Simple Living, or, a conviction of materialism

Christian artists Keith and Kristyn Getty wrote a song about a certain rich young man. The last verse is as follows:

Oh teach me, Lord, to walk this road,
The road of simple living,
To be content with what I own,
And generous and giving;
and when I cling to what I have,
Please wrest it quickly from my grasp.
I'd rather lose all the things of earth
And gain the wealth of heaven. 

It may be a little unexpected for a developing-nation-dweller to be convicted by this simple song, but I am. It's not all that hard to live an outwardly simple life with a very materialistic heart. I may live simply according to American standards: cement floor, no air conditioning, power outages, questionable availability of things at the grocery store, no Target, no dishwasher, no microwave. I have less than half the pairs of shoes I had in the States. I rotate between about seven work outfits. I have scarcely a dozen books and no movies of my own. Doesn't this sound like simple living? When I have little to "cling to," how could I ask God to "wrest it quickly from my grasp"?

The key is "what I have." I may not have much, but I get annoyed when my few shoes get dirty. I take pride in the three of my seven outfits that are reasonably stylish. Having little does not prevent clinging to what I have. And worse, I am not "content with what I own."

This isn't so easy to confess, especially since materialism wasn't something I specifically identified as a sin in my life until the past few months. One thing that alerted me to its vile presence was the offer of my lovely mom (Hi, Mom!) to bring me some stuff when she comes to visit me (She's coming to visit me!). My list was twenty items long just from the first brainstorm.

You see, it's not having a gecko in my bathroom or enduring power outs that makes life simple. I can't consider myself un-materialistic because I have so much space in my closet or only one pair of decent sandals. I can't excuse myself from greed because I live on a pretty small sum each month.

Simple living is a calling from God that actually doesn't start with money or things or conveniences. It starts with a heart that sincerely desires the "wealth of heaven." Such a heart isn't phased by physical need or inconvenience, because its dependence is on a spiritual strength that sustains much more thoroughly than stuff does. Simple living is "generous and giving" and altogether forgetful of tomorrow's physical needs (or wants). Simple living is hands open, receiving blessings, only to turn around and pour blessings into someone else.

{alongside a hiking trail at Nkhoma}

That's not what I wanted.

As Christians around the world enter the season of focused remembrance of Christ's life, death, and resurrection, I can't help but think about how shamefully often my own desires come above pretty much anything else in my life.

Need examples? 

I wanted to join my favorite campus family on a trip to the lake next weekend, but yesterday I was told that I have mandatory meetings next week Friday and Saturday. Oh. 

I wanted to stagger when I start novels with each class, so I'm not behind on my reading. But today I had to push off lesson plans because I couldn't finish the reading in time to teach the next chapter. Oh. 

I wanted to have an easier week this week, because my brain is getting a little fried. My to do list is a little extra long because of writing pieces I have to complete other than my lesson prep material. Oh. 

I wanted to be the best teacher ever, but sometimes I become angry and impatient and demonstrative of a terrible, un-godly attitude. Oh. 

I don't get what I want, and sometimes it makes me even more frustrated. 

But maybe I have to give up what I want. I ask myself, "Don't I want God's glory more? Don't I want to become less self-focused? Don't I want others to see Christ Jesus instead of me? Don't I want to walk worthy of the vocation wherewith I have been called {eph. 4.1}?" If I answer yes, I depend on mercy to forgive my automatic selfishness and spiritual revival to put what I wanted aside, and instead be in tune to God's will.

So at the times when what I want seems so much more important that what I receive, I have to remind myself to count up the blessings that surround me. The lavender candle that reminds me of home, the Target mug full of chai tea, the note from a friend, the cool after-rain breeze coming in the window--these all team together to remind me of daily grace.

Speaking of grace, holding sweet, darling, chubby baby Grace was the greatest blessing I received today. She's beautiful, friends. Beautiful. 

Day by day. by day. by day.

There's a snail the size of my foot that lives in the grassy yard outside my house. The existence of such a creature perturbs me, especially when I almost step on it while leaving my house before daylight to go for my ridiculously early run/walk/jog/mostly walk. I'm not sure why, but I find snails--particularly large ones--more loathsome than almost any other of God's creatures. I don't like spiders or millipedes or rats, but nothing makes me shudder like a snail.

I wish I shuddered like that when I'm confronted with my sin. Nothing should be more loathsome to me than my daily falls in the face of temptation. Since my time here, I have seen varieties of sin I had not identified in my life before, and sometimes I'm shocked. Sometimes, I'm ashamed to admit, I'm apathetic. Sometimes I even try to excuse myself.

But there is no excuse. God has called me from darkness into His marvelous light. I have treasured the words of exhortation and encouragement in Romans 6: "How can we, who are dead to sin, live any longer therein?" Sin and faith cannot grow in the same heart. I haven't taken that truth seriously enough, but I'm thankful to the God that reminds me of it day by day. by day. by day. Over and over, through my quiet time or a conversation with a fellow believer, I am again taught lessons that I am slow to learn. And over and over, I thank Him again for grace.

