Love In The Burbs
Much of the discussion around social justice is centered on reaching and loving the poor. Of all the mandates in Scripture, the poor are the front and center in the law and in the commands of Jesus. I get that. I have had many conversations around this with friends and family. And our first response is typically the idea of participating in some organization that feeds the homeless, or serve at a soup kitchen. These established ministries are needed, wanted, and serve to transform my own heart as much as they reach those who are homeless. And when we think of the poor, the first thing that typically, but not always, comes to mind is the idea of financial poverty. But is poverty deeper than that?
I live in the burbs. I live in a upper, middle class community in the suburbs of Sacramento. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is where my Father has me at the moment. I’ve contemplated leaving many times but sensed the call to stay. My home is fairly new and it is common to see Hummers, BMWs, and Mercedes passing my house. And the temptation is to pass by these people and miss a different type of poverty, one that I think leaves as many scars on the soul as anything a homeless person could experience. This is the poverty of that comes from gaining the whole world but losing our soul.
In the burbs, we find people who have gained the whole world, or at least the American version of it. We’ve arrived, so they say, but found that somehow, someway, they raised the bar on us. We have the house, the minvan, the perfect kids, the dog and the vacation to Hawaii in the summer, but approval is now the next rung up. Love moved just beyond our grasp. And once we’ve attained each rung, we find that the promise leaves us more empty than we can imagine. We’re not happy. We’re bored. Now we know that we aren’t satisfied and there’s nothing left to do but try to continue up the ladder. Stuff can’t answer the questions of the soul. We try…but eventually find out it doesn’t work.
The empty faces line up at my daughters school hoping that they’ve arrived correctly, driven correctly and coifed correctly. The crowd provides a scant approval, leaving us to wonder what the hell we did wrong. We can’t abandon it because its comfortable. It’s nice. And the wallpaper on our prison cell is a nice floral print we got at Home Depot.
I use to be in this situation. For ten years I chased the American dream and some would say attained it. I was successful, lived in a killer house in a killer neighborhood that people talked about. I was financially wealthy and…broken inside. What surprised me about wealth is that it didn’t answer one fundamental question. Am I loved? Some of the happiest people I’ve met are poor. And some of the saddest people I’ve met are incredibly wealthy.
And this brings me to my real point. It’s actually quite easy to go down and serve the homeless or at a soup kitchen. We can arrive with our lattes and leave when we want to. We’re in control and can look like a hero. But loving our neighbor next door, when every time he looks at us with an angry stare, is another matter. Our neighbor isn’t likely to leave tomorrow, meaning we have to love over a long period of time. Our flaws are likely to show and then we’re no longer the hero. We’re simply human called to love. And the question isn’t which is better. The question is, where God is calling us to? And what if God is calling us right back to the space we find ourselves in? What if God is calling us to address the poor right next door?
If you enjoyed this post, please consider to leave a comment or subscribe to the feed and get future articles delivered to your feed reader.
-
jonmholmes
-
Makeesha
-
jonathanbrink
-
grace
-
jonathanbrink
-
Makeesha
-
Brant
-
jonathanbrink
-
thevikingfru
