7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess

by Jen Hatmaker

  Giving, however, floats down a separate river. We’re still sponsoring Arun and Aruna, orphans in India; we’re still sponsoring Givemore, a fifteen-year-old orphan in Zimbabwe, and we’re still tithing, without labeling these as reform worthy. We’re hedging with the spirit of the law instead of the letter here. This prompted the “giving clause” via the Council, which exempted charitable spending.

  Okay? So I happily funded two events this week: a grill-out for the homeless with our Restore Group, and a fund-raiser for our church ABBA Fund for adoption. This is Jesus-approved spending, people. The recipients are not just my belly, my feet, or my indulged life but the ones Jesus told us to care for. Like ten thousand times.

  If you don’t like us spending on the poor this month, take it up with Jesus Christ and His dad, God.

  Day 2

  Molly let herself into my house and left a tub of Central Market pimento cheese in my refrigerator. If I ever say another sarcastic word about her three DVRs or TV-watching spreadsheet organized by network and day with twenty-four weekly color-coded shows and room for additional mid-season premiers, may a pox fall upon my house.

  Day 3

  Molly offered to bring over a FREE CHICKEN BISCUIT from Chick-fil-A. (Our new CFA is giving away free breakfast every Wednesday morning this month.) If this is a campaign to become Top Friend, she is clearly winning. Clearly.

  Day 5

  I have two outlets for shopping at the farmer’s market: Saturday mornings on site and my weekly CSA box from Johnson’s Backyard Garden, a seventy-acre organic farm five miles east of Austin. Buying this produce makes me deliriously happy. It is so solidly out of the industrialized food system and so deliciously local I put the smudged, unpackaged produce to my nose and deeply breathe its delightfulness every week.

  CSA? Community-supported agriculture, a popular way for consumers to buy local, seasonal food directly from a farmer. Basically, a farmer offers “shares” for a monthly, weekly, or yearly fee. The share is a box of produce picked that week, and you get what you get. This sends me to the interwebbings to scrounge recipes for eggplant, bok choy, swiss chard, and other delectable veggies I never bought because I didn’t know what they were. My box includes a dozen eggs from their happy chickens and a pound of organic, free-trade coffee.

  Johnson’s Backyard Garden literally started as a backyard garden in urban Austin, supplying thirty families with weekly organic produce. Then it became a backyard, side-yard, and front-yard garden, thanks to word of mouth from thrilled customers. With growing community support, the Johnson’s bought twenty, then forty, then another ten acres just east of Austin, and they now run a thousand-member CSA operation. I actually know my farmers’ names. People, their kids are running behind the tractor on the Web site. I mean, come on.

  I cannot explain how happy I am to direct my consumer dollar to this food supply. Yes, it is more expensive than inferior grocery store produce. No, it isn’t conveniently available 24/7. Yes, my kids complain we don’t have any food. Yes, I get produce I might not buy otherwise, but I’m down with this food adventure! CSA members post recipes online, and we’ve discovered some treasures (I’m looking at you, kabocha squash and beef coconut curry).

  We have less food, but what we have is nutritious and local and marvelous and perfect. I sent the kids to school today with homemade soup in their thermoses, English cucumbers, the last of the Texas peaches, and the most scrumptious yellow peppers you have ever eaten in the history of the world. There is a big empty pantry shelf where the individual servings of Pringles and 100-calorie packs used to be, but let’s call that a good step, no matter what my kids have told you.

  As Michael Pollan explained, I’m voting three times a day with my fork for a wholesome food supply. I know my dollar is a spit in the wind, but enough of us start spitting, and the Suits that control our food supply will listen—not because they care about our health, but they certainly care about money. Big Food Business will follow the dollar, enticed by a burgeoning organic market that netted 26.6 billion dollars last year, up 5.3 percent from the previous year.2

  And when I get a teeny bit discouraged that my little rage against the machine is silly, I remember that I’m making healthier choices for my family and rediscovering the farm-to-table system God created, and that counts. When I look at our earth’s resources and all the humans it needs to sustain, I have to adopt an “as for me and my house” perspective on responsibility.

