kien father john, technology and god

7/30/2019 Kien Father John, Technology and God

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1

Please address correspondence to Grant Kien, Department of Communication, 3005

Meiklejohn Hall, California State University, East Bay, 25800 Carlos Bee Blvd, Hayward, CA

94542-3014; e-mail: [email protected].

Father John, Technology,and God

An International Christian Mission

in the Lobby of the Juyoh Hotel

Grant KienDepartment of Communication, California State University

Although insinuated into incredibly nuanced performances of everyday life,

the ways in which we qualitatively ally with technology often continue to

determine which of its potentialities will be realized. The following

autoethnographic vignette takes to heart the Denzinian stylistic preferences

show dont tell and bury the theory, and the ActorNetwork theory direc-

tive to produce a text that provides time rather than steals it, in terminol-

ogy that the actors themselves would recognize, use, and understand. This

work follows the actant of the wireless laptop to a hotel lobby in Japan,where ritual and habitual performances show the maintenance of nationalist

performativity. A missionary in Tokyo voices the American dream of rock

and roll fame, invoking questions about the role of technology in spirituality

in the process. Finally, an understanding of morality as mundane, everyday

performance is presented.

Its Friday, about 6:30 a.m., my first gray and wet morning in Tokyo. Ive

come to research everyday experiences of being wirelessly mobile inJapan, arguably the worlds most mythologized technological city. Ive

done a pretty good job of sleeping through the jet lag, having gone to my

futon bed with its sandbag pillow at about 9 p.m. the previous night. I chose

this hotel after an exhaustive online search, having found it on a Web site

called TokyoCheapHotels.com. The Juyoh hotel has a mix of so-called tra-

ditional Japanese and Western features. It is easy to distinguish some of

these, such as the Japanese green tea available on every floor and the

Western style communal shower facilities one might find in hostels in

Qualitative Inquiry

Volume XX Number X

Month XXXX xx-xx

2008 Sage Publications

10.1177/1077800408322583

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North America. The ubiquitous vending machines are another story though,

placed throughout the hotel at every turn (and, as I would find later,

throughout the entire city), selling everything from canned hot coffee, totoothbrushes, to cards that anonymously unblock the pornography channels

on the televisions in the small rooms. Not exactly traditional in the mean-

ing the word seems to suggest from their tourist propaganda, but I would

later come to appreciate the aesthetic of the vending machines as very

Japanese.

I ride the elevator down to the lobby to take advantage of one of the

hotels modern features: free Internet. Forsaking the hotels assortment of

computers jammed in on cheap desks beside various vending machines, Iunpack my laptop and begin hunting for an Ethernet connection. Because I

havent had my requisite morning coffee, I dont even think to look for a

wireless connection. I ask the front desk where I can find a cable, and two

people quickly appear to point to a wire lying on one of the tables. I thank

them and plug it into my little Averatec notebook with them looking over

my shoulder. The login screen appears with the words Log in to The Little

Guy, the name I unthinkingly gave it when I had powered it up for the first

time. This is a brand new computer, barely even turned on in the UnitedStates, so Im a little anxious about how to properly set the protocols.

Nevertheless, the network status balloon quickly indicates that my com-

puter is connected, and the attendants both say something I dont under-

stand, either to each other or to me. I turn toward them and hear myself say

Arigato mechanically as they smile with a brisk vocalization of HAI!

and return by the door they entered.

I check my e-mail and log into MSN Messenger, looking for some social

connection. There is one other person in the lobby, a stern looking young

Western woman. The tapping of her keyboard signals an imaginable barrier

between her and the rest of her immediate environment and, conversely, her

displaced connection to someone else. Im disappointed in my own search

for connectivity online and cant follow up on my impulse to have a chat on

Messenger. I opt for the consolation prize of writing a quick e-mail to my

family to let them know Ive arrived safely. I hit the home page button on

my browser, which to my horror takes me back to the Averatec site. I

quickly type in the Toronto Star URL, and after the page loads, I set it as

my default home page. In the fog of my morning mind I absently scanthrough the headlines, then with a mental start, demand of myself, What

am I doing? . . . Im in freakin Tokyo for godsake! Got to get out of here.

. . . In a near panic, I prioritize the rest of my day: First, get a phone card

and call home; second, eat some breakfast; third, get researching by

2 Qualitative Inquiry


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going to Akihabara, Tokyos famous electronics market . . . try to figure out

why my phone doesnt work here . . . try to find wireless hot spots . . . NO!

