Sermon Central
Like you, I have a library full of books. The inevitable question people pose on their initial visit to my library is, "Have you read all these books?" I fumble for a tidy way to avoid the question by saying goofy things like, "I've read in most of them," or "Some of these are for reference." But the truth is, I often wonder what the thousands of books on my shelves say about my personal view of simplicity.
Christians have done a lot to complicate simplicity. Our internal angst regarding the issue has spun itself off into complex formulas and a myriad of books to help us simplify our lives. I've actually spent quite a bit of money on books about simplicity, and I always feel cheated after reading them; I suppose I expect (maybe hope) that the next book or article on simplicity will offer the magic formula for success. Somehow, I think someone will finally be able to wrap a definition around the concept and give me the keys to make it work in my own life. I'm still waiting.
A few years ago, I gave my wife Phileena a subscription to the magazine, Real Simple. We thought it could be a fresh take on the subject with practical ideas to help our journey. Wow. Who knew we'd have to completely redecorate our home to be "real simple"? Too bad it costs so much to simplify.
Simplicity is hard--far from simple--when our cultural context insulates and isolates us from the rest of the world. It's easy to notice the gross abuse of power in the corruption of Peru's former President Alberto Fujimori. It's a little harder to notice a small Kentucky community, like the one I lived in, fall into the trappings of excess and intemperance. The complexities and corresponding demands on life have often clouded my vision of my reality, a reality that is intrinsically connected to the circumstances of my global neighbors. I find myself falling into a life that rejects simplicity by complicating the very faith that Christ made simple.
Jesus' Model of Simplicity
Did Jesus embrace simplicity? On one hand, we learn that Jesus had "no place to lay his head" (Matthew 8:20; Luke 9:58). In an age when many Western Christians are homeowners, it's hard to imagine that our Savior was, in a sense, homeless. We also learn that Jesus and the disciples were supported by a group of generous women (Luke 8:3). Technically, it seems Jesus was unemployed, even needing to borrow a ride into Jerusalem during the week of his passion.
On the other hand, New Testament scholar Joel Green points out that "Jesus' dependence on the benefaction of others (Luke 8:3) has already ruled out any picture in Luke of an ascetic Jesus who rejects the outright use of wealth." Further, it seems more often than not, Jesus' meetings took place at feasts. In his parables, he spoke of banquets and promised great feasts to the faithful. The first recorded miracle of Christ was turning water into wine (John 2:1-12); in fact, because wine was often part of his interactions, some thought Jesus had an alcohol problem (Matthew 11:19; Luke 7:34). We see Mary accepting gifts of great value at the birth of Jesus (Matthew 2:11), and Jesus himself not only allowed a woman to pour expensive perfume over him, but he scolded his disciples for their audacious remarks about how it could have been sold and the proceeds given to people who were poor. After the crucifixion, we're told, Jesus was laid in the tomb of a rich man and given the works, including seventy-five pounds of myrrh (not cheap back in the day) with which to embalm his corpse (John 19:38-41).
So we have this homeless, unemployed man without a ride, going out drinking with friends, always talking about great feasts and banquets, accepting gifts of tremendous value--even having perfume poured over his feet--and then sparing no expense for his burial. No home, no job, and no wheels. Simple? Or poor? Are these things contrary to simplicity? Does the life of Christ support or oppose austerity? How can we make sense of this?
The Prophetic Presence of Those Who are Poor
Moving to the edge of a slum in Chennai, I was young and ambitious. I was fresh out of college with my shiny new degree in theology, missiology, and biblical languages. Poverty surrounded me and helped redefine what I thought I "needed." My flat was meager and hardly furnished. I had a mattress on the floor in my bedroom, a couple of wicker chairs in the living room, a few surfing posters and a picture of Bob Marley on the wall, a small library, and the equivalent of a camping stove that I screwed on top of a replaceable gas canister. Compared to most people I'd known in my life, I thought I was living simply-- until my neighbors would come to visit.
All these kids from the slums found out where I lived and would make their way over to my flat just to stand at the door looking in. Sometimes they'd come in, and we'd sit in the chairs and try to figure out what one another was saying (my Tamil wasn't so good). They always wanted to check the place out and would walk from the living room into the kitchen or the bedroom. I often noticed them turning the faucets on or gazing at lights I had forgotten to turn off when leaving a room. They didn't have to say anything to remind me that they didn't have ceiling fans at their homes or running water. They didn't have electricity either, and wasting mine wasn't winning me any popularity points in their eyes.
These children's presence in my home was always convicting. The proverb, "I cried because I had no shoes until I saw the man who had no feet," took on new meaning. Simplicity quickly became a commitment to living a lifestyle that reflected respect for their circumstances, for their poverty. My poor friends became a prophetic presence of grace that challenged my assumptions on how entitled I felt to hold onto God's expression of provision in my life.
