#killyourdreams

I met Tim Challies the other night.

I sort of knew who he was–that blogger guy with the pencil-sketched face header. He was around way back when people first thought they had something to say on the internet. If you look at the bottom of his blog today, it boasts a 5,000-plus daily blog posting streak. He hasn’t skipped a day in over thirteen years or so.

Challies was in town to give his talk on families, technology, and the dangers of porn. I didn’t go to the event to watch him speak. Honestly, I just wanted to know how he felt about writing these days. I wanted to know what he thought about major publishers, marketing, reviewing and endorsing books and the like. So after the crowd dwindled, I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants and reached out to shake his hand. He’s a published author with Zondervan. I guess that’s why I felt nervous. It wasn’t like I expected to pitch my book to him–I mostly wanted to hear if he thought this dream life of writing and publishing lived up to the picture I’d painted in my mind.

And you know what he said? After you write the first book, the publisher doesn’t really care about what you want to write. They want you to write what they want you to write.

Much of this blog writing business has me feeling like Will Smith in the movie I Am Legend. I’m just running out to the harbor to turn my radio to all its frequencies and see if anyone else is out there. Does anyone else see, feel, hear, struggle with the things I do? And if I hear only crickets and crackles, I shove my radio back in my coat and rush back to the fortress of my mind where it’s safe and locked down.

I always text a good friend and inform her the post is up and I’ve stuck my head back in the sand where it belongs. Ashamed? No. Terrified? Yes. Hopeful? Absolutely.

I hate it. I love it. Everything about it scares me and makes me feel more exposed than I’ve ever felt. Sometimes I’ll re-read what I’ve written and feel like a huge jerk. I’m a broken vessel, and everybody knows it. I’m writing a manuscript–I guess you could call it that–on Silence in the age of Loud, and so everything I post online feels like a bit of a betrayal. Who in their right mind has the right to write on keeping their mouth shut? Probably not me. But still I was thinking I’d build a platform, and that’d make it all ok.

The other night, Challies spoke about the dangers of pornography, the accessibility of it, the necessity for parents to open their eyes and make a plan to combat it. All I could think about was that pornography has no grip on me. It holds no interest.

However, if I replaced the word pornography with the word attention, and specifically, social media, I’d have to admit it: I’m addicted. No eye has their fill of seeing, and no ear their fill of hearing. (Eccl. 1:8) 

Guilty as charged. I keep coming back. I want to score that book deal.

Challies said people go to the internet to compare themselves to other people. If a person stacks up better than their opponent, they leave feeling proud. If they don’t measure up, they leave feeling envious. Both are a recipe for bitterness. Neither one is something to brag about.

For most addicts, they get to the point of life or death before they decide to cut themselves free. I’d say it is a good test to separate oneself from the temptation before it becomes a full-on habit to spend hours and hours online. Is it any different than porn, this compulsion to keep satisfying the eye which is never satisfied? When did this little tool for keeping in touch become such a hot magnet in my hands? Where did I get this notion that if I don’t promote myself, no one will?

I quit Instagram a few weeks ago. I hadn’t been a regular, but it was enough to make me feel jealous, forever reading the quotes and pictures of people (good people!) and wishing that one literary agent would take an interest in me. It is a false notion that any online “community” will offer me what I need when what I want deep down is to be satisfied with what I’ve already got. I’ve freed up an hour a day just by deleting the app off my phone. 

It’s funny, because we are all the same. Me, you. Just little bitty people who think we could possibly find satisfaction in something under the sun, forever fooling ourselves into thinking we aren’t addicts of one thing or another.

I’ve been teaching little kids for years now, and I keep coming back to the sermon on the mount where Jesus said we are to be salt and light. We are to live lives that make others thirsty to know Jesus, and we are to be little beacons that point in His direction. But other people will never see the need for the salt shaker or the flashlight if we are all addicted to bumping around in the dark, content with our made-up lives.
I’ve found that the one thing that makes me walk away from social media is the fact that it never fully satisfies. I leave, still thirsty. Only Jesus can quench it.
And this is what I’ve come to realize about the book-writing dream, the one I sort of bashedly half-confessed to Tim Challies: it has to die. Not that the writing isn’t important, but because the finding myself within the publishing process will never be realized. Just like Instagram–it must become dead to me. We’ve got to cut ourselves free of the things that trip us up from running the race, the one where Jesus is ultimately glorified, and not ourselves.
Hashtag, killyourdreams, folks.
Please keep reminding me, too.

Lies of Rachel Hollis and the modern American church, PART THREE

Last week on my birthday, my mom told me she read the Bible all the way through for the very first time the year I was born, in 1984.

“I decided I probably wouldn’t ever find the time to do it–I’d never be less busy than I was right then with a newborn, one year old, and two year old, so I just did it. I read all the way through the Bible that year. And except for a few odd years, I’ve read it through every year since.”

My mom has read through the entire Bible more than thirty times, and what’s more is this: it felt like she was letting me in on a secret when she told me. The room we were sitting in hushed with reverence, or maybe it was awe. She was almost too humble to even say it out loud. Thirty times or so, she said. She’d lost count.

I know she was washing diapers and rocking babies and dealing with a very, very sick husband that first year. I know before that she dropped out of college and gave up her dream of getting a fashion degree. I know her life didn’t turn out the way she had pictured it as a fresh faced young girl, the first in her family to ever go to college.

I know she doesn’t look back and regret for one minute letting old dreams pass her by. She is pure joy, delighted to spend my thirty-sixth birthday with me doing nothing more than crossword puzzles and eating leftovers.

She’s taught me that success means absolutely nothing because this old world has absolutely nothing to offer. No paycheck, no beautiful home, no perfect marriage, no health or cancer, no education or dream job, no promise of tomorrow tempts her to take her eyes off Him. Devouring God’s word, eating it is sweeter-than-honey, every day of the calendar, every spare minute in hot pursuit–this is what we’re made for. Her devotion has set my own feet on the treasure path. Her dreams died and birthed a generation of Jesus lovers. What she forfeited down on this soil will bubble and spill into eternity. 

It makes worldly wisdom taste foul and stale.  

Now listen to the words of Rachel Hollis:

I am successful because I refused to take no for an answer. I am successful because I have never once believed my dreams were someone else’s to manage. That’s the incredible part about your dreams: nobody gets to tell you how big they can be.

Let’s talk about the goals you have for your life and how you can help yourself achieve them. In order to do that, you have to name your goals. You have to shout out your hopes and dreams like the Great Bambino calling his shot. You need the courage to stand up and say, “This one, right here: this is mine!”

You have to decide to pursue your wildest dreams. No matter what they are, no matter how simple or extravagant…They’re your dreams, and you are allowed to chase them–not because you are more special or talented or well-connected, but because you are worthy of wanting something more.
Girl, Wash Your Face

I have just a couple more lies to address regarding Hollis and the modern American church (to catch up on this series, read part one and part two), but I want to emphasize how sad it makes me to read her words and simultaneously seeing a generation raise her flag as something true and trustworthy. It is a recipe for disaster, broken homes, abandoned children. I know this because my own mother was not a Rachel Hollis, and all five of her adult children are in hot pursuit of Jesus.

Phil Vischer, the creator of VeggieTales, wrote a fantastic memoir fourteen years ago. I may have quoted this here before, but it’s worth repeating:

I am very serious when I say this, beware of your dreams, for dreams make dangerous friends. We all have them–longings for a better life, a healthy child, a happy marriage, rewarding work. But dreams are, I have come to believe, misplaced longings. False lovers. Why? Because God is enough. Just God. And he isn’t “enough” because he can make our dreams come true–no, you’ve got him confused with Santa or Merlin or Oprah. The God who created the universe is enough for us–even without our dreams. Without the better life, the healthy child, the happy marriage, the rewarding work.

