When I was younger, we had a huge, unfinished basement. The walls were unpainted and covered in childish murals that my brother and I had created in markers and crayon. The floor was a cold, grey cement, with half of it covered in an old piece of orange carpet. Old, odds-and-end pieces furniture were placed on the carpet, and the room was scattered with toys, old blankets, dress up clothes and the like.
I played many games in that basement, but one of my favorite games was the "lets pretend we're poor" game. We would lay old pieces of foam mattresses in the corner, cover them in the old blankets, and pretend that they were our beds. We pretended that we had nothing but the junk that the basement held, and we had to sleep every night on the old foam mattresses, with our bodies pressed against the cold, cement floor. I loved to pretend that my life was simple and rugged like that, that I could create a home for myself with just a few odds and ends and a blanket, that I could be comfortable even while lying on the hard floor. Something about it was so attractive to me. I would play the game for hours.
And now I have another chance to play the game, but this time it's not so attractive to me. Poverty Simulation is this weekend, and I am terrified. To steal an example from Lewis, I am like a child playing burgalers with his friends who hears an unexpected noise upstairs, and suddenly the game isn't fun anymore. Suddenly the game becomes reality, and reality isn't nearly as exciting and romantic as our childhood games dreamed them up to be. I will be sleeping outside and eating out of trashcans and talking to men and women who smell very badly. And I won't have a clean bathroom, I won't have access to purified water (the water in Waco is the worst I have ever tasted in my life), and I won't be able to shower. I do not want to be poor.
And I find myself wishing that I could just go back to that house in Canada, lock myself in the basement, and play poor for a weekend. I wish that I could truly experience poverty like that. I wish that poverty was like that. But it's not. And billions of people live their lives like I will be living this weekend, and for them, there is little hope of every waking out of it. They can't go upstairs and leave the basement, finding a comfortable two-story house with a kitchen full of food and comfortable beds. Their life is not a fun little game.
And I don't want to live like the poor. I don't want to know about them. I want to read about them and give money. I want to tell my friends about them and get them to give money. But I don't want to live like them.
Which is why I need so desperately to go this weekend. And I'm not going to pretend to be excited about it. I'm not going to hide my fear. But I'm not going to shy away from it, because I need it.
Because, if I want to live like Jesus, the man who shares in all of our sufferings, I need to share in this small glimpse of the sufferings of the poor.
But I'm scared. And I'm not excited. But I don't really think I'm supposed to be.
I played many games in that basement, but one of my favorite games was the "lets pretend we're poor" game. We would lay old pieces of foam mattresses in the corner, cover them in the old blankets, and pretend that they were our beds. We pretended that we had nothing but the junk that the basement held, and we had to sleep every night on the old foam mattresses, with our bodies pressed against the cold, cement floor. I loved to pretend that my life was simple and rugged like that, that I could create a home for myself with just a few odds and ends and a blanket, that I could be comfortable even while lying on the hard floor. Something about it was so attractive to me. I would play the game for hours.
And now I have another chance to play the game, but this time it's not so attractive to me. Poverty Simulation is this weekend, and I am terrified. To steal an example from Lewis, I am like a child playing burgalers with his friends who hears an unexpected noise upstairs, and suddenly the game isn't fun anymore. Suddenly the game becomes reality, and reality isn't nearly as exciting and romantic as our childhood games dreamed them up to be. I will be sleeping outside and eating out of trashcans and talking to men and women who smell very badly. And I won't have a clean bathroom, I won't have access to purified water (the water in Waco is the worst I have ever tasted in my life), and I won't be able to shower. I do not want to be poor.
And I find myself wishing that I could just go back to that house in Canada, lock myself in the basement, and play poor for a weekend. I wish that I could truly experience poverty like that. I wish that poverty was like that. But it's not. And billions of people live their lives like I will be living this weekend, and for them, there is little hope of every waking out of it. They can't go upstairs and leave the basement, finding a comfortable two-story house with a kitchen full of food and comfortable beds. Their life is not a fun little game.
And I don't want to live like the poor. I don't want to know about them. I want to read about them and give money. I want to tell my friends about them and get them to give money. But I don't want to live like them.
Which is why I need so desperately to go this weekend. And I'm not going to pretend to be excited about it. I'm not going to hide my fear. But I'm not going to shy away from it, because I need it.
Because, if I want to live like Jesus, the man who shares in all of our sufferings, I need to share in this small glimpse of the sufferings of the poor.
But I'm scared. And I'm not excited. But I don't really think I'm supposed to be.
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