Consumerism
Yesterday was Black Friday — although there were at least two stores I saw on the news that opened up very late Thanksgiving evening, so the shopping line is being blurred. I’ve swung back and forth on the pendulum about shopping the day after Thanksgiving: for half of my life I wasn’t interested, then my interest was piqued, then I vehemently decried the event as an abomination of consumeristic whoredom, then you couldn’t pull me away from the stores.
This year I’m somewhere in the middle. My decision not to shop was made easier after I went through the flyers and couldn’t find anything that would stir me to wait on line for hours and push ahead in the human stampede at the strike of (fill-in-the-opening-time). Earlier this month my TV died and I replaced it then; the same TV was only $30 cheaper on early-morning discount. I’ll consider that $30 a “convenience fee” and didn’t lose a wink of sleep over paying it.
Even though I didn’t shop yesterday (and won’t today, though I do have a few things to pick up tomorrow for normal Sunday weekly shopping), I was still agitated by both sides of the consumeristic battle. I was mostly casting a values judgment on those who waited on line since nothing seemed to rise to the level of making purchases myself. I questioned those who pitched tents on store verandas and sidewalks, though a quick slide of the finger across the newspaper app on my iPad moved me onto something else just as quickly.
The side that stuck in my craw were those seemingly opposed to consumerism in all forms, including the Occupy Movement people, and numerous clergy and religious leaders. I recognize that I am one of those people, but perhaps that qualifies me further. I was annoyed by the Occupiers who chanted and jeered at shoppers. I was annoyed by prophetic preaching from all parts of the theological globe succeeding only in preaching to its own choir.
And then I came across Diana Butler Bass’ post on the day. I realized I am not alone. I appreciated the acknowledgement that consumer morality is a gray area, that the day capitalizes on a top-down rather than bottom-up greed, that life in 21st century western society takes on different forms and requires different equipment than 20th, 19th, or 18th century western societies. (Or 21st century society elsewhere in the world.)
On the morning of Black Friday, I watched a reporter interview two women at a mall, who had arrived early for the sales. He asked, “What are you going to buy?” The woman, clearly not a well-off person, responded: “Shoes.” He said, “Shoes? You’re not supposed to be buying shoes!” She said, “But I need shoes.” He pressed the issue, “Are you buying anything else?” “No,” she replied. “I just need new shoes.” Her companion was buying jeans. The reporter didn’t know what to say. How many people on Black Friday are like these two women?
I started this post with a personal reflection: my decision not to shop today was made easier because there was nothing on sale I needed. I looked around my home and everything was operating, functional and in its place. I looked at my weekly shopping list and compared it to the flyers; no items overlapped. I will be purchasing a new table and chairs in the next couple of weeks, and making a handful of Christmas gift purchases — but here, too, none of the items overlapped. I don’t need anything extra. What I do need isn’t available right now.
But as Diana Butler Bass eloquently identifies, what about those who do need things, right now, and the savings of waiting on line for doorbusters makes a huge difference in their financial management? Why are they getting lost in this culture war — one that supposedly fights for their best interests?
Has Black Friday gotten out of hand? Few will argue otherwise. Structural greed is oppressive and fuels our distinctly U.S. brand of hypercapitalism. Yet the solution is not pointing fingers, holding up signs and shouting at one another. As Diana writes: “We have become a coarser and less neighborly America, a culture where too far too many—including those who will spend their Christmas wad at high-end stores rather than Black Friday sales—are not working for the common good wherein all of us share in the benefits of living in a wealthy society.”
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Daniel Ross-Jones serves as Minister for Youth & Young Adults at First Congregational Church of Palo Alto, United Church of Christ. Living in the San Francisco Bay Area for a time still measured in months, he is frequently getting lost and discovering treasures of a landscape very different from his Upper Midwestern roots. Green Jello Hotdish is a blog exploring the intersections of his days. 
