7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess

by Jen Hatmaker

  The storage room was solitary confinement for Molly’s junk, so everything had to come out first. Fortuitous, since we found a trunk packed with high school memorabilia. The six of us plopped down and roared with laughter for an hour. We summoned her husband Chris and demanded an explanation for his long, middle-parted hair from 1996. We returned his stored pager; I’ve told him to “page me” seventy times since. He pretends to keep laughing.

  We purged and organized and rearranged and categorized, and now Molly’s storage room houses home accessories, toiletries, jeans and shoes, kitchen appliances, linens, and toys. No more scrambling when someone needs our stuff; we can go from phone call to delivery in ten minutes.

  But now here’s the real issue: Will I just replace all this? Will I purge another one thousand items three years from now? Will I slowly refill the empty spaces? Or will my family disconnect from the machine, creating a more courageous legacy than simply consuming? I want to confront the big part that says “more” with the smaller part that says “enough.”

  Believers, let’s oppose the powers that manipulate us, lying about our needs, our responsibilities, our neighbor. Let’s challenge the laissez-faire response that dismisses our consumerism with a casual shrug. But be prepared for the upstream struggle. The keepers of the market want us to spend. In a typical year the United States spends about $16 billion in foreign aid and $276 billion on advertising. Like Barber wrote in Consumed, “How much easier it is for the keepers when their task is to let Peter Pan fly free and keep Wendy cartwheeling under Peter’s careless gaze rather than contain narcissism and help children grow up. For the keepers know the risk that comes with helping children grow up: they do not necessarily grow up into consumers. They sometimes become citizens.”3

  Paul put it this way: “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known” (1 Cor. 13:11–12).

  A child says “me.” An adult says “us.” Maturity deciphers need from want, wisdom from foolishness. Growing up means curbing appetites, shifting from “me” to “we,” understanding private choices have social consequences and public outcomes. Let’s be consumers who silence the screaming voice that yells, “I WANT!” and instead listens to the quiet “we need,” the marginalized voice of the worldwide community we belong to.

  We top the global food chain through no fault or credit of our own. I’ve asked God a billion times why I have so much while others have so little. Why do my kids get full bellies? Why does water flow freely from my faucets? Why do we get to go the doctor when we’re sick? There is no easy answer. The why definitely matters, but so does the what. What do we do with our riches? What do we do with our privileges? What should we keep? What should we share? I better address this inequality since Jesus clearly identified the poor as His brothers and sisters and my neighbor.

  What if we tried together? What if a bunch of Christians wrote a new story, becoming consumers the earth is groaning for? I suspect we’d find that elusive contentment, storing up treasures in heaven like Jesus told us to. I’m betting our stuff would lose its grip and we’d discover riches contained in a simpler life, a communal responsibility. Money is the most frequent theme in Scripture; perhaps the secret to happiness is right under our noses. Maybe we don’t recognize satisfaction because it is disguised as radical generosity, a strange misnomer in a consumer culture.

  Richard Rohr described American Christians in Simplicity: “We’re just about to become adults, to honestly let the Gospel speak to us, to listen to what Jesus says, in no uncertain terms, about poverty and about leading a simple life in this world, a life that shows trust in God and not in our own power and weapons. God never promised us security in this world. God promised us only truth and freedom in our hearts. What does all this mean for us? It means that we’re on the way.”4

  Let’s prove that theory correct.

  Month Four: Media

  Excerpted car conversation:

  Caleb: I wonder what it feels like to die?

  Gavin: I wouldn’t want to die of constipation like Elvis did.

  Me: Wait, what?

  Gavin: Dad told me Elvis died on the toilet.

  Caleb: Gavin, Elvis isn’t even real!

  Gavin: I thought he was the King of Rock?

  Caleb: Gavin, do you really think someone would name their baby “Elvis”?

