Brick-a-Brack

watering can
PC: Glorin

I pass, for the first time, through the double-doors into the homemaker’s heaven:

Hobby Lobby.

Bright lights and long aisles and…instrumental Easter hymns playing over the loudspeaker?

Observing the 30-day devotionals and wall-hanging Bible inscriptions, I presume the owner is Christian.

Immediately overwhelmed by the size of the maze, I ask an employee to show me the chalkboard markers.

We pass rows of craft supplies, bolts of fabric, Easter bunnies and plants, picture frames and furniture.

I feel an unfamiliar conflict stirring up inside me, making it difficult to concentrate on the employee’s direction.

Excitement and inspiration (the endless possibilities of homed decorating!) colliding with something like…revulsion?

I pause briefly at an aisle that catches my interest, craning my neck to see to the top of shelving laid neatly with farmhouse-style goods. Serving platters and jars, kettles and bottles and baskets and spouts, all with distressed finishes, or that green/blue patina mimic of rusting copper.

My revulsion turns to anger. Someone is making a profit off somebody else’s insecurity and attempt to construct an identity through an aesthetic!

What someone would naturally achieve by living and laboring for generations on a real farm in the country is duplicated in a sweatshop in China for five dollars, then sold for quadruple to an American suburbanite who will change their theme in five years when the next trend emerges!

I’m all a righteous, red flush and rage.

Until I realize I am the one with the insecurity and constructed identity. I am the suburbanite, and the anger is the Lord’s.

Someone across the Sea is not making a fair wage in good working conditions so I can furnish a new house! This elusive home I’m trying to find and create, telling the Lord I will do it with him, but first not understanding what it is to be at home in his presence.

Not understanding the injustice done to others to fulfill my desire, which is a false identity in the first place. I’m compensating. A wooden chicken for the assurance that I belong.

Oh, Jesus, give me rest from this striving!

All that comes is vapor (Eccl. 11:8)…. And when we’re dead and gone, and the accumulation of our striving blown away with our last breath, all we’ve left is a crater-sized carbon footprint of the landfill junk that once constructed our worth.

What can I do against such reckless, pervasive sickness?

Walk in the ways of your heart and the sight of your eyes. But know that for all these things God will bring you into judgement (11:9).

I pass, for the first time, through the double doors of the Earth Maker’s heart, and I find grief.

His grief over the system, my grief over missing his heart in all this. There is more of heaven’s will to be manifest on earth, in my life!

He’s preparing a place for me, the truest home. It’s available to me right now, in his heart.

Will I exchange my perfectly-curated, white-picket-fence, Christian-American dream?

After all, it’s just an illusion.

 

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Choosing Poverty

in_a_dream____by_deviousclown
Photo Credit: Elias

Driving home yesterday, I passed a homeless begging man in his wheelchair, just as another man passed him on foot, paused, turned back, and began to pick the pockets on the backpack hanging from the chair’s handles.

“HEY!” I shouted from the inside of my car, and thought wildly, as the swell of traffic carried me forward, of trying to pull over to stop the man.

I seethed at the injustice, doubting whether anyone else on the street and noticed and would intervene.

On Glenwood, beyond Lee’s Liquor Lounge, a little community of homeless people always congregated beneath the building’s awning. I tried to catch glimpses of their faces, wondering what their stories were.

The righteous anger against one poor man stealing from another poor man wrestled with a genuine desire to help and a creeping guilt of my complacency.

I thought, acts of injustice happen all over the city every minute–how could I stop every one?

And then, opportunities for goodness are on every corner of the city–how could I avert my eyes at a red light?

Followed by, but if I see injustice and it is in my power to do something, I should!

Leading to, I cannot give to every homeless person in Minneapolis without becoming a slave myself.

Eventually I gave my head a little shake to dislodge all thoughts and make room for something helpful from the Spirit.

The reality is, he said immediately, many people don’t have enough.

Enough cash, enough clothing. Enough true friends. Enough hope, enough joy. Enough protection, provision, purpose.

Enough love, enough life.

And I, a daughter of God, have everything.

My car sailed down Glenwood, under the 94 bridge, and I grasped in my spirit the reality of what I have in Jesus, the breadth-and-length-and-height-and-depth of wealth, times the Trinity.

I felt his recognition of my heart to do justice, to favor mercy over judgment, to see myself and others as what he speaks over us, nothing more, nothing less.

I felt his assurance that he would tell me when to move and when to stay, when to speak and when to be silent, when to give, when to inquire, when to simply smile.

You can have everything, I found myself telling him. Because I have enough, you can have everything. I want to live from your heart of abundance.

And I knew, as I said it, that he would require everything of me–already has been stretching me in my resources–in a way that wouldn’t feel pleasant to my fears and dreams and plans, but would be explosive for my faith and sweet in its reward with Jesus.

You cannot take a city by isolated, random acts of kindness, but you can take a city by a lifestyle of exhaling the goodness of God’s heart, for where abundance is, people tend to flock. We are made to receive his abundance with a magnetism that cannot deny his attraction, any more than he can deny his nature to give.

And that, in turn, causes us to give away what we’ve received.

Fulfilled are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God. 

It’s the only cycle of poverty worth getting caught in.