“God was enough for the martyrs facing lions and fire–even when the lions and the fire won. And God is enough for you. But you can’t discover the truth of that statement while you’re clutching at your dreams. You need to let them go. Let yourself fall. Give up. As terrifying as it sounds, you’ll discover that falling feels a lot like floating. And falling into God’s arms–relying solely on his power and his will for your life–that’s where the fun starts.”
Me, Myself, & Bob, 2006

Lies of Rachel Hollis and the modern American church:

LIE #6. “They’re your dreams, and you are allowed to chase them.

One thing that I really admire about Rachel Hollis is her down to earth way of encouraging young mothers. She writes of those early days of parenthood, around week six or seven of a baby’s life, where sleep deprivation is beginning to take its toll, self-pity is at an all time high and patience at an all time low. And she utters these wise, wise words: Make a list of two things: Are you taking care of your baby? Are you taking care of yourself? If you can answer yes to both, you are slaying it. Let everything else go and do what you have to do.

I love this advice. It is super timely and relevant, perfectly true and simple. Let things go and focus on the main thing. But it ought not end with mamas and caring for infants. This wisdom can also be applied to dreams and every lifelong pursuit. Are you taking care of what needs to be taken care of?

Unfortunately, we don’t think dreams and children coexist, or that they might be the same thing, or even worth the same approach. Both in our girlfriend Hollis language and also in the modern American church, we view dreams as something to pursue, but people as something to put up with. For a time we might patiently use the two-box checklist, taking care of ourselves and our people–at least till our circumstances change–but rarely in our American culture do we find this satisfactory. Ask any woman who has taken off six weeks of work to birth and attend to her brand new baby, and they will tell you of friends and family who have asked when they plan to head back to work. We grasp for any hint that a mother has not given up on a truer calling, a career, a dream. And after all, with friends like Hollis, don’t you think you deserve the chance to find yourself outside of the box of motherhood? Aren’t we all made for more than dirty diapers, spit up, and nonexistent REM cycles? Good heavens, don’t let your children slow you down!

In the modern church there is also a ladder of power as in the corporate world. We want good leaders, we pay good leaders. Who would want to tend infants in the nursery forever?

I remember a church where a pastor was hired. On his first day on the job, his very first Sunday morning, before his head even graced the pulpit, it was announced to each Sunday school class that there would be no more Sunday school after that day. Sunday school was henceforth cancelled. Oh, how the people were upset! Years of Sunday school, relationships, teachers who loved little children and planning the lessons–all bulldozed at a moment’s notice to make way for the plans of the new pastor. It was devastating.

Many churches are split over the dreams of one person. Much love is abandoned in pursuit of what the world tells us is important, and who is important. Dreams will damn you, even if they are yours and you’re allowed to chase them.

We ought to keep a short checklist and let the rest go.

LIE #7. “Nobody gets to tell you how big your dreams can be.

Rachel Hollis once made the point that she has a wonderful team of people who help her run her life so she can coach businesses, help women find their true calling, and spend quality time with her husband. Not the least of these is a very faithful nanny whom she thanks profusely in the notes at the end of the book. I wonder if her nanny has any big dreams, say, other than to be a nanny?
The problem is, our dreams always step on the toes of someone else.

When my puppy was a few months old, I took her to visit a dog trainer. It was a one hour consultation, and I followed my GPS to a large building a mile away from my house. At the corner of this monstrous gray building was a small door with a worn sign above it, Dog Training. Toward the other end of the building, about thirty yards down, I saw a big yellow banner. I parked my car, put my dog on leash, and walked over to get a closer look. Jesus and Tacos, it said. Sundays, 11am.

