I Want More

My mom tells the story of taking my brother and me to a Christmas event at the American Embassy in Liberia. I had just turned seven and had lived in Liberia for a year. There was a Santa at that party, and he asked Paul and me what we wanted for Christmas. We sat perched on his knee, completely stumped, unable to think of a single thing. There was no question in our young minds that we wanted Christmas presents. But since a year had separated us from television, Toys R Us, and the Sears catalog, we couldn’t possibly imagine what we wanted those gifts to be. 

My kids used to be the same way. But after four years in America? They can fill up an Amazon wishlist like nobody’s business.

When we moved into our new house a year after we arrived in California, I fretted over the laminate flooring, which is light brown on the bottom floor and dark brown from the stairs up, and gazed disapprovingly at the bedroom doors which look like they’ve been patched over several times by miscreant children. That is, until Gil gazed disbelievingly at me and reminded me that this house is way nicer than anything we’ve ever lived in, and what on earth had happened to me?

America happened to me, that’s what. 

The woman on the screen has perfect hair and perfect teeth and not an ounce of cellulite, her home is spotless and spacious, and her lawn is a jeweled green. She is happy and ageless – even her flawless dog is smiling and pristine. (He never throws up on the sofa, for sure.)

She tells me I need to buy this lotion, or this car, or this dog food, and the assumption is that I, too, will be perfect like her.

I roll my eyes and divert my attention, but then there’s another one, and another one. They pound on me like African rain. I can’t drive the freeway without seeing these images, can’t check out at the grocery store without their bombardment. I can’t scroll through Facebook or read an online article without their relentless onslaught. This is the perfect life, they scream. You need it. You deserve it. You won’t be happy without it.

Don’t be silly. I’m above all that. I would never allow myself to be sucked into those lies. Until I realize that I have that niggling in my brain that if only that part of my body looked better, I would be happier. If I could just replace my floor, or my fence, or my couch that the dog threw up on, my life would look brighter. I pay attention to the thoughts buzzing around in the background and I am startled with how often they cross my mind. In a day. In an hour. 

I can rattle off a bunch of the Ten Commandments: don’t murder, lie, steal, commit adultery. No prob. I’ve got that. But then there’s that tenth one, right at the end, kind of like poor old Pluto. Is it a planet or not? Is it a sin or not? Does it really deserve my attention? 

You shall not covet your neighbor’s house. You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or his male or female servant, his ox or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbor. (Ex. 20:17)

Yet I live in a country where the economy is built on coveting. The advertising industry’s job (mostly, not always, of course) is to lure us into becoming perfect people with the perfect life. America spent 10 billion dollars on Black Friday sales last year, which is more than the GDP of most countries of the world. The industry of coveting works. 

It’s not just about stuff either. The 10th Commandment is all-encompassing, so I could certainly add income bracket, body weight, well-behaved children, ministry success, or passport stamps to the list of possible things to covet. Even if I was able to pride myself on being less interested in stuff than other people, coveting is a versatile sin. I can’t escape it. 

Yet it’s easy to ignore the commandment not to covet because it’s hard to pin down. Murder, lying–these are easily recognizable wrongs. Coveting takes place only and solely in my heart. Zero people will ever know what I pine after unless I actually take it or buy it or pursue it. 

And, of course, it’s not always wrong to want things or to buy things. Desiring a spouse or children can be God-given desires. A new car can be excellent stewardship and used for good purposes. A crumbling kitchen eventually needs to be fixed. Comfortable gardens and homes can be places of refuge and hospitality, and making them beautiful can point us to the Creator of all good things. 

Yet that also makes it easy to make excuses. I can always justify what I wish for, what I buy. It’s not that hard to slap on a spiritual reason. And when everyone around me is spending more and every message on every billboard or reel tells me I need more and deserve more, it’s easy to convince myself that I’m really not that bad. At least, not as bad as that person over there. 

But am I? 

When expanded to include envy and greed, the Bible is clear: this is serious sin. The desire for more than we need, or for what should never be ours, is routinely listed alongside the sins of adultery, murder, self-indulgence, arrogance, and wickedness. It is incompatible with Christianity (I Cor. 5:11). It is idolatry (Eph. 5:5). Those who refuse to acknowledge it or repent of it are in danger of losing the kingdom of God (I Cor. 6:10). 

Clearly, I’m not giving this sin the weight it is meant to have. 

But if I can’t quantify it, how do I recognize it? How do I know when I’m making excuses?

Scripture has that answer too. I can know when I am coveting when my heart is not at peace with what I have (Pr. 14:30). When I can’t love those who have what I want (I Cor. 13:4). When I’m only thinking about myself (James 3:16). 

The opposite of coveting is contentment. The opposite of greed is generosity. The opposite of envy is gratefulness. 

So when I am not content, not generous, or not grateful, I can assume I’ve got a problem to root out. And I need to take it as seriously as if I was entangled in a sin of adultery or theft. 

If I have food and clothing, I can be content (I Tim. 6:8). Right now, I have way, way, way more than that. And while I am grateful to live in a land of plenty and a free market economy, I must consciously fight back against the Siren songs all around me that lure me to covet. Look away. Turn it off. Click mute. 

This house will one day burn or crumble. Everything I own will rot in a landfill. This body will turn to dust and be forgotten. I must daily remind my soul that I am a steward of what actually belongs to God – be it my money, my talents, my circumstances. I want more of the eternal things, the things above, which moth or rust cannot destroy.

Related: Swimming in the Stuff of America
On Getting the American Dream