There’s a part of me that wrestles with something I’ve come to call Midwest Christianity. Not because it’s exclusive to the Midwest, but because the particular flavor I encounter here tends to emphasize a gospel that stops at salvation—at the foot of the cross—and doesn’t move forward into kingdom living. It’s as if the goal is to keep getting evangelized over and over, rather than growing up into Christ and living out the fullness of what it means to be a child of God.
That might sound harsh, but I say it with honesty, not judgment.
I’ve sat with this tension for years, watching believers around me almost wear spiritual poverty as a badge of honor. There’s a kind of contentment that says, “I have air in my lungs and legs that work—what more could I ask from the Lord?” And while I deeply respect that gratitude, what troubles me is when that kind of bare-bones survival is projected onto others as the only right way to live. As if desiring more—more usefulness, more joy, more wholeness—is somehow carnal.
I don’t want a mansion. I don’t want fifteen cars. But I do want to be able to buy four new tires when my car needs them. I want to be able to take care of my household, to replace things when they break, to enjoy a meal out without fear that I’m stepping out of spiritual bounds. I want to bless others from a place of overflow, not constant scraping.
Is that wrong?
For a long time, I wondered if it was. I’d feel guilty for liking money—not for hoarding it, but for what it allows me to do. I like being able to give. I like being able to replace worn shoes with new ones, not out of vanity, but because I can. I enjoy what money affords—comfort, stability, and yes, pleasure—and I don’t think it’s sinful to say so. What matters, at least in my heart, is that I remain grateful. That I never forget where it all comes from.
And that’s just part of it.
I’m also reward-driven. I like having goals. I like seeing progress in my health, my skills, my creativity. Whether it’s singing, playing the saxophone, writing fiction, or developing graphic illustrations, there’s something deeply satisfying about honing those gifts. I want to be sharper, stronger, more effective—not just for myself, but because I believe those gifts were given for a purpose. I want people to experience beauty, memory, encouragement, maybe even conviction, through what I create.
And still, that little whisper persists: “Is that selfish? Is that worldly?”
I don’t believe it is. Because I’m not trying to glorify me. I’m trying to live a life that radiates joy and purpose so that others can see the light and be drawn toward Christ. I want to shine, not because I crave attention, but because shining points to the Source. I want to “squeeze the marrow out of life,” as the saying goes, and in doing so, offer something meaningful back to the One who gave me breath in the first place.
But I’m aware that even the noblest desires can drift. So I check myself. Regularly. I ask God to search my heart, to keep my motives clean, to humble me if my eyes start drifting toward idols—be it comfort, applause, or ambition. I stay in the Word, not because I want a spiritual checklist, but because I know how subtly our desires can slip.
I’m not asking to be told I’m right. I’m asking for clarity. I want to know if my mindset aligns with what Scripture teaches. I want to make sure I’m walking a path that pleases the Lord, even if it doesn’t always match what others around me expect. And that’s where part two of this reflection comes in: an honest theological analysis of this mindset through the lens of Scripture—its language, its doctrine, and its call to live a life that glorifies God in every detail.