As the dog consultation appointment was winding down, the trainer advised me to meet him again for a follow-up session. “But we’ll have to meet somewhere else,” he said, and I sensed sadness in his voice.
“I’ve rented the corner of this building thirty years and a church just bought us out. At first they said we could keep leasing this place, but they changed their mind all of a sudden. The pastor is kind of famous, I guess–a podcaster and that kind of thing. They say they need more room.” He shrugged.
“I’ve been here working on Sunday mornings and there’s never more than ten cars in the parking lot. I don’t know what more room they need.”

Yes, you can dream up your best case church scenario, your seeker-friendly, open taco bar, chase-down-any-goal life, but don’t forget about your nanny. Don’t forget about the dog trainer in the corner of your big building who could stand to be shown a little mercy. Don’t forget that the purpose of your church is to make Jesus known, especially to the people you bump elbows with. Don’t forget that your dreams usually have a large footprint. It will cost someone else’s dream for you to pursue yours. It always will.

There is an incident recorded in the Bible of a couple of friends of Jesus (two of his disciples and possibly his cousins, even) who approached him and said this:

“Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask.”

(By the way, when my kids preface any conversation with this, I’m immediately suspicious and inclined to tell them to get lost.)

They wanted special treatment, they told him. One to sit on His right and one on His left in glory. You see, they thought they had a pretty good idea of the sweet life Jesus had in store, and they wanted dibs. They wanted to ride on the coattails of some big dreams.

This caused a ruckus among the other disciples. Mark says Jesus called them all together and said, those people who are non-religious love to flaunt their authority and supremacy over others, and they force their power on them. But it should not be like this with you.

“For whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be slave to all.
For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give His life as a ransom for many.”

Mark 10:42-45

I think the great people among us tend to look a lot more ordinary than Rachel Hollis or people with theology degrees, offices, and reserved parking spaces.

They slip into the mundane and scorn money and fame in pursuit of Jesus. They kill their la-la dreams and hush every lie that they are missing out on something big, because they know better.

They live lives that might look like slavery to our “enlightened” culture of self-actualizers–say, a mom or dad doing the daily grind of raising and feeding kids and changing dirty diapers. They see people as people, not as stepping stones, children as their greatest asset, God’s word as the only truth worth listening to. They don’t care so much what they look like because they care more about Who they represent. They lose count of how often they’ve read their Bible, because they’re wrapped up in the greatest love story of all time.

They have discovered the secret of becoming great–and it has nothing to do with their dreams.

 Oh, friend, I hope you can see right through these lies, these half-truths, these sneaky ways of getting us off the path of following Jesus. 

Dreams make dangerous friends. -Phil Vischer

Lies of Rachel Hollis and the modern American church, PART TWO

Thanks for returning to the blog this week as we examine the lies of Rachel Hollis and the modern American Church. I hope I’m being somewhat cohesive in these thoughts–maybe if I split this up into a few posts it won’t land with such a thud! 

Go here to read the first post.

Clearly I’m late to this discussion, as many Christian writers pulled out their pens to slay Rachel Hollis as soon as her first bestseller book dropped a year or two ago.

I don’t mean to rip apart the poor woman, only to expose the lies her lifestyle writing and business model have in common with the modern day church. In fact, Rachel Hollis has written several great things that are spot on and I regularly preach to myself: forgive, show grace, don’t talk about people behind their backs, be kind, love your neighbor. These are also the most common themes and lessons we hear inside our modern American churches, things most well-behaved humans would agree on.

However, we have a big problem. The success Ms. Hollis has achieved made her opinion and lifestyle all the more persuasive, and success itself tends to tarnish even our purest intentions. The more influence we carry, the more we think it has something to do with us–we aren’t naturally compelled to point to Jesus. We are also not naturally inclined to repent and feel broken over our sin. It is very unpopular and uncomfortable to point out where we’ve missed the mark or even to speak honestly with one another. This mindset is remarkably similar to our church culture today, and it is something that ought to put us on guard. 