  Stewardship is like that. I won’t answer for the way another Christian mismanaged money. I won’t be charged with another person’s irresponsible consumption. Nor will I get credit for how another faith community shared or sacrificed luxuries for the marginalized.

  I’ll answer for my choices.

  It won’t work to say, “But the church . . .” or “But they . . .” or “What about them . . .” for how we managed our money, our share of the earth. The “my vote doesn’t really count so why bother?” attitude our generation loves won’t fly when it’s all said and done.

  Common sense has my back, too. Let’s think about it: spray-can cheese and avocado-free “guacamole dip” versus carrots and potatoes pulled out of the ground yesterday; do we need to ask WJWD? (Hey, Jesus! What about the mound of pork slime we developed called Spam? Who wouldn’t want a mouthful of meat-flavored Jello?)

  As for me and my house, we will try to stop buying Oreos.

  Day 8

  “Just because I can have it doesn’t mean I should.”

  I heard this recently and it stuck. The counterattack to this perspective involves a list of objections easily accessible to the standard American consumer:

  • It’s no big deal.

  • I can afford this.

  • I’ve worked hard for my money, so I can spend it how I want.

  • I want this, back off.

  • I deserve this.

  • Other people spend way more.*

  • I still have money in the bank.

  • What’s the big deal?

  (* Jen’s excuse of choice.)

  So we spend, spend; amass, amass; indulge, indulge item by item, growing increasingly deaf to Jesus who described a simple life marked by generosity and underconsumption. Over time a new compartment develops for our spending habits, safely distanced from the other drawers like “discipleship” and “stewardship” (which has been helpfully reduced to tithing).

  And listen, I am first in line. Don’t imagine my life has been characterized by financial simplicity. I wish I had back so many indulgent purchases; specific ones grieve me endlessly. The irresponsible and selfish and vain spending I’ve endorsed is so staggering, I hope never to know the actual number lest I sink under it. I am in this right now, neck deep. This isn’t a sage’s manifesto but a sinner’s repentance.

  I used to say, “But we tithe, and that money goes to stuff Jesus was all into.” Except many churches use it for marble floors and shiny buildings and cool videos and expensive mailers and pretty landscaping and fancy sound equipment and, in one recent case, an awesome multimillion-dollar jet.

  Journey with me on a quick sidebar for a moment: How have we let the church deteriorate like this? How is this okay? How can we endorse these expenditures? When did this become standard protocol for the Bride of Christ? We’ve engineered an elaborate two-step to justify this egregious spending on ourselves. We are far from Jesus’ original vision; the whole enterprise would be unrecognizable to our early church fathers. The earth is groaning, and we’re putting coffee bars in our thirty-five-million-dollar sanctuaries. Just because we can have it doesn’t mean we should. I marvel at how out of place simple, humble Jesus would be in today’s American churches.

  But for now, let’s discuss our share in this, since you don’t control your church’s checkbook (although you do get to choose a church stewarding tithe money for the greatest good, but there I go
again). Let’s address that original objection: “But I tithe.” This basic obedience exempts the rest of our spending, assuaging our consciences and checking the stewardship box. With that drawer comfortably shut, the others can be opened at our leisure.

  But you know Jesus, with the quick retort:

  When he finished that talk, a Pharisee asked him to dinner. He entered his house and sat right down at the table. The Pharisee was shocked and somewhat offended when he saw that Jesus didn’t wash up before the meal. But the Master said to him, “I know you Pharisees burnish the surface of your cups and plates so they sparkle in the sun, but I also know your insides are maggoty with greed and secret evil. Stupid Pharisees! Didn’t the One who made the outside also make the inside? Turn both your pockets and your hearts inside out and give generously to the poor; then your lives will be clean, not just your dishes and your hands.

