Count the cost

More often than not, I write because I have something to say. Sometimes though, I just want to write. In those times, my muddling prose doesn't see the light of day (other than on the pages of a journal). Today, it's being dragged into the annals of cacophony.

Last Thursday, I was talking to a mate of mine, Mal, about speaking and preaching... We talked about an exercise that's fairly typical in a presentation skills course or a Toastmasters meeting. In the exercise, you stand up, introduce yourself and tell the audience that 'you will be speaking on the subject of...'. At this point, you pause momentarily while some pre-ordained member of the audience yells out the topic and away you go. A little like theatre sports, yet most likely of no comedic value.

I just asked my wife, Fi, what it might be good to write on and she filled the blank space with... the spiritual lessons to be learned in building a house.

This is relevant to us right now. Given the small size of our home and the family expansion program we have undertaken (a little girl while be showing up in around eighteen-and-a-half weeks!) we're planning to build. We've had sporadic conversations about it over the last twelve months, but they've started to ramp up in colour and intensity over the last couple of months. The plan is to begin to build (or pitch a larger tent) by the end of the year. And that's where the fun begins. Having built once before I can testify: there's not much fun involved.

The process of building can reveal a lot about us. It can say a few things about our vision for the future as well. Not to mention the future of our bank accounts.

The first hurdle for me has been: do we really need to build? Fiona tells me the answer to that question is very definitely 'yes' so perhaps I should simply move on to the next hurdle. But let's camp here for a few lines. Our natural, societal-informed inclination is that my answer must be 'yes'. In fact, I not only need a bigger house, I need a bigger car, a bigger investment portfolio, a bigger boat and a bigger business. Somewhere along the way, any glimmer of simplicity is extinguished. I'm not advocating martyrdom or pauperdom, but I am keen for simplicity to burn brightly. My thought is that we should think. We should think about the necessity of stuff and things and the trade-off for that stuff and those things. This clearly has implications beyond me.

Simplicity isn't poverty, it's economics: making decisions about the allocation of scarce resources. And that definitely goes beyond me. If we all decide to leave our lights on, we'll either have a power shortage or a need for bigger power stations. Yet, if we decide to only use electricity when we really need it and not be wasteful, we'll find there's enough. This obviously comes back to stewardship. I think it was John Wesley who said: 'Gain all you can, save all you can, give all you can'. What I can give is determined by what I have left after I've done what I'm going to do with what I've gained. My consuming/spending decisions have a profound effect on my ability to give.

Yes, this is all coming back to building a house.

Jesus said, in Luke 14:28, "Suppose one of you wants to build a tower. Will he not first sit down and estimate the cost to see if he has enough money to complete it? For if he lays the foundation and is not able to finish it, everyone who sees it will ridicule him, saying, 'This fellow began to build and was not able to finish.'

In many ways, Jesus was throwing out a no-brainer. But he knows us better than we can know ourselves. Depending on our wiring, we can be more about chasing a one-dimensional dream than counting the cost.

The second hurdle for me has been a spiritual one as much as a financial one. If a decision I make in one area of life could remove the ability for me to say 'yes' to God in another, then I need to ponder that decision prayerfully and intentionally. If I feel called to serve God in a particular way (that perhaps requires a more frugal existence) and yet I plough ahead and build something that determines that I need to earn even more over the next 25 years, then I'm intentionally or unintentionally telling God the parts of my life that are available and those that can't be touched. I'm not for a moment discounting the ability for God to supernaturally provide. He does: I've seen it and experienced it. And yet, I think he blesses our obedience and our desire to give ourselves to him. Sometimes He blesses us despite ourselves (just to remind us who's in control) but, most times, it's about partnership; us putting our hands in His and going for a long walk. On that walk we learn the unforced rhythms of grace that issue from a life that operates on his economy not ours.

Proverbs 11:24 tells us that while 'The world of the generous gets larger and larger; the world of the stingy gets smaller and smaller'. My thought is this: we can be generous with little and we can be generous with much. And our decisions regarding the stewardship of 'all we have gained' financially determines the resources available for generosity. I'm not saying this to compare one person's generosity with another; the widow gave a coin and gave all she had. What I'm saying is that our world becomes larger through the stewardship of what we have - this is intrinsically linked to the decisions we've made. And the extent to which we've 'counted the cost'.

Each of us has particular needs. While people in Vietnam often have families of five on a small scooter, that would incur a fine where I live. And so a family of five is probably getting around in a larger car...or an SUV...or a station-wagon. That's practical for our context. I'm not arguing for us to sell up and move to a commune in the hills. What I am proposing is a reflection of what informs that stuff. What itch do our acquisitions scratch? And should they being scratch by someone other than stuff? Jesus said to seek his Kingdom before anything else. When our perspective is re-oriented we find that everything we need is added to us. We may also find along the way that the things that we thought needed to be added no longer need to be.

In some ways, the entire point of this post lies here: the stuff that we decide we need ends up making decisions for us. The houses we build, the credit we burn, the cars we drive, the energy we expend...all of these have a butterfly effect over the rest of our lives. Not always immediately apparent, but it's there. Sometimes filling in cracks where air could once be inhaled and exhaled, sometimes opening cracks where there was once relationship and the freedom to enjoy moments.

If you're waiting for the moment that I'll dismount from the soapbox, please forgive me. I've made my share of decisions that removed choices. Perhaps they make me more cautious now. Or it could be that the things I value have changed over time too. And so, the value I now place on some areas becomes more sacred than others. More worthy of protection. The preeminence of mission is gradually shaping what, why, when and how I build the things I try and build.

A legendary Australian, Daryl Kerrigan, once said that 'a man's home is his castle'. But he also said 'it's not a house, it's a home' and 'you can't build what I've got'. If there's a place to finish up, it's right there. Don't forgo the stuff of life that can't be built with money for the things that can. Legacies and relationships cannot be 'compulsorily acquired'...but our stuff can get eaten by moths and rust.

I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life. Deuteronomy 30:19