As I approach writing about the sneaky ways we are tricked into stamping our approval on ourselves, I must look at lies from a different angle. I am reminded of one of my favorite books by C.S. Lewis. In The Screwtape Letters, Lewis depicts the fictional relationship between a demon and his nephew as they try to influence their charges. It is a series of letters that humorously exposes the faulty reasoning of humans in their struggle with temptation and sin. Usually we think we know what we are battling, fleshly speaking, but Lewis cleverly uncovers the more hidden, undetectable sins. For instance, there is a letter that describes a woman who is insufferable and picky with regards to eating. Whereas we think of gluttony, the over-indulgence of food, as something particularly sinful (at least it rings true in proud Colorado where only 20% of the population is obese as opposed to 40% in the rest of the nation), Lewis, writing as the demon Uncle Screwtape, points out this woman’s incessent drive to get exactly what she wants also as a type of gluttony.

She would be astonished – one day, I hope, will be – to learn that her whole life is enslaved to this kind of sensuality, which is quite concealed from her by the fact that the quantities involved are small. But what do quantities matter, provided we can use a human belly and palate to produce querulousness, impatience, uncharitableness, and self-concern? Glubose has this old woman well in hand. She is a positive terror to hostesses and servants. She is always turning from what has been offered her to say with a demure little sign and a smile “Oh please, please . . .all I want is a cup of tea, weak but not too weak, and the teeniest weeniest bit of really crisp toast”. You see? Because what she wants is smaller and less costly than what has been set before her, she never recognises as gluttony her determination to get what she wants, however troublesome it may be to others. At the very moment of indulging her appetite she believes that she is practising temperance. In a crowded restaurant she gives a little scream at the plate which some overworked waitress has set before her and says, “Oh, that’s far, far too much! Take it away and bring me about a quarter of it”. If challenged, she would say she was doing this to avoid waste; in reality she does it because the particular shade of delicacy to which we have enslaved her is offended by the sight of more food than she happens to want.

The real value of the quiet, unobtrusive work which Glubose has been doing for years on this old woman can be gauged by the way in which her belly now dominates her whole life. The woman is in what may be called the “All-I-want” state of mind. All she wants is a cup of tea properly made, or an egg properly boiled, or a slice of bread properly toasted. But she never finds any servant or any friend who can do these simple things “properly” – because her “properly” conceals an insatiable demand for the exact, and almost impossible, palatal pleasures which she imagines she remembers from the past; a past described by her as “the days when you could get good servants” but known to us as the days when her senses were more easily pleased and she had pleasures of other kinds which made her less dependent on those of the table. Meanwhile, the daily disappointment produces daily ill temper: cooks give notice and friendships are cooled. 

(The Screwtape Letters)


I suppose I write this to make the point that this book, published in 1942, is no less relevant, if not more so relevant, today. The sins and misunderstandings of temptation that trap the modern American Christian are the same, and we are still as apt to get hanged up on the more obvious ones while ignoring how insufferable we are becoming even as we think our increasing “all is grace” mentality makes us look more like Jesus. 

In our age of equality, feminism, prosperity, saving-the-earth responsibility–we actually think ourselves quite righteous and thoughtful. We crow loudly about our generosity, the bridges we are building, and the souls we are saving, but we buy bigger homes and nicer cars and stay inside to take pictures and pretend we live real lives on the internet.

We all are mostly in the habit of overindulging so that when there is no dessert after dinner or if we are confronted by an air conditioner-less abode on a hot summer day, we think we are practically being abused. We feel so mistreated we will pull our phones from our pockets to let the whole world know how hard life is.
I think old C.S. Lewis might have a satirical piece or two to say about our devotion to Facebook, our incessant, obligatory offerings of photos on the altar of Instagram, our haughty insistence that we aren’t complaining but rather “just being honest”.

I got sidetracked, I guess–further proof of how easy it is to keep the spotlight on ourselves, never reaching the real point! May we humbly recognize the areas in our life where we are fooled by the words of fools, or where sin has a stronghold that isn’t as obvious as we thought. May we find where we stepped off the treasure path, and may we eagerly hop back on it, resolute in our desire to follow Jesus and only Jesus.

