As
a Christian pastor, I have some recent experience with the interplay of regionalism
as it engages new media forms and informs our civic and religious imagination.
That’s the story I wish to tell here. As a Gen Xer raised on a farm in rural
Iowa, my move to Fayetteville, Arkansas constituted a transition from one
significant regional culture in the United States to another--from the Midwest
to the South. I am regularly discovering that the social imaginary I inhabit does
not always align with my newly adopted region's imagination and self-perception.
Midwesterners do imagine differently than Southerners. From our forms of
speech, to our religious commitments, to our sense of communal identity, we are
a nation of diverse regional cultures. And part of regional imagination is
delimiting and correctly describing the regions. In Colin Woodard’s memorable
remapping of the American “nations,”[1] I actually
moved not from the north to the south, but from the Midlands, where people designate their ethnicity by their European
or other ancestry (German, Norwegian, Polish, Vietnames, Pakistani) to Greater Appalachia, “rendered perfectly
in the Census Bureau’s map of the largest reported ancestry group by county:
its inhabitants virtually the only counties in the country where a majority
answered ‘American.’
However,
the regions of our nation are not what they once were, if they ever were what
we believe them to be. The flattening of globalization is redrawing all the
lines. The Midlands and the South have become more diverse, with an influx of
immigrants and increased levels of internal migration. Their religious
landscape has also changed, with increasing numbers of people in both places
self-identifying as secular or non-religious.
There
is a new mind of the South, one perhaps even more noticeable to a transplant
from the north, but nevertheless captured succinctly by southerner Tracy
Thompson, who writes:
[There is a] mismatch
of history and identity that so many Southerners up through my generation have
had, this vague sense of cognitive dissonance that comes with growing up in a
world where nothing you see around you quite fits with the picture of history made
available to you.[2]
As just one example of this, after the
tragic shootings at Mother Emmanuel in Charleston, many across the country
called for the removal of Confederate flags from public places. Predictably, as
a form of protest many individuals flew Confederate flags on their own
property. However, in Fayetteville, Arkansas, you would have been hard-pressed
to find a Confederate flag flying. Later that summer, however, when I was back in
Iowa visiting relatives, I went for a jog in Des Moines, Iowa, and ran past no
less than five Confederate flags flying in front yards. Talk about cognitive
dissonance.
Lyndon
B. Johnson famously remarked as he signed the Civil Rights Act of 1964 that “we
have lost the South for a generation.”[3]
Although his prediction was a bit early, by the time I arrived in Arkansas, it
had basically become reality. Mark Pryor’s senate seat (a Democrat) had flipped
to Tom Cotton (a Republican) and in 2017, “in a region stretching from the high
plains of Texas to the Atlantic coast of the Carolinas, Republicans controlled
not only every Senate seat, but every governor’s mansion and every state
legislative body.”[4]
This is a regional imagination finally catching up with shifting political
reality, but it has also taken by surprise many people in a state that proudly
birthed Bill Clinton.
Many also believe that the
United States is quickly losing religiosity for a generation, with significant
percentages of the emerging generations identifying with no specific religious
tradition.[5]
For those in the Christian tradition who remain committed to the faith but
whose civic imagination aligns closely with the progressives (a larger
percentage of whom are "nones")”[6] some basic questions present
themselves. Does it matter whether Christianity offers anything different or other
than secular humanism? The question
is necessary, and made even more necessary by the rise of what Charles Taylor
maps as the new conditions of secularity.
The
change I want to define and trace is one which takes us from a society in which
it was virtually impossible not to believe in God, to one in which faith, even
for the staunchest believer, is one human possibility among others. I may find
it inconceivable that I would abandon my faith, but there are others, including
possibly some very close to me, whose way of living I cannot in all honesty
just dismiss as depraved, or blind, or unworthy, who have no faith (at least
not in God, or the transcendent). Belief in God is no longer axiomatic. There are
alternatives.[7]
The conditions for secularity are distinct from secularization.
Taylor is not describing a world that is increasingly secular in the
non-religious sense of that term, but secular in the sense that many forms of
religiosity can live side by side and even mutually support one another. We
might remember the classic dictum of that famous Christian humanist, Nikolai
Grundtvig, who frequently stated: Human
first, then Christian. The world increasingly recognizes shared interests
across multiple religious and secular perspectives. Even as we traverse
regional variations in our religious traditions, this holds true. Emerging
progressive Christian communities across the United States and in each region
are discovering they share much in common with the interests of secular
humanism. There are many shared ends
even if the faith behind the ends differs.