Though I don't live on the edge of a slum anymore, discovering and learning to celebrate simplicity continues to be a hallmark of grace in my life. Simplicity has become my posture and intention: to live free from the bondage and control of anything other than the embrace of God. Essentially, simplicity is letting God truly be God and surrendering to it in all areas of life as an act of submission to God and humanity.
Not What you Give but What you Keep
There's something existential and mystical about a shared meal that provokes my internal yearnings for the eternal--for the table at the great banquet in paradise, the table of which Christ always spoke. Christine Pohl hints at this: "In the context of shared meals, the presence of God's Kingdom is prefigured, revealed, and reflected." To me, that's almost sacramental.
In my experience, the table is a place where we are disarmed. The table allows both rich and poor to find their place in the human family, a family that, according to the apostle Paul, needs to strive toward an equality of justice. In 2 Corinthians 8:14, he writes, "Your plenty will supply what they need, so that in turn their plenty will supply what you need." The goal is equality. This can only happen when a community takes it upon itself to celebrate simplicity as a collective commitment to justice. Sandra Wheeler puts it this way: "Therefore the community formed by that grace is one marked by openheartedness and equity, in which gifts are given without mixed motives, resources are shared, and the needs of all are met--and its norm is equality."
My friend Deepa is twelve years old. I can't even begin to imagine the life she and her sister had been forced to endure. When Deepa was younger, her mother died from AIDS. A couple of years ago, when Phileena and I were in India visiting the Word Made Flesh children's homes in Chennai, we found out that Deepa's father and her little sister Charu were dying from AIDS.
It was a hot south Indian summer afternoon when Deepa's father came to visit his daughters. He looked terrible. In the weeks leading up to the visit, his health had gotten progressively worse. He would frequently be found passed out in the communal toilet in his slum, sometimes lying in his own diarrhea. The man was obviously in the final stages of the disease. I thought his two little girls were going to splinter his frail bones when they jumped up onto his lap that afternoon.
A couple days after his visit, Deepa's father committed suicide. The humiliation, the pain, and the decay of his body pushed him over the edge. He took his life to bring an end to his suffering. As you can imagine, his daughters were heartbroken. Phileena and I rushed to the home to find Deepa and Charu weeping. We held these little ones close, prayed with them, tried to encourage them with Scripture, and promised we'd be there for them when they needed us. Our hearts were broken.
In the sad series of goodbyes that our lives seem to offer us, it came time for Phileena and me to once again pack up and leave Chennai. We spent our last day with the children at the home. Deepa and Charu stayed close to us the entire day. When everyone had hugged and exchanged tearful goodbyes, we walked past the gates of the home, turned around one last time to wave, and noticed Deepa had run inside. Before we could close the gate, she came running out of the home with a single yellow rose bud in hand. Deepa stood there, her face soaked in her own tears, holding out the flower to Phileena.
After her father had died, they cleaned out his slum and discovered that his only possession was a dismal potted rose bush with a solitary bud. It was her inheritance, the last reminder of her deceased parents. How could we take it?
I take that flower with me everywhere, showing it as often as I can to illustrate this little, tender, revolutionary heart. It is pressed into the place in my Bible where Jesus is in the temple spying on the donors to the treasury. In the story, he calls his disciples over and lets them in on the scene that's unfolding. There are some wealthy folks making substantial offerings, when out of nowhere comes a poor widow who puts some change in the collection, probably some near-valueless reworked Hasmonean copper coins.
These guys are eager to figure out what Jesus has in mind, but what he tells them must have shocked them. Christ does not venerate the high rollers in the group but points out the widow and claims her as his own. "She's mine," he must have thought. "I choose her." He goes on to say, "All of these people gave their gifts out of their wealth; but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on" (Luke 21:4). The story suddenly became not about what was given, but what was left over--nothing.
Deepa gave all she had--she held nothing back. Her gift to us is among our most treasured belongings to this day. Deepa's is a completely different context, but it's our same world. She's part of a completely different family, but she's our sister as well.
How do we follow Deepa to God's heart? Where do we find the courage to let a little orphaned girl's tragedy compel us to name the complexities in our faith that keep us from generosity and obedience? Deepa helps me understand that simplicity and poverty, although cousins perhaps, aren't the same thing. Poverty is often chosen for someone; simplicity has to be chosen by someone. But when we follow the redemptive example of Christ, who, "though he was rich, . . . for your sake he became poor, so that you through his poverty might become rich" (2 Corinthians 8:9), we start to sense our own eyes being opened. Richard Foster puts it this way: "Poverty is a means of grace; simplicity is the grace itself."