Lies of Rachel Hollis and the modern American church:

LIE #4. All that counts is hustle.

Here we have another half truth from the lips of one hardworking, determined woman. Rachel Hollis is not the first or last lady to break her back in pursuit of a better life. Work is good. Hustle is good. Breaking a sweat, committing to a goal, and seeing it through is excellent. It develops commitment, perseverance, endurance.

Rachel Hollis, a self-proclaimed workaholic, wrote of a time in her life where Bell’s palsy and vertigo were brought on by self-inflicted stress. Having a checklist a mile long and not being a person who could relax, she found herself seeking therapy and ways to force relaxation. Fast-forward to her next book, Girl, Stop Apologizing, and she details, step by step, how she meets her goals with pure hustle.

You see, the malady isn’t one that is easily healed.

This is not unlike the church today that never rests in its pursuit of checking all the boxes. In the modern American church there is often a voice of a leader, whose ideas on ministry, outreach, teaching, fellowship, music are more heavily favored. Their words are weighted, and the church usually ends up doing what is high on the pastor’s list: the Purpose Driven Life, the Daniel Diet, some Enneagram team building concept, or maybe there needs to be a membership class or a music retreat for the worship leaders. These are all fine and good, but they have completely departed from God’s word and life lived by the Spirit, which is to be primary and unadulterated in our lives as Christians. Our emphasis on the extracurriculars de-emphasizes our need to be saturated by the Word. It diminishes our reliance on the Spirit.

Actually, no real knowledge comes apart from God’s word (Romans 10:17), and no real spirit work can be done apart from the Spirit. It’s all works of the flesh, trying to earn or buy something we cannot–popularity, satisfaction, belonging, fulfillment. Being busy only distracts from the emptiness, and more must continually be done to avoid landing in the void.
But Jesus, our example, was led even from his baptism by the Spirit into his ministry, beginning with a time of tempting in the wilderness. He followed one step at a time, his eyes on the cross set before him. (In that way, Rachel Hollis and Jesus have something in common, I suppose–a goal!) However, no self talk, positive thinking, drinking water, exercise, therapy, psychology, or focused writing was necessary for Jesus to stay the path. He simply trusted His Father could do all the heavy lifting.  And the same is true for us who trust Him. 

Jesus told his disciples, “The words I say to you are not just my own. Rather, it is the Father, living in me, who is doing his work…I tell you the truth, anyone who has faith in me will do what I have been doing. He will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father.” John 14:12 

This is absolutely mind-blowing. Hustling might work up a pile of dust, but letting God do his work through you is earth-shaking. Our work is meaningless in light of eternity. His work is eternal. It is actually much easier, simpler, and more profitable to live by the Spirit, to rest in His promises and find fulfillment than to follow a list of healthy, well-meaning suggestions.

LIE #5. I am the hero of my story.

Rachel Hollis has built a dream career around her. Because of her upbringing, because of her brother’s suicide, because she never went to college but still built a million dollar company from the ground up–every arrow pointed her to what she was made for here on this earth. At least, this is the story we are fed. It sounds almost redemptive, all the difficult things that eventually, with faith, worked out for her good. But placing oneself in the center of the redemption story is dangerous.

This is also fleshed out in our modern churches, the idea that we have the opportunity to be our own heroes. It is becoming worse as we invite psychology to teach us and remind us of every little thing in our rocky past that has damaged us. We are trained to say we are overcomers by our own grit and determination rather than by finding forgiveness or offering forgiveness to others. I heard a Christian counselor recently say, “every person needs a spiritual advisor and a therapist.” In other words, we each need support staff. I hope you are able to read my sarcasm. Tell me–what of hope is there for the first-world believer if there is no hope in our simple Gospel message? Why must we add extras to the package to entice new church-goers? What of Jesus–forgiveness, love, a life laid down–is not attractive enough to get their attention?

