Sabbath Devotional :: A Christian Paradox: on Jesus and Economics

I’ve been thinking about the Zoramites, which has me thinking of Jesus and economics. Christ took upon himself our sins, sorrows, and suffering so that he could succor us. This is supposed to be a source of consolation and relief. But alas! Not long before fulfilling all righteousness, Christ tasked us with the immense responsibility of caring for his people — specifically the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, and the imprisoned, because Christ has made himself in their image. Christ’s injunction to care for the least of these puts into our laps the whole told and untold suffering of the world. And that is a mighty load.

So we struggle. We pay tithing. We try to volunteer. Try to help. Try to lift. Try to round up at the checkout, sometimes. Try also to keep up with the demands of our own lives. And that, too, is a struggle.

I have often felt the weight of this burden and my own inadequacy at fulfilling it. So I don’t pretend to offer any fabulous advice. But I would like to share a few vignettes from my own life as I have tried to understand and be honest to this responsibility. I hope it offers something familiar, and honors the deep struggle we find ourselves in all the time as we strive to take up the cross and follow him:

There is a large homeless population in Boston. While we lived there, we encouraged our toddler to make eye contact and say hello whenever we crossed paths with an unhoused person. On one occasion, a man was standing on the street shouting threats at anyone who walked by him. I thought it would be best to keep to ourselves. But as we passed him, my toddler paused, looked the man squarely in the eye and said “Have a happy day!” The man did not respond, but nor did he shout after us.
My husband and I were assigned to home teach a woman named Sarah. She was a chain smoker, suffered from some lingering effects of a stroke, and had two teenage children with significant mental illnesses. Her house smelled like cigarettes and usually had dog poop on the floor. During our visits, I was disgusted by the filth of her home and overcome by the complications of her life. I remember praying and telling God that I didn’t want to feel disgusted. I wanted to feel charity. But I could not overcome the feeling. Her burdens were too large and her life too complicated. I just wanted to leave. I would immediately wash all my clothes after each visit.
Shortly after my oldest was born, we made an emergency trip to visit a dearly loved sister-in-law who was in a situation of dire need. Her life, difficult enough already, was in chaos. I wanted to be present with her, to feel deep compassion for her situation. And I did, intellectually. But the trip took place a few weeks before my baby was diagnosed with multiple major allergies. Breastfeeding was difficult. He wasn’t sleeping well. He screamed a lot. I was exhausted. And when I realized I had left part of my breast pump hours away at home, I cried in frustration for my own minor inconvenience. I remained in a black, crabby mood for most of the trip.
We previously lived in a ward that was economically bifurcated. It included mansions of CFOs who commuted into the city, and roach-infested rent-stabilized apartments of immigrant populations. I felt the division powerfully. One member described the $16K water filtration system he installed in his kitchen sink because “I’m a big water guy.” It repulsed me. “Immoral,” I called their homes, and I imagined a thousand other ways they might use their abundance to bless and serve.
When our own life was wrecked in a profound way and we had to rapidly find housing for our children away from our apartment, we called a wealthy couple who had no obligation to us beyond being our assigned ministers. In truth, they were acquaintances; we hardly knew each other. But when we called at 5AM on a Saturday morning, they opened their large, uninhabited basement to our children and my in-laws to live for a month as we worked to obtain custody again. Their home became a sanctuary for my family. I was profoundly grateful my children had such a beautiful place to live at such a painful moment.

Sharing these stories, I have two observations that form a contradiction. The first is our very real and present responsibility to care for the poor and needy as if they were Christ himself. The second is our complete inability to fulfill that task. The world has enough poverty and need to overwhelm our ability to add or subtract. There are sorrows we cannot solve with a bowl of soup or a crisp bill. And we often do not have the time or stamina to offer more than pity.

For anyone wishing to be a peaceable follower of Jesus, this contradiction is very inconvenient!

However, I believe we are never more Christian than when we realize these two truths in tandem. We know we must help, but we also know that only Christ can perform the final and complete healing. This is the beautiful Christian paradox. And as uncomfortable as it is, I believe we truly come to know Christ as we internalize it. We come to know him better because we learn how much we need him and how great the weight he has born. We love him better not only because he has borne our griefs and sorrows, but because he has borne his and hers as well. We love him better because we learn more about our littleness and his might. We love him better because we are more capable of loving. We love him better because we know him better.

If there is any takeaway from these stories, it is this: that this struggle is sacred, and that Christ is found in the paradox. I hope you may find him in your efforts.