First find coffee! I rationalize that if I can find a Starbucks, I should be ableto get coffee AND check out a hot spot. I shut down The Little Guy, fold

him up, and take him upstairs to my room under my arm.

* * * * *

The Juyoh Hotel elevator has a number of useful signs indicating, for

example, where the bathrooms and showers are located, the locations of

vending machines (basically everywhere) and pay phones, and that phonecards are available at the front desk. I first scoff at the suggestion, imagining

they are likely to be overpriced. But I decide the convenience of not having

to search for one in the outside world is probably worth it. Arriving at the

fifth floor, I walk down the hall and drop off my laptop in my tiny room and

turn back into the hallway. I thumb my Lonely Planet guide while waiting

for the elevator, trying to find a place to have breakfast. I board the elevator

to find myself confronting another Westerner with guidebook in hand.

Hi . . .

Good morning . . . we greet each other.

Hes close to my height, thin, wearing the stock travelers uniform of T-

shirt, outdoorsmens quick dry pants, and hiking-style running shoes.

What are you doing today? he asks me unpresumptuously.

Mmmm . . . thinking of checking out Akihibara . . . but first I gotta find some

breakfast . . . I explain. Do you know anywhere around here to have break-fast? I ask.

Ummm . . . I just ate food from the convenience store next door last night, he

tells me in his California accent. Im going to see the Ginza fish market this

morning, and I was thinking of having breakfast there . . . he tells me.

Have a good day . . . I say as a way of saying good-bye.

* * * * *

Hi . . . Its Father John . . . Im in Tokyo . . . Yes . . . Im calling from my

computer . . . I listen to him say in a too loud voice; or maybe hes just that

type of American? Yeah, yeah . . . no . . . Its a program on my laptop . . .

Im in the lobby of the hotel . . . No, dont worry, its really cheap . . . I can

hear you clear as a bell . . . I just wanted to check in with you folks, and let

you know were here and everything is going well . . . Were praying for you

Kien / Father John, Technology, and God 3


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here. . . . He chats with his parishioner a few more minutes, then makes

another call with a similar script. All the while, having broken down and

bought a phone card from the front desk, Ive been busy using the pay phonein the lobby with a phone card. Ive been making somewhat comparable calls

back to my own people in North America. I emerge from the phone booth,

and as luck would have it, Father John is taking some down time between

calls. I look him over quickly: brown average length hair, average height, an

average roll around his middle, wearing jeans and a blue golf shirt, and one

of his blue eyes is lazy. I seize the moment to solicit some information.

Youre using Skype? I ask, already knowing the answer.Yes . . . you know about Skype? he replies.

Yeah, I have the software on my laptop too, but I dont have a headset with me,

so I cant use it just yet . . . How do you like it? I ask him.

Oh, its great! he says enthusiastically, So cheap, and its clear as a bell!

Thats good to know, I say, Im going to pick up a headset in Akihabara today

so I can use it myself. . . . Youre plugged into the Ethernet here? I query.

Oh, no, I have a wireless card in my laptop. . . . It just connected right up to their

network here. . . .

He has made me realize that there is wireless Internet available in the

lobby. For some reason it hadnt even occurred to me to try my wireless card.

Is there anything you think is a problem with the program? Like, any-

thing I should watch out for? I ask. He tells me the only thing he wishes

is that he had purchased a better headset; because he didnt think it would

work so well, he bought a cheap one but now feels the only improvement

would be to have a better headset. Great! Thanks for the information. . . .

Im Grant. . . . I say, by means of extracting myself from the conversation.

Im John . . . he replies, Im here with some folks from my church doing mis-

sionary work, so well be here for a few more days. . . .

Oh . . . well, maybe you can direct me to a good place to get coffee? I ask hopefully.

Hmmm . . . well, we just got here two days ago, and I just kind of follow the

organizers here . . . dont get too involved with the planning . . . but we went

for breakfast and had a nice fresh-roasted coffee right across the street yester-

day . . . I dont know the name of the place, but its right across the street . . .

Im sure you can find it . . . he reassures me.Yes, actually, I think I know the place you must mean. . . . Great . . . Thanks . . .

