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Charlie hesitated a moment at the curb, glancing up from the miniature river navigating its curve to the drain a few feet away where it made the echoing splash of a far-mightier waterfall, pulling his mind out of deeper thoughts to check the oncoming traffic before stepping across the river into the crosswalk.
By the time he approached the opposite curb and sidestepped the crowd huddled impatiently around a coffee cart, he had pulled the lapels of his black peacoat tight around his neck and again entered the dark caverns of his own thoughts in response to the events of the past few days. He was striving to discern the meaning in the cacophony of voices and confounding emotions, as if searching for a path forward on a dimly lit night.
All around him the noise of the city toiled on, under the chill in the air and the persistent drizzle, with the ebb and flow of traffic released from the gates of red lights and barkers calling out their wares on the corners as he bobbed and weaved through the fray, waiting here and ducking there, then stepping up the pace for the safety of the next curb.
Inside his mind, though, the noises and images came at him without ceasing like the incessant drone from the wall of televisions and speakers overflowing from the doors of Lee’s Electronics store in the lower corner of his apartment building on East 16th Street.
He struggled to distinguish the real from the unreal, the important from the trivial, and looked for the “off” button for the voices he could mark as insignificant.
The words of Darcy, his 17-year-old daughter, had become the definition of significance and the ruler by which he measured everything else, even the force that pushed him to review everything he had thought certain about his views on the world around him and how he intended to make his way through it.
Darcy had asked a single, simple question, just before saying goodnight and bringing an end to their routine of late-night updates. Every night, while they danced through the motions of cleaning up the small kitchen, opening and closing drawers and cabinets as they dried and put away the last of the dinner pots and pans, they chatted about their days and relished each other’s attention.
“So what do you think we should do about this, Daddy? We have to do something.”
The deepest conflicts raging in Charlie’s mind centered around those words and the way they challenged the security of the life he had forged for himself and Darcy over the last six years since the tragic death of Rachel, Darcy’s mother.
Darcy, and his determination to protect her, had been the only thing that pulled him back from the edge of his own bitter tragedy in those dark days. As he learned to be a single father to a pre-teen girl over the ensuing months, while dealing with his own grief, he saw Darcy as a living memorial to Rachel. He swore he would do everything in his power to keep Darcy from becoming the next victim of this world’s apparent hunger to destroy everything good.
As he replayed Darcy’s question over and over in his mind, he was shocked by the sharp edge of the idea that he should do anything. Through all of the conversations, the news reports, the books, the radio talk shows, and the political jokes he had allowed his mind to entertain on the plight of the poverty-stricken and the diseased down-n-outers in this seemingly God-forsaken city, and even his own block, he had never considered such a notion that he could have cause to respond. He had already given more than his fair share. He didn’t owe anyone anything.
Now, the very one for whom he had forsaken all personal interests and had worked so hard to provide protection was challenging him to step beyond his comfortable, secure little world and get involved in the problems that belonged to someone else. Darcy couldn’t have understood what she was asking, or the further heartache she was inviting into her life.
As he entered the back door of the garage, walking past the Lexus under which he would spend the next eight hours, saying good morning to the other guys, he pushed the thoughts out of his mind, knowing he would have to return to them later. The picture from the paper of the little dark-haired girls, discovered in the basement of the townhome just two doors down from his own building, and the way their faces had reminded him of the grief-stricken horror on Darcy’s face a few years earlier, couldn’t be pushed very far away.
He cursed under his breath, then poured thin coffee into a styrofoam cup and carried it back toward the Lexus, eager to get grease on his hands and to deal with something he knew he could fix.
un⋅der⋅u⋅ti⋅lize
–verb (used with object)
to fail to utilize fully: to underutilize natural resources.
Related forms: un⋅der⋅u⋅ti⋅li⋅za⋅tion, noun
I’ve been spiritually camped in this space related to my previous post, out of her penury, for a while now, and with this post, I’m continuing in the same vein (or rut, if you like), and I think it may take a few more posts to really get this all out.
My thesis is this: I believe we are grossly underutilized, i.e. we are spiritually productive at a level far below our capacity.
