I recall hearing a talk back in 1999 during a public speaking and debate class that bemoaned the materialism of the modern world. I wish I could recall the speech in its entirety, but unfortunately my memory only retains pieces of the argument. What I do recall are repeated references to Mother Teresa, praising her life of poverty, charity and renouncement of material comforts. Now, we didn't have to give away all our things and live in a one-room shack with nothing but the clothes on our back, the speaker assured us, but we ought to reconsider how much wealth and posessions mean to us. But the sheer act of using Mother Teresa as an example sent a different message: how dare you worry about your car and your house when you can give up everything and live a meager life of spiritual wealth.

It's an argument I've heard many times, and a fair amount as a child and as a high school student: this world worries too much about money, and not enough about the "important things." There was always a trend of using guilt to try to shock us out of taking our lives and luxuries for granted. Indeed, we do live in a West very much concerned with its pocketbook, yet there is something disturbing about this exulting of poverty. There is nothing inherently wrong with valuing material things. We need food to sustain us, a roof to keep the rain out, money to pay the bills and put clothes on our backs. Gifts remind us of the love of those close to us. Things go awry only when we pursue wealth for the sake of itself, and for status and power over others. It is how you value the material, not the valuing of the material itself, that is important.

Yet the image of Mother Teresa, giving up teaching in Calcutta to live in poverty in the slums to aid and minister to the sick and dying has become an ideal for many of us. Certainly it was for the young woman who gave the speech aforementioned. And there is a place for such charity as given by Mother Teresa. But to raise a life of seflessness, of always giving and never taking, to an ideal to which all should aspire is foolish. If we were to all live only for others, but not for ourselves, then what good is our giving? Others would not appreciate it, for they exist only to pass the boon on to the next person. We must accept some things as our own, even if it is only temporary, to bring value to the gift. Charity must be mached with gratitude.

The life of seflessness that is so lauded, that of Mother Teresa, is a life of ascetism: a life of self-denial. It is associated in our culture with high spiritual principles. Fasting, self-flagellation, self-inflicted modesty—all are believed to bring us in touch with the highest illumination and spiritual fulfilment. But the life of Mother Teresa was not one of spiritual fulfilment. A new book featuring the letters of Mother Teresa reveal a woman struggling with a blackness in her soul. After a spiritual "conversation" with Jesus on the way to a retreat in Nepal, Mother Teresa was inspired to live the ascetic life that would earn her renown. But when she actually went into the slums and the streets, the presence of Jesus in her life left her:

Lord, my God, who am I that You should forsake me? The Child of your Love — and now become as the most hated one — the one — You have thrown away as unwanted — unloved. I call, I cling, I want — and there is no One to answer — no One on Whom I can cling — no, No One. — Alone ... Where is my Faith — even deep down right in there is nothing, but emptiness & darkness — My God — how painful is this unknown pain — I have no Faith — I dare not utter the words & thoughts that crowd in my heart — & make me suffer untold agony.

What exactly spurred this on, I do not know. I suspect that it may have had to do with confronting the sick and dying, that notions of an all-loving deity became difficult to maintain. I may be wrong. But this darkness would remain with her for years, and never be healed. Eventually she learned to live with it, considering it part of her mission to take full part in Christ's passion. Many ordinary believers undergoing a crisis of faith, the Time article condends, may find solace that this "modern saint" underwent the same dark times that plague them as well.

But how much of this suffering is necessary? Mother Teresa found her prayers and accomplisments empty and without meaning. This is exactly what we would expect to see in someone living in a wasteland—leading an inauthentic life. What could Mother Teresa have gained had she the courage to seriously question her faith? If she had seriously considered what service her faith and ascetism did for herself, how much more could she have given to the benficiaries of her charity? Why should ordinary people be expected to suffer so, and stumble forth blindly, depriving themselves even the benefit of asking if their path is the right one?

It is warped to hold such complete ascetism as an ideal. If the perfect life is to serve others in blind suffering, then exactly what kind of life are we giving those we serve?