  These used to be funny stories to tell grandparents; now they are sound bites for Facebook (this one generated fifty-two responses). Spam and Jesus forwards hijacked regular e-mail: “Blah blah blah . . . forward this to all your friends. Remember, if you deny Jesus before man, He will deny you before the Father! PASS THIS ON OR ELSE! DON’T MAKE THE BABY JESUS CRY!” Three years ago we had four channels; now we literally have thousands with the dumbest shows ever conceived. (I’m talking about you, Lifetime, featuring Mother May I Sleep With Danger? starring Tori Spelling.)

  TV was innocent when our kids watched Dora the Explorer on Nick Jr. But now it’s the Disney channel, where you can bet the farm those little overactors will turn straight crazy the second they turn eighteen and start their “music careers.” It’s awesome when the High School Musical stars post naked pictures on MySpace; thank you, Vanessa Hudgens! I was short on teaching moments for my daughter until you came to the rescue with your online escapades.

  Don’t get me started on gaming. This, I know, is ironic, since “someone” bought these systems then waged Mortal Kombat against her kids’ Xbox 360, Nintendo DS Lites, Wii, and computer games. Listen, the son who can’t muster an initiative to wear clean socks can attend to complicated war games for two hours. It’s a miracle.

  We have:

  •Four gaming systems

  •Two MacBooks and one desktop computer

  •Five TVs

  •Three cell phones (two of the “i” variety)

  •A DVR

  •Two DVD players

  •Three handheld Nintendo DSs

  •Three stereos

  Stunning, since I didn’t have a computer, e-mail address, or cable until 2005. We went from zero to full-blown addiction in five years. Our family is now owned by The Man (Time Warner Cable), and we’re paying the piper, too. (Hello, Apple, we’re talking to you.) I don’t know how we lived before Al Gore invented the Internet.

  What the heck? I don’t know how this happened; we hedged on boundaries one careless degree at a time, and now I hardly recognize our family rhythm. We have our own little screen worlds to immerse in; actual human contact seems optional.

  Time to stop the madness.

  So this month we’re going radio silent. We’re shutting down seven screens and muting the chatter. No:

  •TV

  •Gaming

  •Facebook/Twitter

  •iPhone apps

  •Radio

  •Texting*

  •Internet*

  The double asterisk involved much discussion with The Council and the hubs. Texting is a double-edged sword. Sometimes it is a time-saver; I can get an answer without talking for twenty-five minutes about hair products. So sometimes, it adds minutes instead of subtracting them.

  On the other hand, sometimes texting is extraneous, even ridiculous. When I text this to a friend: “Friendship is like peeing in your pants. Everyone can see it, but only you can feel the warmth. Thanks for being the pee in my pants . . .” then I have too much time on my hands. And also I need to grow up.

  Asterisk 1: our texting rule: If it is a time-saver and/or necessary, then text away. If it’s to be sarcastic, silly, or inappropriate, then pass. We’re deferring to our own discernment, so someone should check my texts wee
kly because heaven knows I need accountability.

  Asterisk 2: The Internet is a necessary tool for our jobs and life. Event planners, the kids’ teachers, our adoption agency, my Restore Group, agent and publisher, and my neighbors correspond through e-mail. Additionally, I research for my books and messages online. I can’t ditch Internet for a month. Neither can Brandon for all the same reasons, except for “corresponding with the kids’ teachers” who I’m 90 percent sure he couldn’t name.

  But we can go without Facebook, Twitter, Sportcenter.com, adoption blogs, iPhoto, StuffChristiansLike.net (make sure you’ve emptied your bladder first), Hulu, scanwiches.com (recall my sandwich fixation), Amazon, twitter.com/xianity (i.e., “Dispensational republican audience turns on Christian comedian after one joke too many about red heifers.”), thepioneerwoman.com, and YouTube (I’ll miss you most, Annoying Orange). Good-bye.

  The Council is in various levels of participation. Becky and Susana are going Full Monty. Shonna and Jenny are limiting screens to seven hours a week. Trina is contemplating giving up her cell phone. Dear Molly is still traumatized—recall the three DVRs loaded with “her stories.” She begged me to move media month out of May. Because of sweeps. Because of season finales. Oh, the humanity! I suggested reducing to seven shows, and she gave me the look that predicates an assault and battery charge.

