The Real Question of Poverty

Lately, I've been doing a lot of thinking about poverty.  It seems like there is ongoing controversy about what can be done to help those in poverty.  Although lots of people from all kinds of different philosophical and religious backgrounds feel it's important to help the poor, and all are approaching the issue with good intentions, just as with most things that are truly important, there are strong disagreements regarding how to go about it.  I don't mean to minimize the efforts of all those who are working hard and often making great sacrifices to do what they feel is in the best interests of America's poor, but I wonder how often we are jumping the gun by debating the question of methodology before answering a much more important question.  I think that before we can truly know anything about how to help those in poverty, we first have to ask, exactly what is poverty?

We often assume that poverty means simply a lack of material resources.  And it's true, there are many who suffer from a lack of food, wealth, or possessions.  But many also suffer from a lack of status, one that prevents them from advocating for their own needs or acting in their own defense.  And many, many more, including many of us who declare an interest in "helping the poor," suffer from poverty in our spiritual lives and in our relationships.  In the excellent book When Helping Hurts, authors Brian Fikkert and Steve Corbett make the case that the picture of "the poor" found in the Bible must include these types of impoverishment--not just material need, but also poverty of community and poverty of being.

In that case, as you may already be thinking, we are all in the same boat.  We all stand before God and each other broken, wounded, in desperate need, without the resources to help ourselves.  The solution (and the mission statement for those of us committed to addressing poverty) is simply this:  "Poverty alleviation is the ministry of reconciliation: moving people closer to glorifying God by living in right relationship with God, with self, with others, and with the rest of creation."  This is the message of the gospel.

When we neglect this truth and fall into the trap of thinking about poverty as simply material, we can mistakenly pour all of our efforts into the provision of material relief, and miss out on the true solution, this ministry of reconciliation.  It is too easy to do this.  We don't understand because we don't want to understand.  For one thing, as Fikkert and Corbett put it, "it's much simpler to drop food from airplanes or ladle soup from bowls than it is to develop long-lasting, time-consuming relationships with poor people, which can be emotionally exhausting."  A friend of mine calls this "hiding behind the ladle."  For another, we often fall victim to our own illusions of spiritual accomplishment.  We want to show others, show God, even show ourselves, that we are really "getting something done."  Again, Fikkert and Corbett point out, "'We fed a thousand people today' sounds better...than 'We hung out and developed relationships with a dozen people today.'"  Piling up accomplishments and focusing only on the material--the one area where we have ample resources--keeps us from the humbling and profoundly uncomfortable position of admitting our own poverty, our own lack, our own need for spiritual and relational reconciliation.  Truly helping those in poverty means acknowledging that we also are in need of the same kind of help.

Certainly none of this lets us off the hook when it comes to giving unselfishly of our material resources to those who really need this type of help.  Material provision for others is still usually good and often quite necessary.  But it does help us to realize that the true value of material provision lies in its effectiveness as a vehicle for this gospel ministry of relational reconciliation.  And many true, effective, and lasting efforts to alleviate poverty will not involve material need at all, but will simply allow us to practice real community, the kind that does indeed move people toward living in right relationship with God, themselves, other people, and the world around them.  I know this idea is a hard sell for most people.  It runs counter to everything our culture, often our churches, and maybe even our families have taught us to believe.  But I suspect that may be exactly what makes it the gospel truth.

Money-Making Scheme #1: Consigning the Kids' Clothing

So here's what I learned about the clothing I purchase for my kids.  Basically, it's not good enough for anyone else to want it.


I confess, I sort of knew this already.  I have two boys, and they have a host of boy cousins, which means that a) many of the clothes they wear are handed down through multiple owners, and b) all of the clothes have been worn by boys.  Buying a lot of high-end, big label clothing for school-aged boys would be akin to just removing money from your pocket, tearing it up, and throwing it in the trash.  The sensible course of action is to invest in a lot of durable, everyday play clothes, nothing so expensive that you will find yourself constantly nagging them about keeping it nice, or crying a little when it comes home with a massive hole in it and you have to throw it out.  So the items of clothing that are still in storage at my house are the few pieces that made it through both kids and somehow managed to escape destruction.  That is their accomplishment.  They are not dainty princesses.  They are the weathered veterans of multiple boyhoods--a bit the worse for wear, but survivors, nevertheless.

However, in the routine panic that now follows bill-paying, as my mind searched feverishly for ways to replace some of the life-sustaining funds I had just depleted, I had the crazy idea that maybe I could make some money by reselling some of the kids' clothes.  So I went through the storage bins and began the hunt for items that might make the cut.  After rejecting a massive number of things on the basis of being faded, pilled, or "out of date," I selected what I thought were my most likely prospects and began the process of grooming them for submission.  I laundered, removed lint, straightened straps, and even ironed quite a few.  (During the ironing process, my older son wandered into the kitchen and exclaimed, "Hey, we haven't done this for a long time!  I remember it from when I was little!"  So that should tell you something right there.)  Then I packed them up in a laundry basket--"neatly folded," as per consignment shop instructions--and hauled them off for judgement.

I have to say, even though I know that resale standards are justifiably high, and I realized that a lot of my offerings might be rejected, I was surprised at how...er...discerning...the screening process was.  Some things that were purposely manufactured to look faded were cut because they looked faded.  Others didn't make the cut because the fabric might look a little "knotty."  (And no, even though it was pointed out to me, I still don't really know exactly what that means.)  Microscopic spills or stains were found on many, all small enough that they required bending over, squinting, and lots of saying, "See?  Riiight...there.  Do you see it?"  In one case, the offending stain couldn't even be found when it was time to show it to me, and other store employees had to be called in to try to help locate it; eventually it was settled with the pronouncement that it was "probably right about here, just a little discoloration."  I was allowed to bring in 30 pieces for consignment--I left with 15 still in my possession.

This experience left me with a bizarre and unexpected feeling of personal rejection.  It was somehow very like not being accepted to Mensa.  I was momentarily determined to find my way into the exclusive resale club come hell or high water.  On the way home I actually found myself considering several irrational plans for future consignment triumph.  Such as, "Maybe when I get home I'll go through the boys' dressers and take out anything that looks nice right now."  Which is insane, because what are they supposed to wear then?  Or, "Maybe I should just work a little harder to buy them some more expensive stuff."  Which would not only be ridiculous based on the factors enumerated above, but would also kind of undermine the goal of making money off of consignment.  So after thinking about it from every possible angle, I came to two inescapable conclusions.  The first is, don't be ridiculous--who cares if your kids' clothes were affordable, practical, and well-worn, but just can't make it through one more incarnation?  This is not some kind of weird personal invalidation.  The second is that you cannot actually make money by consigning your kids' clothing.  If you think you're doing so, you should go back and check your math.  You may be able to recoup a bit of what you have invested in it, and that's not all bad--as a stay-at-home mom, I lived daily by the mantra that "the money I save us is the money I make us."  However, while every little bit of thrift undoubtedly helps in the overall scheme of things, unless you've got some really nice stuff that you didn't initially pay anything for, it's not a money maker. 

So Money-Making Scheme #1 was not the windfall one might have hoped for, but I'm fine with it.  The $8 I'm probably going to make will still put a little more gas in the tank or a meal on the table, and I can definitely be grateful for that.  I'm not even going to go pull all the remaining baby clothes out of storage and go back in there to roll the dice one more time.  Probably.