecting on this, it occurred to me how they have a community that is both underground (in a sense) and yet out in the open. They function as a sect within the mainstream culture with their own customs, language, and common bonds - visible and yet on the back-street.
A sect, but not a cult operating in the shadows. They're quite open and a visitor (like me) is welcome to come in, question, and explore. And they were undoubtedly friendly - perhaps a little puzzled by my presence, but not at all unkind.
I was reminded of a lot of thinking typical in Dominionist (and increasingly nationalist) circles that insist the church building should have a central place in the town - a dominant place. This is emphasized by the steeple and otherwise grandiose architecture. It's making a cultural statement and tying the congregation's identity in with not just civilizational history but declaring it to be a cultural institution - akin to the government buildings. In older towns the courthouses are usually grand historic buildings, often as (if not more) impressive than the historic churches nearby. Schools also convey a kind of institutional permanence - especially older ones in older cities and towns. A lot of older colleges will have a mix of newer buildings but there's always a grand old building at the centre - Old Main at Penn State for example or Nassau Hall at Princeton.
When churches affect or simulate this institutional style, the guiding ethos is sacralism - an attempt to tie the Church in with the state (or culture) and thus sanctify it. By implication any nationalism that emerges will also be tied in with the Church and a 'Christian' identity.
The New Testament model rejects all of this and calls for Christians to live as a pilgrim people. We live as exiles in all places, in all countries. This world is not our home. We live by a different set of ethics. We are motivated by different concerns. We have our own language (as it were). We are in the public but not of it. We walk and talk on the main street, but we don't share in its institutional and established status. We don't have a 'place' there. As such, we belong on the back street as it were. Our ethics will also automatically relegate us to second-class status.
The restaurant in question was just a place to eat but it was also a hub for the Uzbek community in that city. This was the place where the Uzbeks go who are looking for an experience more like home - and indeed the overall appearance and experience reminded me of being on some back street of Tashkent or some other locale. It wasn't the kind of place that I would be able to take a lot of people I know - but that was part of its charm. I wasn't there for a franchise experience (like a Denny's) or a Western experience with all of its aesthetics. This was bare bones, but even the peeling paint on the walls and cracked tiles communicated a kind of cultural message and set of values. They weren't Western but I wasn't bothered by that in the least. I found it refreshing.
Too often Western Christians are looking for yet another culturally affirming experience when they go to church. I'm not suggesting that we need to meet in a run-down back-alley setting but there's something wrong with the posh buildings and ultra-comfortable aesthetics of modern churches and even in the grandiose (and often romantic) style one finds in some of the older buildings that still survive. I realize there was a theology to the latter (and the former!) but I reject it. Don't misunderstand me, I also reject the ultra-modern consumer-driven approach of Evangelicals. That's just another manifestation of a cultural ethos - and one that in addition to being base, is just as theologically problematic.
I realize that my vision of the local church is (strange as it may sound) something more like that restaurant and how it functions in terms of its own community, and how it interacts and relates to the larger community around it. Some readers will fail to see the connection (and find this whole essay bizarre), while others will grasp what I'm saying and (hopefully) find these comments worthy of some reflection.
This state of affairs echoes the status and life of the Early (Ante-Nicene) Church, apart from the periods of overt persecution. Was this a temporary circumstance, an accommodation, a hindrance to be overcome? Or was it in fact the ideal - the model of faithful living in the Last Days?
It's a question I keep coming back to and the larger question is one that affects not only our understanding of Scripture and doctrine but all of Church history and the place of the Church in the world today. How are Christians called to live in this world? What does it mean to be pilgrims and strangers who take up the cross, and eschew the world's values? What does that mean in terms of how we live, our attitudes toward power, money, and how we define success? And in turn, how does this shape our attitudes toward career, child-rearing, and even our notions of status and self-worth?