I tell him, thinking of the quasi-French restaurant called Sebastians (which for

some reason I always thought was a German name) that I spotted the previous

night right across from the hotel. See you later . . . I say as I head out the

door to the street.



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I cross the street. Sebastians is still closed, and from what I can tell by what

I think is their hours of operation sign, they might be opening around 9 a.m.

That is about two hours later than I think I can wait, so I start walking downthe street in what I think is the direction of another restaurant with Western

style breakfast I saw indicated on a map in the hotel lobby. I walk two blocks,

and turn left at the 711 and a couple of blocks later arrive at another closed

restaurant. This one has an English sign that says it has wireless Internet, and

it will open at 10 a.m. I decide to just roam around and look for an open restau-

rant, naively assuming there must be a Starbucks or McDonalds or some such

Western entity not too far away. I randomly venture down a side street, then

hang another left to go down what looks to me like some kind of market streetwith a roof suspended overhead between the buildings. Im completely unpre-

pared for what I encounter. I see orderly rows of dirty old men lying on the

sidewalk, sleeping on cardboard. I walk through the street in my shocked pre-

caffeinated state, further stunned by this spectacle of poverty in the midst of

what Ive often heard described as the second largest economy in the world.

Of course, Ive seen many destitute people in the streets of Toronto, Montral,

New York, Chicago, and even Champaign-Urbana, not to mention the

deplorable living conditions Ive witnessed in Mexico. But as I walk throughthe street, I am struck by how strict the demographic of this rather neatly

arranged configuration of the wretched is: entirely elderly and male. As I

arrive back at the crossroads with the main thoroughfare, I make a mental note

of what I have witnessed and resume my search for coffee and breakfast.

Passing the umpteenth conglomerate of vending machines, I finally take notice

of the rows of various types of canned coffee. By this point, I just need some

kind of refreshment, so I decide on a label called Georgia. When I reach into

the dispenser drawer to remove what I think is an iced latte, Im surprised

when my hand rests on hot metal. The machine vends both hot and cold

canned drinks, and as luck would have it, I unknowingly chose my preference.

As I walk, I realize the Minamisenju neighborhood just isnt a Starbucks or

McDonalds type of area. I randomly pass more dirty elderly men and finally

arrive at a convenience store close to the hotel. I purchase some prepackaged

breakfast and return to the hotel lobby to eat it.

Entering the hotel, I stand and survey the small lobby. In addition to the

computer desks, there is a kitchen table with chairs around it and next to

that a coffee table lined by a couple of sofas. Selecting a seat at the tablefrom which I am well positioned to monitor the rest of the room, I sit down

to eat. There are noticeably more people in the lobby now. John is still on

his mission to tell everyone back in the United States that he can make

cheap, clear as a bell phone calls from his computer.



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I listen to him make two more phone calls. Its impossible not to listen

in, because hes doing it in the middle of the room and makes no effort to

lower his voice. I begin to realize most of the other people in the lobby are

with his missionary crew. He finishes a call, and a white man whose nameI didnt catch finds himself targeted by Father John: Theyre praying for

us back in Florida! John ejaculates to his companion and the room in gen-

eral. I uploaded pictures to the Web this morning for them to see what

weve been doing, he goes on. Do you want to call anyone back home?

Ive been using this program on my computer to make phone calls . . . its

dirt cheap and clear as a bell! In the attitude of the true enthusiast, he

speaks as if he invented Skype himself. His joiner acquiesces to try the

technology, to become enlisted in the Skype network. John seems to revelin his performance of technological expert, educating his student on how to

dial a call and speak into a headset. I finish my food amid the chaos of this

international Christian missionary groups preparation for their days expe-

dition, which I mentally note, doesnt make mention of the army of old men


Figure 1


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sleeping on cardboard down the street. John and I say a few words of recog-

nition as I cross the lobby to the elevator. I go to my room and pick up my

own actants: I pack my laptop and tuck my useless phone into my backpackjust for the heck of it, just because I irrationally feel I should. I cross

through the now very full lobby again, assessing that the missionaries must

number somewhere between fifteen and twentya healthy gang which Im

sure feels quite safe to roam with. I head back into the street, to the subway

station, and onward through my first solitary day of research in Tokyo.

