Every once in a while the absurdity of my (our) life strikes me. This time it was while I was looking for the strawberry jelly that is made with Truvia. Harris Teeter used to carry it, but they stopped. There are sugar free varieties made with Splenda and other sugar substitutes, but I like the one with stevia best. As I scoured the shelves and the dozens of jams and jellies, I was frustrated that the one I wanted was not there. Why can’t they just carry the one that I like, I wondered, as I began to feel a bit put out by the whole thing. And then it hit me.
I don’t know what triggered it; perhaps it was the Holy Spirit groaning in frustration with me, but I suddenly realized how ridiculous it was that I was annoyed because I couldn’t get the jelly I wanted. The jelly! As I spun slowly around, I took in the racks of bread, the cases of meats, cheeses, and seafood, the cornucopia of fresh fruits and vegetables in the distance, the rows of wines, and the wall of beer. There was so much food within sight, that I could choose from thousands of options, and find what I needed to feed myself for weeks, if not months, if I had to. And I could virtually buy anything there I wanted with a simple swipe of the credit card at the self-checkout, without worry that I would be able to pay the bill when it showed up next month. And I was annoyed that I couldn’t find my jelly of choice.
I felt ashamed. Not soul-crushing shame, but the unmistakable awareness that I had once again forgotten the bubble I live in. My dilemma could be called a “first-world” problem, a term that has been in use for years, and describes the sort of issues that don’t face third-world peoples. It’s not exactly a shame that I have while others go without, but that I could forget how blessed I am, how many problems I don’t have to worry about, that I can be frustrated by thirty choices of jelly instead of thirty-one. That’s what occurred to me as I chose my second choice and made my way to find the next item on the list.
I grew up a lot poorer than I am as an adult, although we never lived in what I would call poverty. I remember the progression from apartment to town house, to the exciting moment my parents bought their first home (where they still live) when I was in middle school. I remember meals that were built around Spam, not because of its gourmet qualities, but because of its price point. I remember the days of not filling up the gas tank at the pump, and the embarrassment that I felt as a young teen because of the quality of my sneakers or the clothing I didn’t wear. I remember the feeling that accompanied the realization that college was only going to be possible if I worked my tail off to pay for it.
How quickly we forget. We forget not only other times in our lives, but we forget that others are living those times right now. Poverty in this country is, in some ways, better than it used to be, and in other ways worse than it used to be. Our measurements of poverty are flawed; some say they skew too negative because we don’t count public assistance, while others say they are too rosy because we use an outdated formula based on the cost of food nearly seventy years ago. Both critiques are correct. We also know that the gap between rich and poor is growing, so that our economic groupings in this country are beginning to resemble developing nations’ groupings more than the average developed, western nation. We debate extreme poverty and get confused by relative poverty. And then we argue about assertions like the one last year when an organization named Alabama the poorest part of the developed world.
The point is that poverty is still a problem, and that most all of us reading this are not having to struggle with the day to day realities of being poor. When we forget that it’s a real issue with real problems for real people, we cross into our bubble lives, in which we simply don’t have to be in mind of those who are worse off than us – not out of conscious disregard, but simply because we don’t have to be in mind of them. When this happens, it means that we don’t realize how fortunate we are to have virtually endless choices for food, while there are many who live in “food deserts,” where there are no local grocery stores. It means we take for granted our choice of sweaters, carefully selecting the one that best matches our shoes or our blouse on a cool morning, while some are fortunate to have one sweater, or instead send their kids to school in a T-shirt. Our “haves” are not morally suspect, but they can be removed from reality at the same time.
The call of a follower of Jesus is to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick and the imprisoned, welcome the outcast, etc. When we live in our bubbles, we can have a hard time doing that. The Eucharistic prayer we’re using at X Church this season specifically pairs the challenge of receiving the bread of heaven without remembering those who go hungry and drinking the blood of Christ without remembering those who thirst for justice. Perhaps a similar mindfulness can help us keep from getting swallowed by our bubbles. I hope that we are in the habit of giving thanks for our food and remembering those without, but perhaps we could offer a prayerful acknowledgement each time we get dressed, crank the engine in our cars, pay our insurance bills, take our pills, and all the other mundane things we do and take for granted. Maybe those prayers will draw us to understand our blessings and not forget those who do not share them. And from there, maybe we’ll be led to do something about those who go without.
Our lives of abundance, what most of us consider normal, would seem absurdly and wildly extravagant to many. Maybe it would help for us to see it that way too, remembering what our lives looked like and what others may still look like. I’m going to do that as I make a sandwich with my jelly. I just hope I’m not out of peanut butter…
Tom+
Lord bless this food to our use and us to Thy service, and make us ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen.