When I was younger, my bedtime prayers centered on thankfulness.

“Wow, God — you’ve blessed me so much! Thank you that I never have to wonder where my next meal is coming from, that I have a warm, comfortable bed to curl up in, that I’ve had the opportunity to know you from a young age.” Overwhelmed by my blessings, I would drift off into a peaceful sleep.

The implication of those innocent prayers, of course, was that other people did have to wonder when they would eat again, did have to sleep out in the cold, and didn’t have any idea that there was a God who loved them.

The day I realized that, I began being haunted by the question: Why me?

Why would God choose anyone to be born into comfort and peace when so many are born and die in starvation, pain, and ignorance?

Conventional wisdom tells us we have been blessed with plenty so that we may have the life more abundant, with some leftover to help those in need. Recently Oprah Winfrey shared an experience that exemplifies this mindset. “I was coming back from Africa on one of my trips,” she said. “I had taken one of my wealthy friends with me. She said, ‘Don’t you just feel guilty? Don’t you just feel terrible?’ I said, ‘No, I don’t. I do not know how me being destitute is going to help them.’”

Oprah has a good point. She’s incredibly wealthy and incredibly generous. But I’m not wealthy; I’m a college student. For me to give might just make me destitute! At the least, it would make me uncomfortable.

When one truth-seeker approached a teacher from Nazareth, asking what he must do to be saved, Jesus told him that to be perfect, he must sell all his possessions, distribute to the poor, and follow him. This ruler, we read, was overcome with sorrow. Give up his wealth? His title? His silver-platter lifestyle? Jesus had just told him to become very, very uncomfortable.

With that command, Jesus struck at both the curse and the blessing of wealth. The blessing is that if we’re willing to give it up, we can help those who really need it. The curse is that, like the ruler, we might become enslaved by love for it. It’s not just money with which we are stingy: it’s what it buys us. Time. Ease. Those little treats we “deserve” for our hard work. And as we grow more and more accustomed to our cushion of privilege, most of the world’s people God’s people are being crushed by poverty and hopelessness.

From where I sit perched in my ivory tower eating Veggie Links on Sabbath afternoon, it’s easy to forget. The homeless — do we have those in Chattanooga? Darfur — what’s that? Jesus hasn’t everybody heard of him by now? Animal-tested lipstick and sweatshop-produced clothing does it really matter as long as I look good? From my elevated status, it’s much easier to remember to buy a $15 compact disc than to remember to send $15 to ADRA to help bring clean drinking water to a village in Ethiopia.

We believe Jesus wasn’t satisfied to sit on a throne in heaven while His people suffered want of what he could offer: hope, healing and salvation. Nor should we be satisfied to sit in our reclining chairs while our neighbors suffer for lack of what we are privileged to offer.

While we put off our opportunities to share the gospel of truth and of mercy with our fellow travelers through this world, let us ask ourselves: On that last day, will I know that I did all I could? Or will I cry out in regret for my own selfabsorption?

Angela Palmer is a senior English education major from Hamilton, Alabama

pp.12,15 adventist today | vol. 15 issue 4