* * * * *

Its early evening, about 8 p.m. As dusk envelops the city, I make my

weary way from Akihibara to the Minamisenju station, then back to the hotel

with my recently purchased headset in my backpack and a takeout cutlet din-

ner in my hand. Im ready to eat, try out Skype for myself, and then collapse

from jet lag. On entering the hotel lobby, I take a seat at the conveniently

provided dining table and begin to eat my food. Father John and his crew are

dominating the lobby again. We greet each other. While I sit with my meal,

I observe various members of the missionary crew pass through the space invarious configurations of pre- and postshower attire, some wearing towels

on heads, some carrying them in hands, some in robes, some still in street

clothes. The other regular guests like myself for the most part sit at the

computer terminals. I uploaded some more pictures to the Web site . . .

Father John triumphantly tells one of his parishioners. At some point amid

the hubbub, Father John decided to take a time-out to do what I suspect is

some witnessing (evangelical slang for the sharing of the glory of God)

to me. Seated across the table, he asks in quiet tones about my day.

I went to Akihibara and looked around . . . I got a headset there, so I can try

Skype now . . . I hear myself confess to him.

Great . . . great . . . he reassures me and looks imploringly, waiting for my polite

reciprocation of the question.

Against my will, I force myself to ask, And you? How was your day?

Father John starts explaining their missionary activities of the afternoon,

telling me of the various places they witnessed and how well receivedthey were. I wonder silently whether all this is done through translators, but

before I can ask about such mundanities, he singles out a tall teenage girl

who has the misfortune of absent mindedly wandering too close.



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Michel gave a great talk today. . . . They mobbed her like a ROCK star when it

was finished. . . . Isnt that right Michel . . . ? Michel looks uncomfortably at

me, like a typical 16-year-old who doesnt really want to be part of this oldpeoples conversation. I wonder to myself, does every North American dream

of being a rock star?

Yes she meekly answers and drifts slowly but surely away as Father John

resumes our talk. But he doesnt get far as he is quickly pulled away by one of

the organizers and sent to the showers.

I just take orders here . . . he tells me. This is my vacation, so I just do what

they tell me to, go where they tell me to go . . .

Great . . . ! See you later . . . I tell him and turn my attention to my laptop.

I plug in my headset and log in to Skype but find I still cant use the

program. No matter what I try to do to get around their security feature,

they wont accept my credit card from an overseas IP address. I write a few

short e-mails and resort to the phone card to speak to a couple of people

back home before finally retiring for the night.

* * * * *

Saturday morning begins much the same as Friday did: early, damp, and

gray. The now familiar figure of Father John is in the lobby ahead of me

again, going through his Skype routine. Did you see the pictures on the

Web site? I uploaded some pictures yesterday . . . he says, going on to

explain their Friday adventure much the same way as he told me the night

before. They mobbed them like rock stars . . . ! I hear him exclaiming as

I turn my attention to my own laptop. Thanks to a friends efforts (inputting

my info from back in the United States), I finally have a balance on my

Skype account, and I begin to use it. Its now my turn to see people turn

their heads when I speak too loud into my headset microphone and to

embarrassingly force others to overhear intimate details of my life. I make

several calls but the whole time wish self-consciously that I could pick up

my laptop like a cell phone and move somewhere else. I realize that its

excruciating for a 37-year-old Canadian man to have a lobby full of people

listen to him talk to his mom: Yes, I am eating well . . . dont worry . . .

No, the weather is fine . . . Its 7 a.m. here . . . Meanwhile, as if by osmo-

sis, Father Johns flock slowly materializes in the lobby, distributing them-selves as if dedicated to creating a homeostatic balance of chatter within the

room. He doesnt seem to have any of my reservations. I hear him interro-

gating his toddler in his brash American tone: Are you praying for daddy?

he demands of his infant son. Make sure you say your prayers . . . Im



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praying for you and mommy . . . he says, a statement I imagine to be for

the benefit of those overhearing him rather than addressing any normal 2-

year-olds concerns.Ive finished my phone calling and sit with a can of warm coffee

acquired from a vending machine, performing my morning routine. While

I read my usual repertoire of newspapers, Father John casually inserts him-

self into a chair beside me.

How you doing today? I ask him.

Oh, good . . . good . . . he says noncommittally.

Hows your family doing? I continue.

Oh, theyre fine . . . its a little hard to be away from them, he confesses. I see

youre using Skype now . . . he tells me.

