the value of our possessions

Into the used bookstore Sadie carried a meaty stack of texts, of which the goodly bookkeeper kept seven. This was propitious, she told me, “For it is from Adam’s seventh rib that God made Eve.” I wasn’t sure if she was joking, and I wasn’t sure if this information was relevant. Regardless, she pocketed the happy little sum of $8.75 and set her heart toward what next she would do. “Let’s head downtown,” she suggested.

Some time ago I was startled to learn that Jesus encouraged his listeners to sell their possessions and give to those in need. He famously invited a rich young man to “Sell your possessions and give to the poor…. Then come, follow me” (Matthew 19:21). But more surprisingly, and perhaps willfully forgotten by us moderns, he asked the same of his followers, who were, well, already following him (Luke 12:33).

However, in a consumer culture, one that elevates acquisition to a moral imperative (our economy, our jobs, our very lives depend, we are told, on perpetual spending), the message to sell your possessions and give to the poor is seldom heard, and when it is, it seems laughable, destructive, or applicable to somebody else. But what if we’ve got it wrong? What if shopping is not the summum bonum? What if this radical, personal divestiture carries with it something wonderful that we have missed entirely?

The experience of the early church offers up a commentary on the possibilities created by this seemingly imprudent behavior: “All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had…. From time to time those who owned lands or houses sold them, brought the money from the sales and put it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to anyone as he had need” (Acts 4:32; 34-35). And what was the result of this dispossession? “There were no needy persons among them” (Acts 4:33).

I admit it: I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I want the poor to be lifted from their destitution, and I want to enjoy the good life brought to me by my iPhone, my Doc Martens, my Cuisinart, and yes, my modest personal library. It pains me when I hear the chorus of impoverished voices telling me that they are poor because I am rich. Can’t we all just live a life of affluence? Why would anyone ask me to do without—to give up what belongs to me?

 

With $8.75 burning a hole in her handbag (and let’s be honest, a good bit more than $8.75 was in her handbag), Sadie considered how she would take the next step. She had decided that in order to follow Christ’s precept, swift, reckless distribution trumped thoughtful, strategic giving, for in her self-awareness she knew the latter carried with it the risk of inaction.

I followed Sadie downtown (incidentally, this all happened just yesterday). It was dark and rainy, but still it was Saturday night so people thronged the streets. We walked past restaurants and clubs filled with friends, families, and couples enjoying time with one another, and the juxtaposition between them and the people we approached was halting.

Through the mist that ascended from the waterlogged concrete, we watched as a man slowly, laboriously pushed a train of shopping carts piled high with all his worldly possessions. The man, similar to his carts, was wrapped in torn white sheets of plastic. He wore a hard hat.

A block later we came upon an elderly woman who smiled at us from an unlit doorway where she stood trying to get out of the rain. Her wire cart was stuffed mostly with crumpled newspaper, as were her coat pockets. When she opened her mouth, webs stretched between her lips and her hair fell like ashen straw over her shoulders.

The third obviously homeless individual we approached was a garrulous 64 year-old (the first two homeless people declined the money, a fact that should be a challenge to us all). I introduced myself, along with Sadie, and he replied, “W.D.’s the name. Like WD-40.” He was wiry, energetic, and unbelievably cheerful. Sadie dropped the cash into W.D.’s empty Big Gulp cup without much ceremony, and he thanked her sincerely. We talked with him about his situation for a moment, and then we bid him good night.

Walking away from W.D., Sadie reflected: “The fact that I no longer have the Twilight series at my finger tips, or books on the French Revolution and string theory, is surprisingly …” and here she paused, either to search for the right word or for dramatic effect: “unproblematic.” I didn’t argue with her. “But W.D. will get a couple meals out of it, and I made a friend. And if I see him again, I’ll stop and chat with him.” And who knows what might happen as a result of that relationship.

 

One obviously needn’t be Christian to attempt such a counter-cultural act of generosity—no more than a person need be Hindu to practice Gandhian non-violence. With this in mind, I invite readers to give this little act of compassion a try … and then share your experience by posting a comment. What did you sell? Was that process a challenge? To whom did you give? What did you feel when you gave? I look forward to hearing from you. Perhaps we can encourage one another in taking one step closer toward a community united to ensure that every child and adult is free from poverty.

new year's resignation

With a blue moon hanging pregnant in the sky, New Year's Eve brought with it an extraordinary sense of promise and expectation. But when the hour of midnight arrived, we got a law regulating tanning salons, a new selection of canned soup, and a particularly savage assault on an elderly homeless man.

I have been working with Spider for about nine months, and every effort to help him to a dignified, humane living situation seems to fall stillborn at our feet (see blog posts dated 5/26, 7/25, 8/31, & 9/26). An ever-expanding circle of social workers, physicians, non-profit organizations, federal employees, and private citizens of conscience have struggled to assist Spider in escaping what he refers to as "My Nightmare"; but the result is always the same.

On January 2nd, my wife and I found Spider after several days of searching. He had moved without warning from the location where he had been holed up for the past half year, and after scouring the streets and sidewalks where he customarily wheels himself in his dilapidated chair, we finally tracked him down beneath an overpass just outside the downtown core.

"What are you doing over here, Spider?" we asked. It was late at night and he was crumpled on the concrete with one of his badly soiled diapers just inches from his face. "We were worried about you." In truth there had been a flurry of email by concerned friends who had noticed that Spider was not in his usual haunt.

"It's too dangerous over there," Spider began, recognizing our voices. "It's not safe. I was mugged."

Mugged. I seldom consider that someone would be mugged in San Jose. But then he related the incident that had occurred on New Year's Eve over possession of his cigarettes.

"He started hitting me on the back of my head," and then Spider paused as the pain welled up in his throat. "He was beating me with a can of beer, and he wouldn't stop." 

Although Spider's skin is badly wrinkled and his voice is coarse, he never seemed so much like a child. "He kept beating me, but I couldn't do anything ... because of my legs." He motioned to his shrunken bones, and tears dropped from his dirty cheeks. The assailant then took what he was after amidst the fire works, honking horns, and happy couples streaming from the clubs and out into the freezing street to celebrate the New Year.

What continues to astonish me is that in the 21st century, in the Valley of Earthly Delights, it should prove impossible to provide the most basic human needs for a single, disabled, elderly man. While resources have been mobilized on his behalf, they have proved impotent in the face of a society that acquiesces to the occasional sacrifice of the weak.  

Spider drinks incessantly, smokes, jokes, makes friends easily, complains ad nauseam, has a terrible time trying to use a toilet, takes pride in his Native American heritage, makes idle threats, is stubborn, lonely, and nearly blind, loves sports, and most nights cries himself to sleep. He receives a paltry disability check each month, but the money he receives is not enough to pay for even low-income housing. What's more, he is simply incapable of caring for himself; even if there were a place he could afford, he would require 24-hour care. 

A few days after I had spoken with Spider regarding the assault, I found him back in front of the abandoned downtown office. I was dismayed to see him back so soon after his attack. "What's going on, Spider?" I wondered what could have happened that would have out-weighed the vulnerability to assault that he obviously risked in this spot.

He looked at me, anger in his eyes, and spoke quietly: "I was sitting in my wheelchair underneath the freeway, listening to my ball game, and a couple of kids came along and started harassing me." He then turned his face to the ground, his voice barely above a whisper. "One of them grabbed the back of my chair so I couldn't move, while the other one stood in front of me ... and pissed all on me."