On a Saturday

I love watching the clouds build up here, impressive reminders of one of my favorite Bible stories, found in the midst of I Kings. 

After the astounding situation at Mount Carmel, Ahab heads home in his chariot. Elijah, meanwhile, starts praying, and sends his servant to run. "Tell me what you see," he said. The servant sees nothing until his seventh trip back, after which he says to his master, "I see a cloud the size of a man's hand rising from the sea." Elijah's response is what echoes through my head when these thunder clouds loom:

"Go tell Ahab to hurry, lest the rain stops him."  

I woke up early this morning because I always do.

I had to make myself presentable a little earlier than usual in order to head down to the campus pavilion and help the church ladies set up for a conference.

I attend IBF, a church not directly affiliated with one denomination, here in Lilongwe, and have been blessed by a number of dear friends within the church family. This week, a team from one of IBF's American supporting churches visited Malawi and ran a number of projects, including this conference.

You know how you may know people, within or outside of your church, who go on short-term mission trips? They do things like run VBS for a week, build or knock down buildings, hand out donations, go out on evangelism trips, or, well, host conferences for Christians in developing countries? I knew plenty of people like that. It's a little odd being on the other side of things, the side of being the one for whom the short-term mission team was sent.

I spent a delightfully long bit of the time holding sweet little Kumbu, a chubby four-month old who loved wrapping his fingers around mine. 

These days have been full, and I've felt drained of stamina at the end of each day, until I open again the book full of stories of mercy and grace, or storm clouds over the sea. I may be exhausted, but there is always strength offered. There's always more grace.

Flood relief.

Here's a post I started almost two weeks ago. The weekend referred to as "this weekend" is 31st January to 2nd February. Sorry for the delay; thank you for grace.

In mid-January, the southern part of Malawi flooded to the point of devastation. Homes crumbled, maize fields vanished, and nearly 200 people died. Tens of thousands were displaced--the numbers of different reports conflict, but considering the number of people living in this tiny country, and the utter destruction wreaked by the flood waters, it is certain that an overwhelming number of people lost most or all of their material possessions in a matter of hours.

That happened more than three weeks ago.

Those people are still homeless and desperate.

This weekend a team from the academy here headed on down to hand out donations of maize and supplies. I joined four of my students and ten ABC staff members on a very intense weekend. We stayed at the foot of Mt. Mulange--that most beautiful and glorious of mountains, which I visited almost four months ago--and drove over miles and miles of well-pitted dirt roads to get as close as we could to the flood zone. Our accommodations were sweet, comfortable chalets, with a dazzling view of a mountain outside the window.

The mountain region truly is grand. This road was so very pot-holed, our heads made frequent contact with the ceiling, but the way the fog rolled down the rocky slope, meshing with high waterfalls, was enough to make the heart sing. 

 To be clear--and ethical--the people in the picture below were not flood victims. I just liked the kid's shirt in contrast with the lady's lovely chitenge.

 At one point, one of the vehicles was stuck in the mud. (This is an understatement. We were constantly concerned for the success of our vehicles, with numerous confirmations that our concerns were valid.) Anyway, at this particular point, a sizable crowd contributed to the effort to push it free.

We worked out of a school used as a site to help the victims of the floods, and we set up shop in one of the classrooms. Hand-drawn posters of the parts of the flower hung beside hand-drawn maps of Africa, decorating the simple walls that surrounded us. We set out hundreds of buckets--something like 460--and filled them with soap, dishes, Bibles, blankets, pots, and mosquito nets. Then people--numbering more than 460--lined up in order of village to receive the gift.

One mother carried in a chubby-cheeked baby named Fanny, and received a small blanket with baby cereal, a Bible, and a cup. A cup. A cup like the proverbial boy who wanted to slowly drain the ocean dry. One plastic cup. I'm pretty sure all of us felt a little like that boy--persistent in performing our task, but honestly, when we took a step back, we can't help but see it's still just one plastic cup for one little baby and her mom, one little baby of thousands that are now destitute.

 On Monday morning, some of our team members hiked a small portion of Mulange. The views were indescribably beautiful, from the sun streaming over the cliff to the rainy-season-blessed waterfall, to the tiny flowers along the trail.

 I know this picture is horrible, but I just wanted to prove I was there! With some wonderful people! And a guide who is still practicing his photography skills!

Working alongside my students gave me a chance to realize that I may stress to them the importance of handing in their project proposals on time or following MLA formatting, and I may pressure them to study harder for their next vocabulary quiz or to articulate their arguments well in class, but this is what matters: can they (can I) serve the neediest of people around us with hearts free of contempt, self-congratulations, and complaint? Can we show God's love to the people who ask for more than we give, to those serving with us perhaps not working quite as hard as we are, to those who stayed home for any number of reasons? Can we forget about ourselves and do literally everything only, ever, all for Jesus?

The answer, of course, is no. I failed so miserably on this trip to have the right heart, to show God's love, and to utterly forget myself. But God is so very gracious that, weak though our attempts at following him may be, he turns our strivings into works of grace for the least of these.