  So remote controls are stashed, Facebook notifications turned off and corresponding iPhone app dumped, gaming controllers locked up, and the kids’ computer unplugged. I’ve certainly received an earful on this:

  “This month is going to be terrible! What are we going to do? I don’t even like to read! What else is there? I think some TV would be fine! No texting?! All my friends text me! You’re going to have your nose in a book while I’m bored with nothing to do! How many weeks? Four??”

  And that was just Brandon.

  Day 1

  E-mail banter with The Council on our Facebook withdrawals:

  Becky: This Facebook-sized hole is causing me to send e-mails like this: Chatted up AGAIN by the creepy preschool dad! Eeewww! (Only have a small case of the shakes today.)

  Susana: Dude, I so get it. I have all this hilarious, self-aggrandizing drivel wasting away while I’m abstaining from the hive of Facebook. Like that statement I just gave. That’s brilliant Facebook fodder. Wasted.

  Jen: How will anyone manage without knowing Sydney and I made calzones tonight and that I have a fruit fly problem? What is the point of living if you don’t get to hear that we took our first trip to the snow cone stand today? This is public FB material, and without posting it, it’s like living our lives in privacy with no purpose.

  Shonna: What are we supposed to do with our witty one-liners? How is anyone going to know how funny we are?

  Jenny: I had decided not to give FB up, but my Bible reading today was terrible: “Dear children, keep yourselves from idols.” I decided FB is an idol of mine since it steals my attention and affections away from God. But then I thought: maybe He wasn’t talking to me. It did say “DEAR children.” I’m not dear.

  Molly: I’ve been trying to figure out my contribution to media month, and I will definitely be signing off FB. I’m struggling with the rest, well not the rest, just one thing: TV. You know how much I love TV. It’s what my degree is in. I make a spreadsheet every fall with all my shows and new ones I want to try (check my kitchen cabinet where it’s taped). I have three DVRs and have to watch two shows a day so my main DVR doesn’t exceed 97 percent full. Clearly I need professional help. It’s May, and that means all the season finales. (Thanks, Jen.) Who will be my next “American Idol”? Will the Glee kids win regionals? Will Meredith and Derrick have a baby, thus ending one of their careers on Grey’s Anatomy? And for the love of the land, I MUST know what that island on Lost is about! That’s a five-year commitment I intend to see through. These are the questions that keep me up at night.

  Trina: Sent from your iPad. Clearly you love technology. I also am pondering our commitment. I’m considering ditching my cell phone for the month. The biggest worrier here is my husband—he calls Jen when he can’t find me.

  Susana: There’s freedom from addiction. Trust me. I gave up my shows for no good reason other than to be obedient and see what happens. And so, after eight seasons of never missing an episode, I have not seen American Idol this year. And I’m still alive. Except Glee. I still watch Glee. Umm . . . (plastered smile, eyes shifting) I have no excuse for this.

  Jen: I love you, Glee.

  Day 4

  Okay, it’s Thursday. We started Monday. No one has died. With love and affection for this person, and devotion and respect, and tenderness and esteem, the only complaints are Brandon’s. This morning:

  Brandon: (reading off open laptop) Jen! Avery Bradley is going into the NBA draft. Can you believe it? He only averaged eleven points this year! He needed another season with us, and he would’ve been clutch. But we recruited another stud point guard from Nevada of all places, and he’s a shooter.

  Jen: Um, what Web site are you on?

  Brandon: Rivals.com. Why? What? What?? This is off limits?? How am I supposed to get my news?!

  Brandon gets his news from college sports sites and I get mine from Facebook, so I don’t know how two news junkies like us will manage. What if something monumental happens, like preseason football polls drop or American Idol names Simon’s replacement? How can we live in such ignorance? I suggested buying a newspaper, and Brandon said, “Do they still make those?”