Who are we? Just for simplicity’s sake, let’s just say we’re the curious, hopeful, slightly confused, and occasionally zealous disciples of Jesus.
I know, you’re already thinking this is going to be a long, entirely boring, preachy, guilt-imposing, verbal lashing, pushing you to get more involved, give more and be better.
You’re exactly right.
But, maybe there’s more to it than that; maybe it’s less boring and more meaningful. Maybe not, but I’d like to think I can challenge your idea of what Christian service and discipleship look like. Maybe.
Utilization is a term I’ve learned in my work. We have a group of employees who are our primary source of money making. Their work product pays our bills. When they are busy with work for our customers, we bill somebody for their work, at a premium price, and we make money. When they are sitting on their hands, or rearranging their files, they are underutilized, and the business suffers.
Who are our customers? In other words, whom do we intend to serve?
I think Jesus presents two answers, simply put, to that question: 1) The Lord your God, and 2) Your neighbor.
And what is the product we provide to our customers? Again, simply put, Jesus answers: Love.
How much Love should we be producing for maximum output, or what is our capacity? More. Heart, soul, mind and strength, pressed down, shaken together, running over, mingled together, maximized by the whole body’s energy and multiplied by infinity according to the power of a very Holy Spirit living within us whose specialty is making lots of good stuff from paltry ingredients.
That’s a whole lot of love. Actually, it’s probably enough love to meet the love-needs of the entire world.
Less productivity than that, must be considered underutilization, I reckon. And that’s a condition I’m regretting more deeply than ever.
Maybe I’m just getting old and trying to rearrange my view of life to accommodate natural mortality. I refuse to bow to futility or vanity and morbidly prepare for death. I want to fight that, instinctively, and resist its supposed power over me. I must admit, though, in spite of my offense at the very idea, the calendar and the mirror keep reminding me that there may be limits to these years.
So, perhaps I’m just having a mid-life crisis, and the threat of a ticking clock is compelling me to make hay while the sun shines.
But I don’t think that’s it, or at least not all of it.
Jesus offers a pretty compelling reason for serving my customers in his Kingdom with all of the love I have to give: Life.
He says, in one example of the story: “Do this and you will live.” I think he’s talking about the fullness of life. In fact, he says in another spot that this was the reason he came: that we could have life to the fullest: abundant life.
I’ve experienced enough of the life that he offers, I think, to be pretty strongly convinced that what I want is whatever he has to offer, and especially if that is described as abundant.
Let me stop being facetious for long enough to say this plainly: My highest utilization, my capacity, is to love him with all that I am, out of my penury, and to love the people whom he places in my path, according to his calling for my life, in the same way, producing fruit for his Kingdom that can’t be measured by earthly means, and through this sacrifice – a stumbling, groping attempt to abandon myself to him – he promises abundant life, a life overflowing, a life of intimacy and communion, illuminated beyond comprehension.
Let me go further: The fruit that my life can bear, should bear, is not dependent on the traditional, man-ordained definitions of church service, nor their definitions of missions, though it may very well be enhanced by such. All that my capacity is limited by or dependent upon is Christ’s calling and purpose for my life.
The Lord alone sets my boundaries and determines my life’s capacity. That is, he’ll do so unless I stupidly and selfishly impose boundaries on myself out of a response of fear or self-preservation or self-conscious desires for comfort, or expectations determined by my weak perceptions of small possibilities.
To be productive in and for the Kingdom of God, I do not have to have more money or more time or more energy or more of anything. It’s definitely not about more activity. Some of us need more activity, but some of us need less. It’s the right activity, and the right rest that I ought to be focused on.
All that I need is all that I have: my penury – insufficiency, inadequacy, poverty and need – given wholly to the King.
I need to give all that I have in every conversation, in every moment, in every act of service, in every prayer and praise and vision and dream, and to look for him in every situation. That’s all. I just have to give my all. It’s all I have to give, and all that is required.
