Location, location, location.
No matter how much we might try to ignore it, where we live matters—and often more than we realize. We usually justify our housing decisions with reasons like proximity to work, good schools, or neighborhood safety. Those are the obvious factors. But what about the subtle cues and subconscious preferences that shape our choices, often without us realizing it?
When my family moved from Chicagoland to Florida, we faced the freedom—and the challenge—of choosing where we wanted to live. We had lived in both urban and suburban environments for most of our married life, but this time we could pick our spot intentionally. We looked for good schools and safety, but something else guided our decision, too—something harder to name.
As we visited house after house, something felt “off.” Eventually, I noticed a pattern: if a neighborhood had five or more pickup trucks with lift kits, I instinctively didn’t want to live there. That reaction came from somewhere deep, shaped by the values and cultural cues of my Northern upbringing.
I’ve lived in a wide variety of environments—rural, small-town, suburban, and urban, across the Midwest, Northeast, and Southeast. And I’ve pastored in several of them. One thing is clear: your environment shapes how you see the world—and how you express your faith. That may seem obvious, but Brian J. Miller’s Sanctifying Suburbia gives us the data and historical scaffolding to show just how true it is.
That’s why Miller’s work is so illuminating. Sanctifying Suburbia doesn’t just examine how people live—it uncovers how where they live subtly shapes their deepest beliefs and ecclesial practices.
Summary
Miller’s central thesis is simple but profound: geography matters. As he writes,
“It is not enough for researchers and pundits to consider the theological position and political behavior of evangelicals; accounting for their spatial context is part and parcel to understanding the whole package of white evangelicalism” (p. 8).
Evangelical theology—especially white evangelical theology—is not just a set of beliefs; it’s a cultural and spatial phenomenon. It grew up in particular places and was shaped by flight from particular others.
Through the lens of suburban development—especially postwar Chicagoland—Miller shows how white evangelicals weren’t just reacting to theology or politics, but to space. White flight wasn’t just about race; it was about maintaining a particular vision of “the good life,” one that became deeply tied to evangelical identity (p. 25). What’s striking is that many churches and denominations followed these demographic shifts. In doing so, they embedded theology in a particular cultural moment and geography—suburbia.
This raises two complex and necessary questions:
First, can a gospel expression be so entangled with a cultural context that it loses its ability to be translated?
Secondly, what happens when a theology becomes so domesticated to one people group that it no longer speaks to anyone outside of it?
All theology is shaped by context. Even the theology we’ve inherited from Augustine, Calvin, and Luther was forged within specific geographical and cultural conditions. That’s why we talk about Black theology, Latin American theology, and Asian American theology—each an attempt to refract the gospel through a distinct cultural lens.
While the idea is unpopular, there is an American white evangelical theology, as there is a Black and Latino evangelical theology. Each one is shaped by its context, and for those of us who have spent time in white evangelicalism, suburbia has shaped our theological expression and understanding more than we care to admit.
Gospel Expression
You don’t fully grasp the substance of your theology—or how deeply it’s been shaped by your culture—until it’s challenged by someone outside your context. These encounters have a way of revealing your blind spots—and occasionally theirs. That’s why we need the voices of the global church: to correct our distortions, confirm what is core, and broaden our understanding of the gospel’s reach.
A gospel expression isn’t just what a group believes—it’s how that belief is embodied, sustained, and communicated. If a gospel expression can’t cross cultural lines, it isn’t necessarily false—but it might be malformed, too small to carry the weight of the universal gospel of Jesus Christ.
Allow me to illustrate. There is a Presbyterian church nearby with a pastor who has a PhD in John Calvin. He is a wonderful expositor of the Word. The first time I entered the church, I was struck by how everyone looked like me—white, middle-aged, bald, and bearded. That is not necessarily a surprise—many Presbyterians look the same. But it was surprising in that context, because the community around the church is diversifying rapidly, and the church doesn’t in any way reflect that change.
That would mean that the church exists for a people, but not a people reflected in that community, which suggests their gospel expression is malformed. They may be fantastic theologically, but they have failed to translate that theology to the people in that place.
Of course, contextualizing ministry is complex, and churches can’t change demographics overnight. But if a church isn’t at least attempting to reflect or reach the community around it, it signals a disconnect between theology and mission.
Brian J. Miller helps us see this clearly. Sanctifying Suburbia is more than a sociological study; it’s a mirror held up to the evangelical church in America, revealing how deeply place has shaped our theology—and how hard it may be to see that from inside the system.
Thematic Overview
At its core, Sanctifying Suburbia is a sociological examination of how the American suburbs—and especially white evangelical migration to them—have shaped evangelical theology, identity, and practice. Brian J. Miller brings together data, historical narrative, and cultural analysis to show that American evangelicalism, particularly in its white suburban form, cannot be understood apart from the geography it inhabits.
