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.