What a waste, what a tragedy, it would be for me to trade the promised abundance for the small-hearted alternatives. Though I may not always attain the highest utilization, the giving of my all, for God’s sake – my “customer” – I ought to be intentional about eliminating everything that might hinder me, while giving all in the pursuit of his enabling presence.
Penury is a new word for me. I just learned it, but I like it. It settles well into the story I’ve been trying to get my mind around. It’s a King James kind of word, and of course, I like that.
It’s used to describe the widow in Luke chapter 21, the one who gives a gift of two mites to the temple treasury.
Apparently, Jesus had been mingling with the folks in the temple, the good guys and bad guys, the kind of folks generally seen about a temple, and having some difficult, though enlightening, conversations. Some of the folks listening were for him and others were against him, but all of them were intrigued.
The story says that Jesus looked up and saw the widow, which seems funny to me, like it was unexpected for him. Just the right time for a widow to show up and give him another nail to drive into the coffin of our selfishness.
In the preceding verses, he was railing on the scribes; about how they made long prayers just for the show of it, and how they devoured widows’ houses. I can only imagine what that means, but I’d hate to have it said about me.
Then, he looks up . . . She’s there, in line among the rich and whole, and making her way to the temple treasury, seemingly unaware of her audience. She drops her two mites into the box and quietly shuffles along.
Jesus says the rich folks, in line around her to make their own offerings, are giving out of their disposable income, their excesses and wealth, their abundance. They gave more than the widow, but his point was that what they gave cost much less.
The widow gave out of her penury, the King James says, meaning, as I’ve just learned, from her destitution, her need, her want, her inadequacy, and her insufficiency. Jesus also adds that she was giving all she had.
Penury. I like that word. I can relate to that. I think all of us, as Christians, are familiar enough with the idea of our own insufficiency and need to relate well to that term. We are fairly capable of recognizing our inadequacy. It’s a step we take when we recognize our need for a savior and accept his offering.
It’s the part about giving out of penury, though, that I’m haunted by. Over the last few months, I’ve been pursued by this little 4 verse story about this widow.
The truth is, in one significant way, I’m nothing like her. I’m not poor. Of course, I’m needy and insufficient in the deep, spiritual way, and I recognize the way Christ covers that need and fills me to overflowing. With him I’m whole, but only with him.
Otherwise, though, in terms of earthly provision, support, health, relative peace and comfort, I’m one of the rich folks, relatively speaking. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t have any money. But, the reason I don’t have any is simply that I’ve spent it all, not that I don’t really have any to begin with.
You all know the statistics, at least generally, as I do, that if you make more than some number of dollars far too commonly made by folks in the U.S., you’re in the top 1% (or 10%, or some other tiny fraction) of the wealthiest people in the world. So among my neighbors and culture, I feel poor, but the truth is, I’m wealthy, in world-wide relative terms.
On the other hand, this isn’t about money at all, really, is it? Jesus talks about money a lot, but I don’t get the feeling he really cares about money. I mean, he ususally speaks of it with disdain and as something we should be a lot less concerned about, and as something that serves more as a trap and an obstacle than an enabler. I mean, Jesus never really says anything like “Hey, get all the money you can get, and then give away a bunch of it,” does he? Maybe he does.
It seems to me the direction of his talk is always about giving it all away. But, I don’t think he was so concerned about giving it all away just because other people need my money more than I do, although clearly many people do. I think he was more concerned about all of us needing none of it, and wanting it far too much. Like giving it all away was the best way to free us of concern from it – to set the captives free, so to speak.
In other words, it seems our hearts are held captive by such concerns, and it seems Jesus is much more concerned about our hearts than our money. He says somewhere else, that where our treasure is, there will our hearts be, and so it seems, he would want us to have our treasures in and of the right things so our hearts will be in the right place.
I can’t seem to say it clearly enough. Maybe this: When Jesus directed us to lay up treasure in heaven, I don’t think that he was concerned about the treasure, but I think he was concerned about our hearts being in heaven, because our hearts will be wherever our treasure is.
I want to treasure what he treasures, and I’m certain those are heavenly things, and so I think I’ll need to give all that I am away, so my heart will be free to treasure the heavenly things. All of it. All of me. All of everything. The key is the ”all” part – that’s the distinction pronounced by the poor widow: She gave her all.