Yet
for Grundtvig, there was still "then Christian." What is this
"then Christian"? This remains the continuing civic imagination
question emerging progressive Christian communities are puzzling out in their
regional contexts. I believe the answer hovers around issues of resistance and
sanctuary, both resources in Christianity not as clearly present in or adjacent
to various kinds of humanism. I will return to these at the end of this
analysis. Digging down to actual
Christianity also includes disambiguation from dominant forms of Christianity
in the United States, forms of the faith that allow a co-optation of
Christianity by “moral majorities” who believe the perpetuation of racism,
sexism, and homophobia part and parcel of the maintenance of Christianity as
the dominant religion. Christianity in my (progressive) way of imagining it
contains within itself unique resources for repentance and resistance focusing
Christians on a preferential option for the poor and migrant, and radical
neighbor love that overturns the morality of capitalist self-interest.
Throw all of this together
with the additional layering of new media, and you get a sense of why people of
faith, transplants to our region, or natives to the South whose identities do
not align with the external stereotypes of it find it difficult to map a civic
imagination, and why there are in fact contested versions of such an
imagination. Many southerners feel like they are engaged in the Sisiphean task
of repeatedly disambiguating themselves as southerners from the stereotypes of
southerners. “Arkansas has for one reason or another undergone more
caricaturing and stereotyping in the American imagination than has just about
any other state.”[8]
The main stereotype that makes an average Arkansan self-conscious is a negative
one, that they are low class and uneducated and poor. Such stereotypes
Arkansans have learned are dealt with most effectively by way of humor, so that
Brooks Blevins ends the introduction to his book with the rejoinder: “Even if
we don’t get to the very bottom of this, perhaps we’ll be better able to laugh
at ourselves… at the very least, you found a friend to read this book to you,
and I found a friend to write it. Yee-haw, indeed.” [9]
This issue of what I might
term representational hyper-awareness has significant political ramifications.
For example Senator Tom Cotton, at a recent rally in Fort Smith, Arkansas, had
this to say:
Go home tonight and turn on one of
the nighttime comedy shows. Tomorrow morning, turn on one of the cable
morning-news shows. This Saturday, watch ‘Saturday Night Live,’ ” he said.
“All the high wardens of popular culture in this country, they love to make fun
of Donald Trump, to mock him, to ridicule him. They make fun of his hair, they
make fun of the color of his skin, they make fun of the way he talks—he’s from Queens,
not from Manhattan. They make fun of that long tie he wears, they make fun of
his taste for McDonald’s.” He went on, “What I don’t think they realize is that
out here in Arkansas and the heartland and the places that made a difference in
that election, like Michigan and Wisconsin, when we hear that kind of ridicule,
we hear them making fun of the way we look, and the way we talk,
and the way we think.[10]
Although
this is a breathtaking leap, Tom Cotton is right about one thing: inasmuch as
southerners perceive themselves to be subject to ridicule by the "high
wardens of popular culture," and perceive Donald Trump to be also, they
then are tempted to imagine a kind of solidarity between Trump and southerners,
even if on every other level (his wealth, his (im)morality) he diverges from a
Southern Christian imaginary. Their solidarity under ridicule unites them, and
it is precisely the interplay of the regional social imaginary with the forces
of media that informs their voting habits and political preferences even more
than their religious commitments.
So
let us consider a recent case, a moment where all this regionalism and religion
and new media collide. During the February 2017 congressional recess,
Republican Senator Tom Cotton returned to his home state and hosted a town hall
meeting in Springdale, Arkansas. Springdale is part of the “new" or
emerging South, population 70,000, 40% Latino, 8% Pacific Islander. It would
certainly fit in Tracy Thompson’s chapter in The New Mind of the South she titles “salsa with your grits.”
Cotton was taking a lot of heat, along with many other elected officials, for
his support of a repeal of the ACA, and proposal of the RAISE act that would
dramatically curtail immigration and refugee resettlement.