  Anyway, the kids are doing surprisingly well. In four days I’ve not heard one word. The boys organized air-soft gun wars, so eight sweaty, stinky boys are running through my house wielding semiautomatic pellet guns dressed in sweatshirts though it was 97 degrees yesterday. My rule on this boy business: “Don’t cry if you get pinged, and if one stray pellet hits me, I will run over your guns with my car.” This is life with sons, people.

  Sydney and I tackled ambitious recipes from my Pioneer Woman cookbook. We’ve rolled out crusts, made homemade calzones, chopped and diced, sautéed and baked. Report: homemade mac and cheese—FAIL. (I hate you, separated cheddar cheese that ruined my creamy sauce. Why are you so temperamental about heat? Velveeta would never treat me like this.)

  We’ve played Pictureka with our (cheating) kids, and Brandon and the boys trash talked through HORSE on our “basketball court.” The gang built a massive fort in the playroom (imagine overturned couches and stacked chairs). I even mopped and dusted because I wasn’t spending time on Web surfing and the Food Network.

  Maybe this month won’t mean the end of the universe, after all.

  Day 5

  I take back everything I said about my kids behaving.

  From 3:00 to 4:00 today, my house was a war zone. Gavin and Caleb were “kickbox fighting” on the trampoline. I can’t imagine why this ended in tears and yelling, but it did, the little one accusing the big one of “fighting him too hard.” I made matters worse by laughing because Caleb’s Six Stages of Anger are so funny (get hurt > lay on the ground > cry eyes out > transition to “red rage” > come up swinging > shout something that includes the word revenge). The red rage—also known as Going Mad Dog—certainly hints of anger issues but is hilarious nonetheless.

  Sydney started a puppetry project, transforming a cardboard box into a stage with a pillowcase that sacrificed its life to become a curtain. It should’ve been sturdy held together with blue painting tape and wood glue (sarcasm intended), but it was rickety. This set her off and she became . . . difficult. All my suggestions were pure drivel. It was also my fault when she couldn’t see the line I drew on the pillowcase and cut the opening too big. “Mom! You just don’t get it!”

  Between the fighting, crying, whining, and blaming, I hit a metaphorical wall. I wanted to turn on a movie and silence their little mouths. A nice screen trance would settle the tumultuous waters. Inst
ead, I sent everyone to bedrooms until I gave the word.

  We have to deal with rather than anesthetizing tension with TV or video games. It’s easier to bypass relational snags with a convenient distraction, forfeiting the chance to improve problem solving and listening skills. I don’t want my kids to be more comfortable interacting with a computer screen than a human being. We stay the course until we’ve resolved an issue, not allowing “Phineas & Ferb” to fill the space instead. This is harder and requires more time, but my kids will marry people and have bosses and children. Learning healthy relational skills is now or never.

  Thirty minutes later we pressed the reset button. Perspectives were shared and apologies offered. All reengaged the puppetry project. The day was recovered: we collaborated on homemade pizza, and the puppet show was a smashing success. The kids reenacted “The Three Little Pigs” with some questionable alterations to the plot. Why did the boys’ puppets have machetes? We don’t ask these questions in the Hatmaker house. They just do. Thank you for understanding.

  Day 8

  Take something away, and your habits become clear. Parts of my day I don’t miss media because I’m working or running errands or meeting with people. But I can easily identify the sections when media is a habit, a faithful companion to that time slot or task:

  • Morning coffee + The Today Show

  • Prewriting procrastination = Facebook and adoption blogs

  • Folding laundry + LA Ink

  • Mental writing break = cooking blogs and www.failblog.org

  • Lunch at the table + Food Network

  • Post kid bedtime = DVR’d shows

  These are the wrench in the media fast machine. Folding laundry today, I called Trina on speakerphone because I couldn’t handle the silence. She commiserated, as our morning ritual includes a few segments of The Today Show. Unanchored this morning without Matt and Meredith’s company, she stood in the bathroom, watching her hubby Andrew shave.