  I’ve had it with you! You’re hopeless, you Pharisees! Frauds! You keep meticulous account books, tithing on every nickel and dime you get, but manage to find loopholes for getting around basic matters of justice and God’s love. Careful bookkeeping is commendable, but the basics are required.” (Luke 11:37–42, The Message)

  I like this Message version, with the kick-you-in-the-teeth quality Jesus always nailed. “I know your insides are maggoty with greed” is the very un-PC way Jesus basically put it. And He hammered that “but I tithe” excuse, too. As He pointed out to the Pharisees, they never, ever missed a penny of tithing but shamelessly neglected justice and totally missed the point. The outside was shiny while their insides were a hot mess, but lucky for them, Jesus had the remedy: “Give what is inside the dish to the poor, and everything will be clean for you.”

  Crickets.

  I’m starting to wonder if Jesus actually meant that. Was He serious about sanctification through extreme generosity? Is He really advocating redistribution? I don’t know if He knows this, but this would mean completely retooling the way we live and spend.

  News flash, Jesus: Almost zero people I know live like this. I feel safer with the prosperity groupthink than with Jesus’ ridiculous plan. The justification of the Christian community is happy to oblige me. (A recent statement following an expose of a massive luxury purchase with church funds: “We operate in a manner that is worthy of the calling of Christ and have no apologies.” Oh, Jesus endorses this? Carry on then.)

  What if we’re buying a bag of tricks? What if wealth and indulgence are creating a polished people rotting from the inside out, without even knowing it? Is there a reason Jesus called the rich blind, deaf, unseeing, unhearing, and foolish? Jesus never utters a positive word about the wealthy, only tons of parables with us as the punch line and this observation: It is terribly hard for us to receive His kingdom, harder than shoving a camel through the eye of a needle. That’s really hard. If this is true, then more than fearing poverty or simplicity, we should fear prosperity.

  Shall we stop imagining these sad, sorry rich people belong to a different demographic? A brave believer admits, “He’s talking about me.” Look at our houses, cars, closets, our luxuries; if we are not rich, then no one is. If we aren’t swept up in entitlement, indulgence, and extravagance, then Jesus is a fool, and let’s get back to living. If tithing the minimum and consuming the rest is okay, then we can dismiss Jesus’ ideas and act obsessed about other stuff He said.

  But what if?

  What if we are actually called to a radical life? What if Jesus knew our Christian culture would design a lovely life template complete with all the privileges and exemptions we want, but even with that widespread approval, He still expected radical simplicity, radical generosity, radical obedience from those with ears to hear, eyes to see?

  What if we are camels, on this side of the needle, dangerously content with our fake gospel and avoiding the actual Christian life described in Scripture? What if the number of Christ followers is a fraction of those who claim to be? What if only some have ears to hear and eyes to see, and Jesus was not exaggerating when He predicted few would choose this narrow path and folks will be shocked on judgment day?

  I’m exhausted thinking about this. Jesus’ brother James had some similar ideas, but I’m too freaked out to unpack them. Literal obedience would require such a radical overhaul, my head is pounding. The ramifications are overwhelming. Today is a good day to steer clear from David Platt or Mother Teresa or Francis Chan or Martin Luther King Jr. And anything Jesus ever said. And the prophets. And the disciples. Or God.

  Day 10

  Austin New Church is less encapsulated on Sundays and mostly represented through tribes we call Restore Groups. Ninety-five percent of attenders are in Restore Groups, because otherwise, they’d be like, “What does this church even do?” since we are super-light on programs (pretty much none) or Sunday pizzazz (pretty much none). We have some churchwide stuff like Serve Austin Sunday and, um, Sunday church, but nearly all projects and Bible studies happen through Restore Groups.