The
history of refugee resettlement in the United States is rather storied. The
United States, although historically the landing place for migrants from all
over the world, especially Europe, did not begin to resettle significant
numbers of refugees until it was forced to by the Holocaust and the great need
to provide a safe place for Jews to flee during World War II. Since World War
II, the United States has slowly and steadily increased its commitment to
offering refuge those fleeing various kinds of danger around the world. Working
in partnership with the United Nations High Commission for Refugees, over the
last decade the United States has resettled on average around 75,000 refugees.
These refugees come to the United States because each year the executive
designates admissions levels. The actual resettlement is then overseen by one
of nine primarily faith-based refugee resettlement agencies, one of the largest
of which is Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service (LIRS).
In
2015, when the Syrian refugee crisis became a part of the global conversation,
a large group of us in Northwest Arkansas began looking into establishing a
refugee resettlement center. Although the last time Arkansas had welcomed
refugees in significant numbers was during and following the Vietnam war, we
knew our community and region to have many positive resources for refugees, and
to be in general a welcoming community. So, in conversation with LIRS, the governor
of Arkansas, and the state department, I started work, in addition to my work
as pastor, serving as the acting director for Canopy NWA, our newly
incorporated refugee resettlement center. In just a year, we built the
non-profit, and in 2016 we began welcoming refugees to Northwest Arkansas. Then
Donald Trump was elected president, and his first action in January of 2017 was
to announce a Muslim ban, which also include a pause on the entire refugee
resettlement program in the United States.
Suddenly, we were looking at dropping from 110,000 refugees arriving in
the last year of the Obama administration, to a maximum of 45,000 refugees, and
possibly less, arriving in the first year of the Trump administration. This was
potentially devastating for our new non-profit, harmful to national
resettlement agencies, and of course tragic for all those families anticipating
and needing refugee resettlement to get away from war and persecution.
Because
we had recently begun resettling these refugees to Northwest Arkansas, and
because our congregation participates in a lot of social justice ministry in
alignment with immigrants and refugees, my presence at the Town Hall was
essential. I got there early, and stood in line with the thousands of other
(mostly anti-Cotton) Town Hall attendees. It was exhilirating, and frightening,
and a media frenzy. All the national networks were there. To my surprise, I had the opportunity to ask a question at
the Town Hall advocating for expanded refugee resettlement not only in our
state, but in our nation and did so out of the biblical imagination that
recommends providing hospitality for the stranger, for "you were once
strangers in the land of Egypt” (Deuteronomy 10:19).
Now
imagine this scene. Thousands of attendees in a high school auditorium in
Springdale, Arkansas (which incidentally has more Marshallese and Latino
students than Anglo) chanting in support of refugees and immigrants. I say to
Cotton over the microphone, “We love Muslims!” in response to his
characterization of Muslims as a threat. The noise at this point is deafening.
The media, caught by surprise at the breadth and depth of the progressive
(Christian) support for immigrants and refugees in our state (remember those
media elites and their perceptions of us), followed up with televised
interviews in the days that followed. Standing in front of a camera for MSNBC[11], I again became mindful of
this deep truth about the South: when we speak on the national stage, we are
always concerned for our image. There is this representational hyper-awareness.
I wanted to make the South, or at least Arkansas, look good. Do them proud. We
wish not to live into the stereotypes. I’m not sure all regional peoples feel
this way when they emerge on the national stage, but I know Arkansans do.
“Arkansas people remain first and foremost cognizant of the state’s place in
the American consciousness.”[12] And many progressive
Christians are equally cognizant of the perception of Christianity on the
national stage.
The
southern imagination functions in a circular fashion, with the south mirroring
to the world, and then sometimes undermining and sometimes reinforcing the
imagination the world has of it. So in this instance, the remarkable aspect was
not only Arkansans aware of how they look to the world (including the
frustration by some that it is a person with views like Tom Cotton who
represents us in the Senate), but also the perspective of those outside the
South toward us, their fascination at the size and tenor of the town hall, the
surprise of Rachel Maddow to the Arkansas pastor making a comparison between
the town hall and Prime Minister’s Question Time in the House of Lords.[13] Parallel this again with
the progressive Christian community, who frequently encounters surprise in
public settings when articulating their faith perspectives. "You're a
Christian, and you believe that?"