1. Suburbs as Theological Formers
Miller challenges the assumption that theology is only a matter of doctrine or biblical interpretation. Instead, he argues that the material and spatial environment—the design of neighborhoods, the values of homeownership, the reliance on cars, and the emphasis on privacy—form people spiritually.
Suburbia isn’t a neutral space. It subtly trains people toward individualism, consumerism, privatized faith, and suspicion of the “other.” Evangelical theology, when embedded in such a context, often reflects these same values, even unconsciously, and struggles when challenged (pp. 25-26).
2. The Spatial Context of White Evangelicalism
One of Miller’s most important contributions is his insistence that we consider space as part of evangelical identity.
“It is not enough for researchers and pundits to consider the theological position and political behavior of evangelicals; accounting for their spatial context is part and parcel to understanding the whole package of white evangelicalism” (p. 8).
Evangelicalism’s center of gravity shifted from urban centers to suburbs during the postwar years, often through patterns of “white flight.” As cities became more racially and economically diverse, many white evangelicals sought homogeneity and safety in suburban enclaves (v. 26). Their theology—churches, and even denominational headquarters—moved with them.
3. Suburban Values and Evangelical Theology
Miller traces how suburban life reinforces certain evangelical emphases: the nuclear family (and as Graham & Davis have shown, the “success track” along with it), home ownership, child-centered ministries, moral boundary-setting, and an aversion to structural critiques of society.
Evangelicals often frame faith in terms of personal salvation, and this dovetails neatly with suburban ideals of self-sufficiency, privacy, and individual moral responsibility. The result is a theology that tends to avoid systemic critique and instead locates sin and transformation purely in the hearts of individuals (p. 22).
4. Race, Class, and the Limits of Translation
One of the more insightful threads throughout the book is the implicit whiteness of suburban evangelical theology. As suburban neighborhoods grew more racially and economically diverse, many white evangelicals doubled down on individualism and “colorblind” ideologies, often avoiding engagement with structural racism or inequity.
Miller draws on scholars like Emerson and Smith to show that this individualism isn’t just theological—it’s also racialized (p. 164). In failing to confront systems of exclusion, evangelicalism became, in some expressions, a theology of comfort rather than costly discipleship (p. 30).
5. Theological Contextualization and Cultural Blind Spots
Miller doesn’t argue that evangelicalism is false. Rather, he shows how deeply its expression has been shaped by a particular time, place, and social class—namely, post-war American suburbia. This has led to what many have called the “suburban captivity” of the church. Miller poses two pressing questions: Can a gospel shaped by suburban ideals still speak prophetically to a rapidly changing and pluralistic society? Or has it lost the ability to cross boundaries?
This suburban captivity isn’t just theoretical—I experienced it firsthand while pastoring in ethnically and economically diverse neighborhoods in Chicago. The discipleship materials sent from suburban evangelical publishers assumed a stable, nuclear family: one parent working, the other staying home. But in my context, more than half the kids came from single-parent homes. Families were navigating overloaded schedules, poor schools, and complex cultural tensions. That material might as well have been written in another language.
The second time I clearly saw how difficult it can be to cross these boundaries was during a conversation I had with a white suburban pastor about racism. My church was ethnically diverse and made up largely of working-class and lower-income families, situated in a blue-collar suburb. His, by contrast, was located in a more suburban-rural area, predominantly white and upper-middle class.
I shared with him some of the stories I’d heard from people in my congregation—accounts of racial profiling, economic injustice, and the quieter, more persistent forms of exclusion they encountered regularly. He quickly dismissed their experiences. Then, without hesitation, he pivoted to share how he had been discriminated against for being a larger man.
It was a jarring moment—not because his pain was invalid, but because he couldn’t distinguish between systemic, historically-rooted racial injustice and the more individualized experience of bias he had encountered. What became clear in that conversation was that we weren’t just talking about different experiences—we were operating from entirely different social imaginations. He lacked the framework to understand racial injustice as anything more than personal meanness, and as a result, he couldn’t hear what I was saying.
This moment crystallized something I had been slowly realizing: our theology and discipleship frameworks were shaped by different social worlds. His suburban setting had shielded him from certain realities my community faced daily. The church, in his world, wasn’t equipped to listen—let alone respond—because its formation had not prepared it for complexity, lament, or solidarity across lines of race and class. It hadn’t been discipled for that. And in many ways, that’s the problem Miller is naming.
Strengths
Miller’s central insight—that context matters—is one that many urban pastors have been voicing for decades. But Miller names it sociologically and historically, adding new layers to how we interpret evangelicalism’s rise and influence. His use of Chicago as a case study and his tracing of key evangelical hubs—Wheaton, Colorado Springs, Grand Rapids, and Orange County—offer compelling evidence.
I was especially struck by Miller’s treatment of the South’s exclusion from national evangelical conversations. Southern evangelicalism, with all its theological and cultural distinctives, was largely sidelined by the National Association of Evangelicals. Miller asks what evangelicalism might have become had the South been fully included. It’s a provocative point that hints at deeper structural questions—ones that merit future exploration.