  Our own group morphed from one troop into four, thanks to a solid neighborhood domination strategy, executed through the novel concept of “being a good neighbor” (Thanks for the idea, Jesus!). So three groups band together once a month, take our grills downtown, and feed the homeless under the bridge at I-35 and Seventh Street.

  There are hilarious nuggets to share about these evenings, including the absolute normalcy this is to all our kids. Like today, Molly’s four- and six-year-old skipped around, jumping over a sleeping man on a cardboard box over and over, oblivious to social boundaries or fear. They are surrounded by dirty men who swear and sing, under a bridge ripe with urine, and you’d think they were frolicking at Sea World. The kids are so eager to help (handing out napkins, granola bars, bananas, water), we have to physically hold them back so they don’t gang rush our homeless friends. We broke up three fights because the kids were elbowing for position.

  This is precious, of course. Proximity to the marginalized is transforming our children. Unaffected by social conventions, they neatly sidestep the thousand reasons we adults bypass this involvement. They pass out full hugs, conversations, and endless handshakes with such un-self-consciousness, they’ll lick their hands the next second and wonder why the moms are batting their fingers out of their mouths.

  A homeless man clarified this once: “You know? We’ve lost so many things: dignity, security, our marriages, our jobs. But one thing we all miss is kids.” A tighter safety net exists around homeless children; society won’t stand for their vagrancy so they are whisked into foster care leaving parents on the streets. “But you guys always bring your kids down here, and it makes us happy. It’s a bright spot in our dark lives.”

  Children bring joy to the homeless for the same reasons they bring joy to us. There is something so dear about a little voice singing or the cutest little bow in the cutest little ponytail or watching kids play football in utter innocence, breaking into dances and making everyone laugh. Plus, our kids aren’t repelled by their poverty, which is a welcome change from the disgust and apathy the homeless endure daily.

  I told my kids, “You being here is a wonderful gift. The greatest offering is your presence—your sweet, funny, adorable presence.” Yes, we’ve had to explain why that man is talking to himself or why that woman is crying out or why that guy is dressed like a girl. Our kids are getting a street education, but they are also developing a heart for the outcast and even getting bossy about it. For instance, here’s a recent comment from Sydney: “Mom? These hot dogs are cheap calories! We say we care, but we are serving unhealthy food! We need to bring homemade food next time.” Someone has been brainwashed.

  So when the men headed to Salvation Army to get in line for a bed, our band of families planned dinner together, like we always do. As everyone piled into cars and hollered out directions, I pulled the kids aside and reminded them we weren’t spending money on restaurants. My girlfriends—conditioned as I am ne
ver to allow our kids to miss out—all offered to pay, but this was a teaching moment, important to 7.

  If a fast doesn’t include any sacrifices, then it’s not a fast. The discomfort is where the magic happens. Life zips along, unchecked and automatic. We default to our lifestyle, enjoying our privileges tra la la, but a fast interrupts that rote trajectory. Jesus gets a fresh platform in the empty space where indulgence resided. It’s like jeans you wear every day without thinking, but take them off and walk outside, and you’ll become terribly aware of their absence. I bet you won’t be able to forget you are pantsless, so conspicuous will this omission feel. While that metaphor is in shaky theological territory, that is basically the result of a fast. It makes us hyper-aware, super-sensitive to the Spirit.

  So while our friends went to dinner, the kids and I drove home, talking about 7 and struggling through the concept of self-denial. My kids’ generation has never been told “no.” This is a hard sell. Not quite old enough to grasp obedience to Jesus in a self-serving culture, we listed the tangible results of 7 so far, including:

  •We are eating 100 percent healthier.

  •We gave a ton of stuff to people who had nothing.

  •We maintained several reforms from media month.

  •Our carbon footprint is cut in half.

  •We learned to garden, and we love it.

  •We’ve pared down our rooms, our drawers, our closets, our stuff.

  •We’re thinking about, praying for, sharing with, and spending time with marginalized people.