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Jesus and the GDP
I wish I could say that these stories are now personal ancient history and a source of a good retrospective laugh. I wish I could report that, like in the movies, all of our dreams quickly came true, just the way we imagined. In truth, it takes all our mental and spiritual strength to hold on to our vision in the face of one disappointment, delay, and discouragement after another. Even though we have had plenty of manna in this wilderness time, I wrestle with God over what feels like abandonment.

I wrestle with an image of how I thought my life would go. I hate what seems to be wandering in circles and wonder where I misplaced that upwardly-mobile road map that was tucked into my college diploma. Just thinking that way makes me even more ashamed of my pettiness and lack of trust in God for more than just a good parking space at the mall.

Yet I am beginning to see that my dissipation is in direct proportion to how much I have allowed the world of advertising and consumption to influence me. It does not only seek to eradicate my sense of identity, but more alarmingly, invades my spiritual life with its hyper self-consciousness and exaltation of languor. As our participation in that world has waned of late, I have noticed that my husband's soul is being freed and forged into something new. Mine, on the other hand, is in meltdown.

After 25 years of trying to follow Christ, I am ashamed that my allegiance often slips into merely wanting him to sanction my worldly desires. Lately, as I have not been able to satisfy every last whim, I am frantic inside. To deal with the gap between my fears of going down the drain and my fears of being honest, I put on my carefully crafted Christian mask.

When I play the role of a Christian, she is a very glib character indeed. In fact, I have grown quite bored of self-affirming babble, trying to explain what God is doing in my life. I am tired of the absurdity of my entire faith centering on my personal emotional health. I know Jesus doesn't stand at the gate of earthly happiness, promising me my portion of the gross domestic product (GDP). Christ bids me come and die to my rights to it.

Still, I allow myself, my inner self, to be compared to others—not others' inner selves, but to what material things they may possess. Because we live in a typical suburban neighborhood that borders some other rather affluent ones, those messages assume tangible forms.

I see shopping bags from nice stores lying around friends' houses and hear regularly about impressive family vacations. Once, standing in the grocery line behind a well-heeled woman easily ten years my junior, I caught a glimpse (it was entirely accidental) of her very ample checkbook balance. (I could have gotten a year's worth of groceries with that much, but it was an accident—really.) After watching her wheel of Brie and jar of macadamias float easily down the conveyer belt, my peanut butter and pork and beans looked like I felt.

A low-grade guilt overtakes me when my defenses are down. How do I expect my kids to become fully functional adults if they wear hand-me-down and thrift-shop clothes? When I wear my second-go-round Liz Claiborne skirt or Gap vest, I fear some well-dressed acquaintance, who is about my size, will expose me. She, in my imagination, says, "I like your skirt, Lee. I used to have one exactly like it but I gave it to the Goodwill." And in my best lockjaw I respond, "Really dahling, what a strange coincidence." If I am not careful I will pass on my shallowness to the boys. Once in a while I wonder how they will make it in this world if they only play golf on public courses. How can they be informed without cable television? Am I dooming them to a look-but-don't-touch life?

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November 15 1999, Vol. 43, No. 13