This
small moment on the national media stage serves as a microcosm of how our
progressive faith movement operates at the regional level in cooperation with
other progressive organizations, religious and secular. Living in an
increasingly metropolitan region (Northwest Arkansas), the sense of state or
regional pride ties in tightly to the form of Christianity on offer, as well as
the forms of Christianity that are free to emerge through our imagining of
them. As just two examples, our congregation in the past year has launched Canopy
NWA (mentioned above), Such resettlement work has developed through the
cooperation of many interfaith partners, including the Islamic Center, the
synagogue, and many local secular non-profits and businesses. Additionally, two
years ago our congregation became the first Reconciling in Christ[14]
congregation of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America in the Deep South.
Here again such a commitment opened doors to cooperative work with
non-religious LGBTQ+ affirming groups. It was a changed imagination--that there
was a critical mass of LGBTQ+ and their allies, that there was widespread
ecumenical and interfaith support for refugee resettlement in Arkansas--that
facilitated our congregation taking steps towards full inclusion and refugee
welcome, steps we knew to be the right ones, both on ethical and strategic
grounds, but that were made possible by a changed context and emerging
alternative imagination of the possible.
The
resources for social change are grounded in the way media layers and re-centers
regional and religious imaginations, with institution building, television and
newspaper presence, and new social media platforming all interlocking in a
seamless fashion to energize religiously informed civic imagination. So, for
example, the development of our refugee resettlement agency, Canopy NWA, only
happened because we began local conversations after a Twitter post from the
governor of the state opposing refugee resettlement, and was strengthened and
made more streamlined by our ability to organize like-minded people of faith to
form the non-profit and solicit resources. Our presence on television, radio,
and in the newspaper[15] has meant not only that our
model is inspiring others to replicate the development in other locations, but
the widespread media coverage is affecting our regional identity and external
stereotypes of our region. Transform how the wider world perceives the southern
Christian imagination, and just so recursively expand the civic imagination of
contemporary Christianity on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. As John Edge
describes such a transition in his recent book on the changes in southern food
culture:
The South was once a
place that did not brook intrusion. Now it’s the region with the highest
immigration rates. When I was a boy in 1970s Georgia, a barbecue sandwich and a
Brunswick stew with soda crackers was my go-to meal. Jess (my son) prefers
tacos al pastor, hold the cilantro, and cheese dip with fryer-hot tortilla
chips. In his South, Punjabi truck stop owners in Arkansas fry okra for
turban-wearing reefer jockeys. And Korean bakers in Alabama turn out sweet
potato-gorged breakfast pastries. His South is changing. For the better,
mostly. In fits and starts, yes. New peoples and new foods and new stories are
making their marks on the region. In those exchanges, much is gained. What was
a once a region of black and white, locked in a struggle for power, has become
a society of many hues and many hometowns. His generation now weaves new
narratives about what it means to be Southern, about what it takes to claim
this place as their own. Given time to reconcile the mistakes my generation
made with the beauty we forged amid adversity, his generation might challenge
the region of our birth to own up to its promise.[16]
Take
as another example the growth of Indivisible, an activist group started after
the presidential election of 2016, locally focused, implementing a defensive congressional
advocacy strategy to protect their values. A founding member is actually
from Arkansas (Billy Fleming) and their model for developing the Indivisible
movement was to publish reproducible resources (an “indivisible guide”) that
could fuel a progressive grassroots network of local groups to resist the Trump
agenda.[17] Although the guide was
published on-line and designed for the entire social media network, by offering
a replicable model that local groups could put in place in each district, within
months Indivisible had become a national movement with chapters (sometimes
multiple chapters) in each congressional district of the United States. In
Northwest Arkansas, the chapter meets regularly at our church building, and we
find creative ways weekly and monthly to fuse the mission of the church with
the advocacy activities of Indivisible. Clearly going mass media actually
facilitates going local, if those using new social media forms are savvy.
Indivisible goes big by going small and local, with a continuing focus on
national issues energized at the local level.