Is it possible that’s related to the greatest commandment? Love the Lord your God with ALL of your heart, soul, strength and mind. How much of those things should I love him with? All of them.
All of them?
I’m pretty sure, I’ve given less than all, and loved with less than all. In fact, I’ve mostly given out of my abundance of those things, the excess, the disposable, available portions that haven’t been committed to other priorities. I thought I was giving alot, but I think I’ve misunderstood.
On a recent Sunday night, after a much longer than necessary weekend, I took advantage of an oh-so-small opportunity to sit in the recliner in the basement and attempt to ignore the constant motion around me.
Then, Noah dropped several small pieces of Renee’s scrapbooking paper, of varying shapes and sizes, into my lap. He was trying to make a birthday card for Grandpa Dougherty, and asked me to help him arrange the pieces into something that would make an interesting card.
In less than 10 seconds, I dropped them in some semblance of card-forming order, and then brushed him away to make it work with a glue stick and scotch tape. No problem. A few minutes later, it was a card fit for a king.
Then Ellie showed up. Oh God, I love that girl!
I was checking something on the computer with a lap full of small child and others lurking, and Ellie was rattling something in my ear, amidst the constant droning of little voices reaching to at least a three-block radius from our home.
“Dad, will you help me make a birthday card for Grandpa like Noah’s? I want to make a card like Noah made and I can’t find the right kind of paper and pieces and I don’t know what colors to use or how to cut the paper and I don’t know how to put the pieces together and I want to make something for Grandpa and it’s his birthday tomorrow and I don’t know how to make a card like Noah’s.”
This is where a good father would swiftly move distractions from the view and focus all energy on a little 6-year-old bundle of heavenly bubbles and do the right thing.
This is where I say, ”No, Ellie, I don’t know where that stuff is . . . and I need to do this other . . . and I can’t . . . and just put it . . . it will be fine . . . Mom will help you tomorrow . . . it’s time for bed.”
Brilliant.
Ellie returns to the table and the pieces, and works diligently on her own without complaining.
One load of kids up the stairs, picking up shoes and dirty dishes along the way, then running back downstairs for this and that, and stop.
There’s Ellie standing at the bottom of the stairs in the doorway to the laundry room, facing the other direction, wimpering and wiping tears from her eyes. She ran into the family room when she heard me coming.
Brilliant.
“Ellie? What’s wrong, honey?” I offer contritely, sounding suddenly fatherly and gentle and carrying enough guilt to melt Antarctica.
She was still standing with her back to me, wiping her eyes, until I sat down and offered again, more softly, “What’s the matter, Ellie?”
Then she turned, rushed to me and dug her face into my shoulder and blustered out, “I can’t do it! I want to make a card like Noah’s for Grandpa’s birthday, and it’s not coming out right, and nobody will help me, and I can’t do it.”
Oh, Lord! Oh my sweet Jesus. Really? Please Lord, fix me of all the stupidity that ever leads to heartbreak such as that, from a beautiful creature such as this. Oh, Lord, please!
We found new sheets of paper, and we picked all the colors she wanted, and went through all of the options twice, and Ellie instructed me on all of the intricacies of the design in her vision. We cut and glued and taped. We found stickers and picked the perfect shapes and wrote all of the right words.
As we worked, I discovered Ellie’s first attempt, laying amidst the rubble of remnants. There was more tape than paper, and the words were written in ink and smeared and fragmented across the face of it all.
It was a pitiful expression of something conceived with passion and visions of beauty.
All of the right intentions, but none of the ability to produce the vision. From a grown-up perspective, even the final product fell short. From a six-year-old perspective, it was heavenly.
Oh God, help us, we can’t do it – celebrate this life with its due – and we’re broken-hearted. Even the best falls short, but you are gracious, and you see our poor efforts and vision as more than enough. Please, Lord, help us to help one another, to be sensitive, to build and serve with passion to produce the best version of your life among us with the limited vision we carry.
Please, Lord, help us.
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