Creating Culture: Household Liturgies of Desire

Throughout we have used the image of the household as an outpost in a fractured world.  When you think of this outpost, if you think of a fortified retreat center barricaided off from the big-bad world around you, you have the wrong picture in mind. This outpost is no mere retreat center for the members of your army.  This outpost is an epicenter of formation.

When a new ruler takes territory, the change is not merely legal; it is liturgical. New songs are sung, new holidays celebrated, new habits formed. Over time, these embodied practices reshape identity.  The actions we repeatedly do, eventually train our hearts on what we love. Because God designed us to be worshiping creatures, we are formed not primarily by what we think or believe, but by the liturgies we engage in - the embodied, repeated rituals that train our hearts toward a vision of the good life. 

Christian formation, therefore, is not merely theological but liturgical. The question is not simply, “What does our family believe?” but, “What does our family practice over and over again?” Because those practices are quietly aiming our loves.

And here is the sobering reality: if we do not intentionally cultivate Kingdom liturgies in our homes, rival kingdoms will gladly do it for us.

Rival Liturgies of Desire

1. The Liturgy of the Marketplace - The modern household is constantly catechized by the liturgy of the marketplace. The good life can be delivered directly to my front door, oftentimes within 24 hours of clicking “buy now.”  Consumerism trains us to believe a powerful rival story: my needs can be met and my wants fulfilled instantly, privately, and without relationship. Desire is no longer something to be examined or ordered but something to be fulfilled as quickly as possible. The household shaped by this liturgy slowly forgets how to wait, how to receive, and how to delight in God as the true giver. What feels like convenience is, in fact, formation—training our loves away from trust and toward consumption.
   

2. The Liturgy of the Empire - The liturgy of the empire is rehearsed in familiar public rituals: standing for the anthem, military flyovers, the roar of the crowd, and the instinctive us-versus-them tribalism of sports and politics. These practices are not neutral. They train our bodies and imaginations to locate identity, safety, and belonging in a nation, a party, or a team. The rival story is subtle but powerful: I am most secure when my side is winning. Over time, this liturgy quietly reorders loyalty. The deepest sense of “we” is no longer formed within the household but with a vast, impersonal tribe—people we have never met, to whom we owe little, yet for whom we feel fierce allegiance. When this happens, the family is displaced as the primary community of formation, and the home becomes a place where national or ideological identities are reinforced rather than interrogated by the deeper allegiance of the Kingdom of God.
   

3. The Liturgy of the Glowing Screen - The liturgy of the glowing screen is practiced through familiar rituals: the first check of the morning, the reflexive reach in every quiet moment, and the constant ping of notifications. Each interaction delivers a small dopamine hit, training us to prefer short bursts of stimulation over sustained attention. Over time, our capacity for presence shrinks. We choose the glow in our hand over the people in the room, and silence begins to feel like a problem to be solved. The screen also catechizes us through its algorithms, feeding us what we already desire and slowly shaping how we see the world—what we fear, what we love, and who we trust. What feels like connection forms distraction; what promises awareness produces a shallow, fragmented attention that struggles to attend to God or neighbor.
   

4. The Liturgy of the Ladder - The liturgy of work is practiced through endless availability—emails at night, productivity without boundaries, and the quiet assumption that there is always more to be done. Work never truly ends; it simply follows us home. Over time, this liturgy trains us to love achievement, usefulness, and output. Our hearts cry out, I am what I produce. The rival story is clear: my worth is my work, and the world depends on my performance. When this story takes hold, the workplace becomes the true temple where meaning is made, while the home is reduced to a vacation spot or logistics hub—a place to rest, refuel, and organize the next day’s labor. What is lost is not merely rest, but the formation of a household ordered around presence, worship, and shared life rather than perpetual productivity.
   

5. The Liturgy of Comfort -  From an early age, Americans are immersed in the liturgical habits of comfort: climate-controlled homes, on-demand entertainment, and the quiet expectation that life should be easy. Our homes are often designed as retreat centers of personal ease. Discomfort, effort, or suffering is treated as a problem to eliminate rather than a teacher to receive. The rival story is simple but persuasive: the good life is the comfortable life. Over time, this liturgy trains our hearts to avoid sacrifice, delay obedience, and interpret suffering as failure rather than formation. What feels like blessing slowly reshapes our expectations of God. Instead of a King who calls us to take up a cross, we begin to expect a provider whose role is to preserve our ease.