Things

It was just a small, red wire basket I bought for $1.25 at Dollar Tree. Impulsive, but not extravagant. When I got home, my husband asked, “What are you going to do with that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t thought about it yet.”

He was quizzical. Why would I buy something I didn’t know what to do with? Perhaps he doesn’t understand the feminine mind. But at $1.25, I didn’t see much point in worrying about it.

Later in the day, he asked me again. “What are you going to do with that?” My answer was the same. I thought his repeated question itself rather curious. I didn’t think I’d exceeded our budget. What was the problem?

When I was a young wife, with a husband in graduate school and living on a shoestring, the things we had were, for the most part, sheer necessities. A table, chairs to sit on, a bed, a dresser to hold our socks and related items, dishes to eat off of, books in a bookcase. We had a painting he brought into our marriage and one I brought to it.

We didn’t need a lot of things. We read our books and took walks.

But on a visit to my older sister’s home, I noticed with envy when she opened a cupboard with things in it she didn’t need. Things she could use to decorate, for instance, and put away when she was tired of them. I felt myself longing for a cupboard like that, with things in it like that. Things I could enjoy for awhile—and then put away again.

Why do we love Things?

Of course, I say “we” advisedly. There are the minimalists, bless them, who consciously keep unnecessary things at bay, who aren’t even tempted to go to Hobby Lobby, for instance, or estate sales or antique shops. My mother was one of those. “More things to dust!” she would protest. But then there are their radical opposites, which the burgeoning proliferation of storage units gives witness to.

Some of us fall, more or less, on either side of the middle.

At some point along the line, I was exposed to an acrostic which put “people,” “things,” “love,” and “use” in four quadrants. Seen one way, the acrostic read, “Love people, use things.” Read another way, it could read “Use people, love things.” Of course, ascribing to the second reading would be appalling to most of us. Certainly, we are not to use people for our own ends.

Does loving things preclude loving people?

The (in)famous story Jesus tells about the wealthy young man who comes to Him with a serious question has disturbed many a serious reader. The young man, apparently earnestly, wants to do something in order to earn eternal life. He is, he maintains, morally upright, following the Ten Commandments. But Jesus, who reads this man’s heart, plunges a piercing sword into his self-proclaimed morality: “Sell all you have and give to the poor.” The young man has lots of Things. More than he needs. More, probably, than he can even use. He goes away, unhappier than when he came. This is not the deed he expected Jesus would ask of him. i

Serious readers, through the centuries, have taken this advice as a personal command and sold everything they owned. Leo Tolstoy was one of those, having grown up with the ease of wealth but struggling, as an adult, to find the meaning of life. His wealth had not given him the answers he craved. But when he sold all his worldly goods and tried to live as a poor peasant, he was no happier. The answer did not lie there.

Where is the justification for “things”? Things I love, as well as use, but which are not strictly necessary to my well-being? The answer, I believe, is found in the creation.

God created matter. As someone has jokingly said, He must love it because He made a lot of it. He created a multiplicity of forms: flowers and trees, animals and birds and creeping things, all in a place of exuberant beauty and delight. And He took His most basic and ubiquitous form of matter—dust—to create a man and a woman in His own image. And then He gave them that perfect place as their home in the newly created world. But He needed to put them to work because every plant He created had the seed in itself to reproduce itself. Man was to tend all this exuberance, which would easily run to excess if not tended—even without weeds. (My illusive gardening dream.)

Yes, they were to use His material gifts: the fruit and the grain, the honey from the bees, the water from the streams, the iron ore, the gold and silver and copper in the mines, the wood from the trees. All these gifts and more were for their sustenance and their well-being. They would discover how to make glass from sand, pigments from berry juices, paper from wood pulp, clothing from wool. The list goes on.

And, clearly, we children of Adam figured out how to use these plenteous gifts for the utter joy and satisfaction of making beautiful things: objects we put in our homes to look at, admire, and enjoy. In that, we human creatures emulate our Creator. Think of the directions God gave to Moses for furnishing the tabernacle: no expense or craftmanship was spared for beautifying the altars, the curtains, the pans and utensils, the robes for the priests. The descriptions take one’s breath away. ii

But there is another clue in the creation about God’s intention for matter. He limited the creation. Full stop. God, who could have kept creating more and different types of matter than we can even imagine—infinitely—called a halt. It was enough. He knew—expected—the creatures made in His image would themselves “create” out of the matter He lavished on us. Paintings and statues, classic diamond rings and lowly red wire baskets. The ability to create is His gift to us, inherent in who we are, for our use and for our pleasure.

I look around at my things. I have more than I need. More than I can use, all at one time. But, daily, they bring me pleasure, adding interest to my surroundings—a joy to me whether anyone else notices or not.

Just today, drop-in visitors recognized the little ceramic statue of a boy and girl huddled under their umbrella on my deck, a gift from their mother before she died. A totally useless object looked at one way. But— “It warms my heart to see that,” one of the sisters said. Many of my “useless” objects reflect a period in my life, a person in my past, a memory of a place dear to me.

The little red wire basket has not acquired the patina of memory. It hasn’t even found its place yet. But I am aware that I need to take a cue from my Creator and limit my “things” before they become an excess I can’t even enjoy or a burden in an over-crowded cupboard. Before I get that key to my own storage space. Before they keep me from taking thought or time away from serving my neighbor because I need to dust.

And, above all, before they keep me from following Jesus like the rich young man who went away, unwilling to part with his wealth. His Things. I need to take sober check: are my things keeping me from following Jesus? From leaving all?

At the same time, I read thoughts expressed by the apostle Paul, who both cautions me to be contented with the necessities of food and clothing—but who also acknowledges that whatever I have is the blessing of God “who richly provides us with everything to enjoy.” iii

This is not an excuse for extravagance but an opportunity to receive His gifts with gratefulness. And to use my things to love people.

But the next time I'm perusing an estate sale (or even the dollar shop), maybe I should ponder my husband's question: "What are you going to do with that?"

i Matthew 19:16-22

ii See Exodus 25-30.

iii I Timothy 6:17