As we lick our wounds from Black Friday and head into Cyber Monday, I was struck by a post from my friend and former college professor Mark Murray as he shared his impressions of the "Superbowl of Consumerism" lauded by big retailers such as Wal-Mart and others. With his permission, I share it here:
Once upon a time, I went to Wal-Mart. The experience must have been profound, because as I awoke the next morning I was struck by a terrifying vision, the kind we get when we are half-way between wakefulness and sleep. It was a bizarre image of the interior of a great French cathedral, like Chartres or Notre Dame, but instead of beautiful stonework, the cathedral was lined with, or should I say, built from, all kinds of consumer items - cosmetics, jewelry, clothing, shoes, electronics, toys, and so on - from the walls and columns to the points of the vaulted ceiling! The windows were not made of stained glass, but neon signs and LED displays reminiscent of Times Square, informing one and all of bargains, last chances to buy, discounts, special offers, and rebates. The floor had no pews or kneeling benches, but instead was full of cars, large appliances, furniture, garden tractors, and workout machines. The place was lit neither by exterior light nor by any kind of lighting fixtures: it seemed the merchandise itself emitted a kind of garish glow sufficient to make the space as bright as the brightest noon. It was as if Wal-Mart, Target, Home Depot, Lowe's, Sears, and several car dealerships had all taken over a great cathedral, and it was a twenty times larger than any of them. On the altar there wasn't a crucifix or a chalice, but giant stacks of money, apparently millions of dollars in cash. This was the cathedral of consumerism, a monument to what our culture really values, a stark reminder that too often the meaning of Christmas boils down to a positive sales curve or a chance to make a profit rather than peace on earth and good will to others.
Sometimes when I walk into a big-box store or a shopping mall, I am overwhelmed by the sheer number of things available for purchase. The presence of these things closes in on me, much like a sensation of claustrophobia, the feeling that I would rather be any other place than there. This reaction seems to intensify around Christmastime. I am not against businesses making a fair profit, but the better part of me hopes and prays that someday everyone will come to their senses. How many "things" do we really need? What do we really value? For the amount of money we in the US spend on Christmas decorations alone, all of this country’s homeless people could be housed, fed, and clothed. It’s a matter of priorities. Some people complain if their church service is over an hour long, but have no problem with spending an entire day shopping at the mall or attending a sports event. As a society, we seem to have no problem with building massive structures to conduct business or enormous arenas to cheer on professional sports teams, while at the same time many churches, schools, and other people go begging. We see nothing wrong with some having several multi-million-dollar homes while others have no home at all, or with some spending a small fortune going out to expensive gourmet restaurants while others must make do at simple soup kitchens. We begrudge our churches a small percentage of our income while being faithful consumers, racking up thousands of dollars of debt on our credit cards. We worship the latest and greatest while searching high and low for the cheapest, and in the process end up financing corporations and countries that don't treat their workers with the respect and dignity we all want for ourselves. The horror I felt in the vision of the “cathedral of consumerism” is that every day we seem to be inching a little closer to it. Maybe this Christmas some of us will assert ourselves - hold the line a little - stay home on Black Friday - and not be the good little consumers the marketing moguls want us to be; but instead be the kind of people who can visit a house of worship, light a candle, reflect on the night sky, pray for peace, and spend a little time with family and friends. As columnist Art Buchwald wrote, “The best things in life aren't things.” We would all do well to remember that the things worth having can’t be marketed and are certainly not for sale at any store.
