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The camel, the needle, and me
I had wondered if others within the church had similar preoccupations with material goods and financial status until the story of the rich young ruler came up in an in-depth study of Matthew last year in my Sunday-school class. It caused a healthy, rousing discussion from all sides of the issue. It was clear that those who "had" were as disturbed as those who "had not quite as much." (After reading the camel and the needle's eye warning, we later talked about the Lord's admonition to the disciples not to claim superiority in their poverty either.)

Our teacher pointed out that Jesus noticed the rich young ruler spoke of the kingdom of God in the language of business contracts, as though it were another possession, something he could buy. The young man wanted to be in charge of the transaction and revealed his shallowness in making eternal life something to be achieved. But to his credit, the rich young ruler knew he lacked something. He was just hesitant, and eventually unwilling, to pay the price Jesus asked. Jesus wanted his heart—his allegiance, his whole self. The Lord was not willing merely to sanction the wants of the man; he challenged the source of the young man's trust.

When my own life hit a spot where, for once, I could not know the outcome immediately, or guarantee that the deal would benefit me, a place I could not control, I too wanted to be in charge of how the kingdom would be transacted within me.

The kingdom of God is not something I can mark off my shopping list, like other goods designed to make my life easier. Instead, Jesus tells the rich young ruler to go, to sell, to give, and to follow. All of these involve trust in some unknown outcome and, unlike consumption, involve action.

Although Jesus promised the free gift of salvation, God must know our need for fulfillment is not satisfied in buying, but in doing. Of all the dehumanizing forces of this century, losing a sense of mastery over the earth has been the worst. For me, the closest place to regain that mastery is downstairs in my clay studio.

There, I am not at all a consumer, but a producer. First I imagine a design, then take a formless wad of clay, knead it and shape it to conform to my vision. Then the finished product, after it has completely dried up, gets fired at almost two thousand degrees, twice. This is a process. It cannot be rushed or the artwork will crack.

When I am alert, working in clay gives me just a glimpse into how God sees me. Since I don't want to crack, I do best to yield to the process.

Most of my work involves making three-dimensional replicas of a person's home. Over the years I have witnessed many emotional responses to them, perhaps not so much for the art, but for the piece as a symbol of the life that was created in the real house. My economics professor friend calls my business a "bilateral monopoly," a case where the buyer, or recipient, first has to offer something to the seller, and the seller (or creator) deals in one-of-a-kinds. Under this setup, a price is very hard to determine. Here, right under my nose, has been another reminder of my relationship with God. I have only my heart to offer God, while he is the only one who can mold me into his vision for my life.

In Romans 12, Paul outlines this very theme. He tells the people first to offer themselves to God. He warns of the conforming power of the world and our need to be transformed and to renew our minds. In a connection I had never before seen, he then talks about the development of individual gifts.

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November 15 1999, Vol. 43, No. 13