Yeah, its great . . . I say with the reserved enthusiasm the time of day

demands. Its really cool that there is this technology available . . . you

seem to be pretty well aware of the latest technologies . . . what else do you

use? I ask. He tells me hes a gadget person, that he likes working with

technology, but its really just a hobby. I mention that it must be helpful for

his work sometimes, and I ask him if hes ever used a Web cam. His voicebuilding with enthusiasm, he starts describing a three-location virtual con-

cert that his church participated in. Performers in three different churches

recently used the Internet to play a live concert together for their parish-

ioners. He tells me they are planning a similar event on a global scale, with

performers in different countries around the world. I reflect on the spectac-

ular nature of such an event and wonder what practical purpose such a tech-

nological feat could possibly serve in the interest of their religion.

That would be quite a spectacle . . . I guess God is spectacular . . . Ijoke quietly to him, but he doesnt get the philosophical pun. Obviously

proud of their ability to pull off such a feat, he describes the massive video

screens and other rather expensive equipment it would take, not to mention

the technicians involved. As he speaks, I begin to get the sense that Father

John is in fact not a particularly high-ranking individual in his broader orga-

nization. Enlisting the network for God, I think silently to myself. What

. . . what time zone would it be in? I ask out loud, meekly, predicting that

the choice of time will be the supreme signifier of who is in charge of sucha network of alliances.

Oh . . . I hadnt thought too much about that . . . I guess we would prob-

ably do it around noon . . . he says, confirming my suspicions. I calculate

that would put the event at around 1 a.m. in Japanprobably not the



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Japanese peoples top choice for an international event of this nature. Our

talk is interrupted by one of his organizers who tells him its time to get

under way to their next appearance. This is like a vacation time for me . .

. I just go wherever they tell me to . . . Father John tells me for the secondtime, as if trying to convince himself. He gets up and leaves with his group.

For my part, I continue with my morning routine, then take a short walk

around the neighborhood until my guide comes to meet me in the lobby of

the hotel at 10 a.m.

* * * * *

Koji has been my guide all day, taking me from site to site aroundTokyo. We started at Tokyo Tower, an ironic and pedestrian spectacle to

begin with for a Torontonian, causing me to react patronizingly politely, as

if he had just shown me the natural wonder of snow. We then went down to

Tokyo Bay, catching a futuristic-looking ferry across to the island of

Odaiba. Odaiba is supposed to be the new city, home to the Fuji


Figure 2


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Television station, Aqua City, the Museum of Emerging Science and

Innovation, and a replica of the Statue of Liberty (startling for its appear-

ance out of place). Overall, the island presents one with a vision of 80s

futurism. After reviewing the Museum of Science and Technology, where I

managed to capture several minutes of Asimov the Honda robots perfor-

mance on video, we headed to Shinbashi back in the city for dinner. Koji

left me at Shinbashi station armed with careful directions guiding me back

to Minamisenju. We say good-bye with the vow to keep in touch and meet

again when I return to Tokyo.


Figure 3


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It is now dusk, and as I leave the subway station, I blunder into a parade in

the street. Suddenly, surrounded by local Japanese, my touristic instincts take

over: I pull out my camera. I take several still pictures but then decide the spir-

itual ritual Im witnessing should be videotaped. I stand amid the people

crowded along the edges of the road, capturing the ceremony for future analy-

sis. Once it is well past me, I turn wearily and head back to the hotel.

The hotel lobby is full of the regular crowd of missionaries and civilians.

While I sit checking my e-mail, I spot a new guest among us. I notice a

green book in his hand that I suspect is a copy of the Koran. Hes sitting on

a sofa, the comfort of which inevitably attracts some of the missionaries but

also a couple of nondenominational travelers. I overhear that hes from

Chicago, so I take the opportunity to say hello to him and tell him Im

studying at Urbana. I wager with myself that hes a Nation of Islam

Muslim, which he confirms for me without dwelling on it. We talk a little

bit about Illinois. Drawn into the conversation by his vicinity on the sofa, I

notice that Father John talks to him differently than he does to me. Is it

because hes a Muslim, or because hes black, or because hes a black

Muslim? Tired from the days events, I stealthily extract myself from the

social obligations of the setting.

Alone in my quarters, I upload my little mpeg movies to my laptop.

