A feature that you quickly notice in almost every neighborhood in almost every third-world country is rebar—steel rods poking into the sky from the top of countless houses. The effect is that nothing ever looks done, complete, and finished. It doesn’t really mean that the home isn’t complete. In fact, most homes probably are as complete as they will ever be, the family secure, the kids reared and now in their own homes with rebar coming out the roof. But it does mean, “I’m not finished yet. I haven’t arrived. There’s more to come. I’m prepared to expand at any time. I’m planning for a bigger, more prosperous future!”

To north Americans, this is a strange concept. We like things finished. So much so, in fact, that we will make things look finished even when they really aren’t. Think of all the “bonus rooms,” unfinished basements, and useable attics lurking behind walls and under the eaves, giving the appearance that our homes are much, much larger than they really are. In the winter, we carefully seal off all that dead space to cut our heating costs. And in the summer, we certainly don’t want to pay to keep it cool. We know we don’t use it—except as a place to store our accumulated junk—but no one else need know. So we spend countless dollars and man-hours painting it, roofing it, and sealing it, so everyone driving by will look with wonder and amazement the size of our home and say to themselves, “I wonder what he does. He certainly is very successful.”

In Latin America, thousands of families live in shacks made of old boards, rusty tin, discarded pallets, and other materials salvaged from garbage heaps or job sites. For people who are struggling just to be able to have a bed on something more comfortable than the hard or muddy ground, the first room they build without gaping holes for the winter wind to whistle through is a tremendous accomplishment, something to be proud of. And the rebar extending from the corners is a sure sign to the neighborhood that there’s more to come, an announcement like, “We’ve got a toe-hold, and we are going to make it.” From such humble beginnings, there is never any shame in admitting that you haven’t arrived. Rather, there’s a sense of hope and expectancy. “This is what we have now, but we won’t stop here.” As rooms are added and the house grows, there is always the anticipation of more to come, a sense that life is about expanding and growing.

In North America, on the other hand, we carefully design everything to appear finished—whether it is or not. We are the land of facades, false fronts, and “image is everything.” Emotionally as well, we are a people who keep up a brave front, a “stiff upper lip,”

I wonder what this says about our spiritual condition? In my soul, do I have rebar sticking out of every corner, providing a strong framework for continued expansion and demonstrating a desire for future growth. Or have I convinced myself that growth is unnecessary; satisfied myself that “I have arrived.”

What about the “me” that others see? Do I give the studied appearance of one who “has it all together,” hiding any doubts and fears behind a carefully constructed facade of stability and confidence? Or dare I let a few unfinished corners remain visible to passers-by, confessing that, like them, I am still growing and expanding. Do I demonstrate that there is a hope of attaining more and being even better in the future, or do I pretend that spiritually I have it together, when, spiritually speaking, I’m struggling to make ends meet just to be able to afford the appearance of success. When others look at my life, are they encouraged to know that we are all growing together; or are they prompted to pretend—like me—that we have all attained spiritual maturity; that there is no need for future expansion, thank you very much!

May God grant us the humility to allow others to see our plans for growth and the grace to know that God is not finished with us yet!

Not as though I had already attained, either were already perfect: but I follow after … Php 3:12