Over the course of the last nine
months, our progressive advocacy groups and religious groups have continued to
work on effective strategies responsive to regional issues, strategic in their
use of new media, and energized (at least in part) by religious values. Lots of
us are asking how in this moment the new south can imagine a new regional and
national identity? And what role do faith communities play in the development
of such an imagination? And where does media fit in the equation? One model
effectively being implemented across the country and beginning in North
Carolina is the New Poor People’s Campaign, led by the Rev. Dr. William Barber.[18] Their current strategy
includes both a national campaign of civil disobedience, and regional
organizing state-by-state. As a faith-based progressive group, they are
committed in particular to continuing the legacy of Martin Luther King Jr. They
have taken up strategically a state-by-state organizing approach, and their
focus is centered out of a deeply Christian and biblical imaginary,
"offering a platform for people to speak who
are affected by four interlocking issues: systemic racism, poverty, the war
economy, and ecological devastation."[19]
One
mantra I have been learning as I continue this work comes from organizers at
Arkansas United Community Coalition, an immigrant rights advocacy group. They
frequently say, “Nothing about us without us,” a slogan first popularized in
the disability rights movement.[20] As a white pastor in a
predominantly white church who spends significant time in refugee and immigrant
spaces, I have had to learn repeatedly how to listen, support, walk-alongside,
amplify. It’s a slogan I wish prominent leaders in this moment might heed:
whether it’s the evangelicals publishing their Nashville Statement, or multiple
attorney generals and President Trump threatening to end DACA, something that
could keep the human first in more of our imagination would be the slogan,
“Nothing about us without us,” coupled with that other slogan of Grundtvig,
“Human first.” Christians hoping their message might be life-giving and
attractive can learn much from both slogans, not the smallest of lessons being
the first shall be last, the last shall be first (Mark 10:31). It’s awfully
hard to build a progressive Christian movement
when the largest and loudest voices in Christianity are busy encouraging
strategies quite opposite those of progressives--and Jesus. Nevertheless, it
has probably ever always been so. Effective progressive movements are finding
ways to keep their imagination indigenous to the region (the actual region
rather than the stereotype), open to the resonances of the wider movements with
which they partner, amplified by new media in order to be even more effectively
local, cognizant of the traditions of all and respectful of the humanity in
each.
At
this point, it may sound like I have been more focused on the "human
first" than the "then Christian." And in fact on many levels I
am. Accomplishing shared social justice goals in a secular context requires
implementing a language accessible to all regardless of religious tradition. On
the other hand, even those outside of Christianity may benefit from an
understanding of the equipment Christians in particular bring to the table for
such organizing work. So I conclude with some reflection on the way the
peculiarly Christian social imaginary plays in this space.
First,
we might remember that "there
has been consensus for several decades among political historians of the early
modern period that European theories of resistance found their first articulation
in the Lutheran tradition."[21] One of the more
significant moments in the Reformation was the emperor's push early on to
suppress reform. When Martin Luther died in 1546, Charles V published the
Augsburg Interim which put all German lands back under Roman Catholic rule. All
the cities and towns acquiesced to this interim, with the exception of
one--Magdeburg. The pastors of Magdeburg published a confessional document
explaining the "why" of resistance, why the magistrates of Magdeburg
were right to resist. Although not as well known as some other confessional
documents of the early modern period, the Magdeburg Confession functioned not
only as a first example of regional resistance to empire, but even became a
source for the articulation of forms of resistance like the Declaration of
Independence itself. It even informed the thought of such a significant
resister as Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who wrote:
There are thus
three possibilities for action that the church can take vis-à-vis the state:
first, questioning the state as to the legitimate state character of its
actions, that is, making the state responsible for what it does. Second is
service to the victims of the state's actions. The church has an unconditional
obligation toward the victims of any societal order, even if they do not belong
to the Christian community. "Let us work for the good of all." These
are both ways in which the
church, in its freedom, conducts itself in the interest of a free state. In
times when the laws are changing, the church may under no circumstances neglect
either of these duties. The third possibility is not just to bind up the wounds
of the victims beneath the wheel but to seize the wheel itself. Such an action
would be direct political action on the part of the church.[22]
It is certainly too much of a stretch
to claim that all forms of resistance have Christian origins, but it is fair to
claim that a very significant resource for resistance that has inspired much of
the Western imagination is in fact the Christian imagination. For a
contemporary example, one could could consider the practice of sanctuary.
Before
we consider sanctuary, however, we need to briefly consider another Christian
practice, that of repentance. We need to acknowledge that of the many cities in
Germany, only one resisted the Augsburg Interim. During the Holocaust, it was a
small remnant (the Confessing Church) that resisted the Nazis. So also with
sanctuary, it is a small percentage of the whole of congregations in the United
States who have actively participated in offering sanctuary.