First, I watch the parade several times. Then I play back the Asimov video.I think about the myths and contradictions to them Im encountering and

the contrast between the intensity of the high-tech imaginary of Tokyo and

the reality of encountering such a vibrant display of folk tradition in the

street. I try to remember what I learned about Shinto back in my undergrad


Figure 4


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days and think about Asimovs imitation of life. I reflect a few minutes

to mentally catalog the mishmash of religious performativity Ive been

witnessingFather John et al. with the Muslim Chicagoan in the lobby andthe parade in the street. I jokingly wonder if Father John is interested in

videoconferencing with the Shinto parade people, or Asimov, or Reverend

Farakan. Still, my cynicism of Christianity aside, Im very intrigued by his

enlistment of technology. I determine that I should ask him directly about

his views on technology and God.

* * * * *

Sunday morning comes, and I find myself going through the now famil-

iar motions of my morning routine in Japan. I have another guide,

Yoshitaka, coming at 10 a.m. Reviewing his e-mail containing a thoroughly

detailed program plotted into half-hour blocks, I get a sense of what I

stereotype as the Japanese love for structure (or at least a glimpse at his

managerial mind-set, which I dont believe is idiosyncratic). Mentally pre-

pared for a lobby scene the same as the previous morning, Im a little sur-

prised on my entry to see the missionaries preparing to leave. Amid theclutter of the slow but steady compilation of his crews baggage in the

lobby, I fall into my new but apparently short-to-be-lived habit of my morn-

ing talk with Father John. Picking up from my previous nights meditation

about his use of technology, I start directing the conversation toward tech-

nology and God. Im mainly interested in addressing the Heideggerian

issue: How does one work with technology in such a way as to not distract

one from the truth about God? How do he and his church ensure that they

are gathering for the purpose of revealing, rather than cramming them-

selves into the standing reserve?

So, you use a lot of technology, eh? I ask. Do you use technology in your ser-

mons? I ask directly.

Oh, yes . . . I use some stuff, you know, not all the time, but sometimes to make

a point. . . . I dont rely on it though . . . he explains.

He again describes the concert they put on with musicians in three loca-

tions playing music with each other, linked through the Internet. I think fora moment about Leibnizs monadism, pondering if we should consider the

appearance of them playing together as rather the disparate musicians

playing simultaneously. Or are they playing with the machine? What a glo-

rious entelechy!



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Its really amazing what we can do with technology now, eh? I ask

him. Father John tells me for the second time about his churchs plan for a

similar event on a global scale, linking musicians around the world in theglory of God! I reflect on the spectacle of this: Is ritual merely sacralized

spectacle? Again the Heideggerian issue . . . how to ensure we dont mis-

take the enframing for the numinous? Im about to ask him, carefully for-

mulating the wording in my mind, when a pimply teenage boy suddenly

appears at his side.

Father John . . . he begins gently, quietly, Ummm . . . Yesterday, well, I was

supposed to hand out all those flyers . . . you know? But, um . . . I still havesome left . . . a lot, actually . . .

Father John stops to think for a moment. He looks up at his ewe and says

with a gentle, quiet confidence:

Put what you have left in a bag, take it outside, and throw them in the garbage.

Well tell everyone you handed them all out, ok?

Ok . . . Thanks Father John . . . the kid says, turning to carry out his orders.

I look on in stunned silence. Did he really just counsel this impression-

able young mind to break the ninth Christian commandment? Why does it

freakin matter . . . arent they just flyers? I mean, who cares? What part of

their mission does this fulfill? Im shocked into inaction by what Ive wit-

nessed. Consumed by this new wonder, I simply forget to ask him my ques-

tion. The setting quickly deteriorates into a general milieu of preparations

to leave, requiring frequent diversions of Father Johns attention. Suddenly

he turns toward me, extends his hand, and says, Well, it has been great get-ting to know you here . . . good luck with your work! I guess well be going

now. . . . I stand and shake his hand, repeating his sentiments and adding

have a good flight. I sit down again and watch them parade out the front

doors as I finish my morning coffee. I turn my attention to my laptop, wait-

ing for Yoshitaka.

Grant Kien, PhD, is an assistant professor in the Department of Communication at California

State University, East Bay. His research focuses on technography; qualitative approaches totechnology research; globalization; communication and culture; mobility; and communica-

tions networks as performative, symbolic, and interpretive spaces. Recent work includes a full-

length book titled Global Technography: Ethnography in the Age of Mobility (Peter Lang).


kien father john, technology and god

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