Weaknesses
As a sociologist, Miller leans heavily on data. For some readers, especially pastors or practitioners, the data may feel like a barrier to the more actionable parts of the argument. You may find yourself skimming to get to the application. The biggest gap is that pastors are left wondering, “What do I do with this?” Identifying patterns is one thing. Responding to them faithfully is another.
Personal Reflections
What gives me hope is that the suburban landscape Miller critiques is rapidly changing. Suburbs are no longer monocultural enclaves. They are becoming centers of ethnic, economic, and religious diversity—something I have seen and welcomed firsthand.
When our family was discerning where to relocate, we intentionally sought a growing and diverse community—somewhere we could live as missionaries, not just residents. We longed to see the power of the gospel break down barriers and bring people together across lines of race, culture, and class. That search led us to a vibrant and rapidly expanding suburban area in Florida. One local elementary school, for instance, includes 244 Indian families, making up 22% of the student body. While White residents still hold a slim majority at 55%, Hispanic/Latino, Black, and multiracial populations are steadily increasing. Suburbia is “browning”—and that’s good news for the church and its mission.
But here’s the challenge: many suburban churches, shaped by the assumptions of white evangelical theology, are ill-equipped to reach the emerging diversity around them. Their theological expressions were formed within a narrow cultural frame, and as a result, they lack the tools to engage the complexities of today’s suburban reality.
We can no longer assume—nor should we—that each ethnic group will naturally form its own separate church. The church, as a new creation community, is called to reflect the rich diversity of the people God is redeeming. Unlike schools, which mirror their neighborhoods by default through geographic zoning, churches are meant to do so by intentional design—out of a gospel-rooted desire to embody the multiethnic kingdom of God in a specific place. This kind of community cannot be manufactured. But it should be aspired to—a vision stirred by the Spirit, grounded in the gospel, and shaped by love for our neighbors. Our congregations should serve as foretaste communities, where people from every background gather—not because of shared ethnicity, culture, or class, but because of a shared allegiance to Jesus.
The opportunity—and responsibility—lies with existing churches to rethink their theology, discipleship, and mission.
Conclusion
Miller’s thesis is compelling. The real question isn’t whether he’s right—I believe he is. The question is whether suburban churches can recognize how deeply they’ve been shaped by a particular cultural moment and adapt accordingly. Can they move beyond assumptions of uniformity, stability, and familiarity to engage the new realities of their own neighborhoods? If the current theological and ecclesial models can’t hold the weight of a more multicultural, socioeconomically complex suburbia, then new paradigms—more biblically rooted and globally informed—are not optional; they’re essential.
That’s why I advocate for missioholism. Missioholism doesn’t merely acknowledge cultural forces; it critically examines how those forces have shaped our theology, discipleship, and mission practices. But it doesn’t stop there. It seeks to build a bridge to a more universal, resilient expression of the faith—one that is at home in diverse neighborhoods, able to withstand cultural pressures, and strong enough to unify people across lines of race, class, and background. It’s not about abandoning evangelical theology but about refining and re-grounding it for the global, pluralistic, and often fragmented world we now inhabit.
Miller has done the church a service by peeling back the layers of suburban evangelicalism and exposing both its gifts and its limits. His work calls us not to nostalgia but to repentance, reflection, and innovation. The suburbs are no longer the religious monocultures they once were—they are fast becoming mission fields. If we want to meet this moment with integrity, we need theological frameworks that are missional, contextual, and holistic—in other words, missioholistic. We will need to move beyond sanctifying suburbia and toward sanctifying the people within it—by offering a gospel that speaks to the full complexity of modern life, yet remains rooted in the timeless, boundary-breaking kingdom of God.
Apollos Watered Rating: 💧💧💧💧 — (4 drops) — Extremely helpful for pastors and Christian leaders trying to understand suburban theological expressions and how they came to be.
Sanctifying Suburbia: How the Suburbs Became the Promised Land for American Evangelicals
By Brian J. Miller,
Oxford University Press, 2025. 240 pages
💧 The Apollo’s Watered Review Rating System:
💧💧💧💧💧 Must Read:
Foundational, insightful, and transformative for ministry leaders. Everyone in your sphere should read it.
💧💧💧💧½ Nearly Essential:
Excellent and compelling. Just shy of “must read,” but still highly recommended.
💧💧💧💧 Should Read:
Strong contribution. Valuable for most readers in your context.
💧💧💧½ Helpful if Interested:
Worthwhile for those with a specific interest or need.
💧💧💧 Situationally Useful:
Some good insights, but not broadly applicable. It might serve a limited purpose.
💧💧½ or less — Skim or Leave It Be:
Little lasting value. May have a point or two, but better options are available.
💧½ or 💧 — Skip It:
Weak or misleading. Not worth your time.