Prosperity Theology

"Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's"
~Mark 12:13-17

Manhattan, for all its long history, is really at best a study in change. Nothing has pointed that out to me more than being away for a year. Now, I walk around my neighborhood and notice the dramatic changes in that short time. Some are natural, some are strange, and some are downright discomfiting.

For the past couple of years, it seemed that Starbucks was going to take over the city. The chain's penchant for corner locations made the stores seem even more ubiquitous than they really were. I wasn't really prepared for the next step - mid-block expansion. Now it seems that one is never more than a few steps away from a standard-issue coffee shop. And it also seems that each one is doing pretty good business. Of course, at these prices the company may well be going for a high-margin, low-volume strategy. Still, Starbucks fills cultural, societal, business needs for large swathes of the Manhattan population. These stores have successfully become the living rooms, studies, and conference rooms of space-constrained New Yorkers.

But being plopped back in NYC after a year away has allowed me a new perspective. Starbucks isn't expanding in non-corner locations because of some sort of new location strategy. It's simpler than that - even the ludicrously profitable coffee business can't compete with the intense demand for this kind of corner real estate.

It seems that every corner in Manhattan south of 96th street has been converted into a bank branch. And these aren't small outposts in good locations. The banks are forcing supermarkets and other large-scale retailers out of these locations - and taking the whole space. No joke and no exaggeration. These branches are massive on any scale of analysis. And they're absolutely everywhere now.

That reflects, I suppose, the city's constant renewal and change. After all, it's Manhattan; there's probably no better symbol of the city than the rapid expansion of what are in effect money stores.

Except maybe one.

On W. 4th street near Washington Square Park, there's a grand old church. It's been there since 1860, and for many years has run a soup kitchen out of its basement on Sunday afternoons. That is, until recently. The building was sold, and is now being converted to housing. Not low income, in case you were wondering. No, this is Manhattan 2006. It's being converted into a handful of condo lofts selling for $6 million apiece.

The mind begins to boggle at just a glimmer of the symbolism and contrast.

And then it gets better. The sales slogan for the property is "Come Be Reborn." It's audacious, probably blasphemous, and insulting. As if salvation can be bundled along with a jumbo mortgage.

I suppose its fitting in some ways. Money and real estate are both religions in New York. Historically, it fits alright with Puritanism and Calvinism - strong currents in the early US. And now? Well, this is an era when the idea of prosperity theology - the belief that financial success is external evidence of God's favor - is gaining more and more traction.

In my belief system though, I have to believe that there's a special place in Hell for people who market luxury condominiums in a former church in this manner.

And a place for me, too, because I'd really, really like to have one for myself.

Bad News from Moscow

I’ve always been an active observer of the news from Moscow. Now, as a former resident, I feel kind of personally invested in the pattern of events there. This week, though, events took on a very personal perspective.

Just the other day, a bomb exploded in an Asian part of one of Moscow’s largest bazaars, killing some dozen people and injuring a lot of others. As close as I can triangulate from the news stories, it happened in one of my favorite places in the city – a place that I frequently visited on the weekends.

It was always an overwhelming experience – Moscow somehow becoming more crowded and more foreign, perpetually gloomy – in this hidden hallway. One had to steel one’s nerves to get to the heart of the experience.

The Vietnamese Market is really only one narrow passage way in a vast winding maze of passages that sprawl around the marketplace. It is kind of hard to find, jagging away at a crazy angle from intersecting paths. And one small sign in Vietnamese is the only clue. Food vendors line the alleyway, selling all sorts of meat, produce, and fish. All of it, of course, in that typical Asian fashion – live fish in tanks, piles of meat being butchered on old tree stumps with strange cleavers. A second level, up a rickety steel staircase, is the services section of the market. Doctors, fortune tellers, masseurs, and other offices overlook the chaos of the filthy street down below.

Also on the second level is a small restaurant. The TV blasts Vietnamese variety shows. The décor runs to old-fashioned farm implements and pickled snakes in jars on shelves. Beverages are stacked in cases right in front of the pass-through to the open kitchen, a heat-belching place deftly managed by a sometimes shirtless cook. Asian vendors from the market trade huge stacks of currency and handshakes in deals conducted at the tables.

But for all its little idiosyncrasies, it’s one of my favorite places. The people were friendly and the food good and cheap. Oh, and spicy, too. In the blandness of the Moscow culinary universe, this is one of the great places to remind oneself that each of us is born with taste buds – what we do with them is up to us.

The strong point of the menu is the pho – a brothy noodle soup packed with vegetables and meat. Sprinkled with a bit of the spicy garlic and vinegar sauces, the soup is a filling, nourishing, tasty meal. And worth taking the metro 30 minutes to Partisankaya.

Once, I tried to take some pictures there. I got off a couple before two rough Russian guys suddenly appeared and told me that photographs were forbidden. They weren’t satisfied with me just putting my camera back in my bag, but a friend re-joined me from the restroom and provided a good excuse for me to just walk away. I scoffed at the notion that they needed such tight restrictions in the market. Surely, it had something to do with the cleanliness, the food handling. Typical official Russian response to a problem, I thought.

I suppose the situation was much more dangerous than I gave it credit.

I don’t wonder who did it or why. I’m beyond wondering about things like that in Russia. I wonder what it’s like now that more than 3 lbs of TNT ripped it all apart. Now that dozens of people lay in that narrow alley bleeding and dying. I wonder if the happy old woman who sold me those delicious sesame balls is alright. Or the guy who smiled for my photo while his buddy netted live fish out of a murky tank.



I wonder if the Moscow I'll always remember will change violently or gradually. And I wonder who will pay the price for it.