But
repentance is in Christian tradition something ever before us. It's the first call
of the 95 theses of Luther, in fact, that the whole life of the Christian is to
be one of repentance. So, when Christians heed their own tradition, they can
confess their failure to live into their own best practices, and re-center
themselves on the very social imaginary that defines them.
One
of these Christian imaginaries, sanctuary, may in fact become even more
important in this next era, as immigrants and others seeking refuge approach
the church in time of need. The original Sanctuary Movement was "a
religious and political campaign to provide safe-haven for Central American
refugees fleeing civil conflict in their homelands during the 1980s."[23]
Reverend John Fife, one of the architects of the Sanctuary Movement, still
works along the border, leading efforts to protect the undocumented in their
perilous travel. Fife is a strategic trouble-maker. He is living out a pecular
way of practicing "then Christian." In a nation that has for decades
understood Christianity to be the dominant cultural form of religiosity, it may
be surprising to lift up disruption
of the status quo as an especially Christian practice, but nevertheless, there
it is--part of being Christian is being "a royal pain in the ass...
shout[ing] from the mountain top what is supposed to be kept silent, and
audaciously refusing to stay in [the] assigned place... upsetting the
prevailing Panopticon social order designed to maintain the law and order of
the privileged."[24] In
this instance, practicing sanctuary, providing actual physical sanctuary to
undocumented immigrants or refugees in church sanctuaries becomes both human
and Christian at the same time. Human because it is simply doing the right
thing. Christian because it makes use of the religious space itself (sanctuary)
precisely in the way it is named--as sanctuary. When sanctuary breaks the law,
precisely there it is sanctuary. A community wrestling around how to do it, and
how much to sacrifice doing it, will expand the progressive Christian social
imaginary in ways we have yet to imagine. And if you make fun of us for our
disruptive activity, we will join you and exercise self-mockery, which we will
then use strategically to our advantage.
[1] American Nations: A History of the
Eleven Rival Regional Cultures of North America (Penguin Books, 2012).
[2]
Tracy Thompson, The New Mind of the South
(Free Press, 2014).
[3]
https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/the-press-office/2014/04/10/remarks-president-lbj-presidential-library-civil-rights-summit
[4] https://www.nytimes.com/2014/12/05/upshot/demise-of-the-southern-democrat-is-now-nearly-compete.html
[6]
https://www.nytimes.com/2017/06/23/opinion/democrats-religion-jon-ossoff.html
[7] Charles Taylor,
A Secular Age (Belknap Press, 2007),
3.
[8] Brooks Blevins, Arkansas/Arkansaw: How Bear Hunters, Hillbillies, and Good Ol’ Boys
Defined a State (The University of Arkansas Press, 2009), 4.
[9] Brooks Blevins, Arkansas/Arkansaw: How Bear Hunters, Hillbillies, and Good Ol’ Boys
Defined a State (The University of Arkansas Press, 2009), 10.
[10]
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/11/13/is-tom-cotton-the-future-of-trumpism
[11] https://www.facebook.com/joshuacmahony/videos/vb.20613111/10102580240803747/?type=2&theater
[12]
Brooks Blevins Arkansas/Arkansaw: How
Bear Hunters, Hillbillies, and Good Ol’ Boys Defined a State (The
University of Arkansas Press, 2009), 186.
[13]
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prime_Minister%27s_Questions
[14] https://www.reconcilingworks.org
[15]
https://www.nytimes.com/2017/07/13/us/trump-refugee-ban.html
[16]
John T. Edge, The Potlikker Papers: A
Food History of the Modern South (Penguin Press 2017), 350.
[17]
https://www.indivisibleguide.com
[18]
https://poorpeoplescampaign.org/new-poor-peoples-campaign/
[19]
https://www.christiancentury.org/article/news/william-barber-and-liz-theoharis-take-poor-peoples-campaign-on-the-road
[20]
James Charlton, Nothing About Us Without
Us: Disability Oppression and Empowerment (University of California Press,
2000), 3.
[21] DeJonge, Michael. Bonhoeffer's
Reception of Luther (Oxford
University Press, 2017), 198.
[22] Ibid. 210.
[23] Miguel De La
Torre. Embracing Hopelessness
(Fortress Press, 2017), 130.
[24] Ibid. 151.
This essay forthcoming in a collection of essays from the Civic Imagination Project.
This essay forthcoming in a collection of essays from the Civic Imagination Project.