These are questions the modern American church is taking seriously, but I think God in Heaven boils with anger when He hears them. He sent His Son to take the punishment for the world’s sin and we are attempting to replace Jesus with an enlightened version of ourselves. Jesus invited people to drink Him as living water. Living water is enough to quench a man’s thirst, yet we add our flavor pouches to make such the weakest person can choke it down. We tell God He needs us.

God does not need Rachel Hollis. He doesn’t need the church. God doesn’t need you or me. He doesn’t need us, and we’d better stop pretending we’ve got something better up our sleeves than Jesus.

His voice boomed from Heaven as Jesus was up on the mountain with Peter, James, and John. “This is my Son, whom I love, with Him I am well pleased. Listen to Him!” 

There’s no room for any other heroes in this story.

Repentance is the place we can begin. In the Old Testament, the story of God’s people, the Israelites again and again went after false gods. They pursued idols and prosperity and self-worship even while claiming they were still God’s people. God hated it. (Crack open your Bible anywhere in between Psalms and Matthew.) God sent prophets to warn the people and to sing His love song over them to lure them back. All He asks is that we open our eyes and run back into His arms.

He still loves you, even if you’ve strayed. Turn back to Him.

————————————————————–

Thanks for making it to the end of the second post of Lies of Rachel Hollis and the modern American church. Come again tomorrow for the last installation. And thanks for your texts, emails, and comments. I am confident we are pressing on to know Him, and this is my greatest joy.
Love,

Pearl

Lies of Rachel Hollis and the modern American church, PART ONE

I’m going to post a short series here that I feel might be incendiary. Ha! It’s not my jam to start fires, but this old world is beginning to smoke, and Hell will be a heck of a lot hotter. I’m taking Jesus at his word and trying to lose my life in hopes that I might find it.

Really, though, it has become clear to me over the last couple years, as I’ve been studying the prophets of the Old Testament, that our job as Jesus followers is to sing loud the song of repentance which leads to life. This particular song is growing faint, increasingly drowned out by louder voices.

We are not unlike the Israelites who strayed from God. We are not unlike people who need to be washed and redeemed.

I have finally read Rachel Hollis, dusted the dirt off my to-be-read list. I have not read any articles Christians have written about her, but I did read her books for myself to see what the great huzzah was about. I don’t want to chew people up and spit them out. I don’t think our right to speak should ever condemn people to the grave. I want to give everyone their turn to speak. Rachel Hollis doesn’t have any groundbreaking message–simply put, she’s a girlfriend-type encourager who preaches that only you have the power to change your life. It sounds pretty good, actually. It’s sort of tame and sort of true. But it’s a couple degrees off the straight and narrow path, which also happens to be the direction the American church is going.

 
Jesus once said something very seriously to his disciples:

“Things that cause people to sin are bound to come, but woe to that person through whom they come. It would be better for him to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around his neck than for him to cause one of these little ones to sin. So watch yourselves.” (Luke 17:1-3)

I hate it. I hate this confirmation from Jesus that there are tricky little sneaks who lead people astray. Now, we know what’s in store for them, but we also know what’s in store for us if we follow them. We’ll also end up at the bottom of the sea. This is something that has to be addressed–we have to address these faulty messages. 

Watch yourselves, Jesus said.

Hosea was a prophet God used to send Israel a message. He said,

“The days of punishment are coming, the days of reckoning are at hand.
Let Israel know this.
Because your sins are so many and your hostility so great, the prophet is considered a fool, the inspired man a maniac.”

Hosea 9:7

The person who speaks the truth–a maniac. Well, that doesn’t sound popular. And I guess I’m not aiming to be, either, but someone has to keep speaking up. 

So maybe I’m not starting a fire after all. Maybe I’m just trying to rescue a few people from it.
Snatch others from the fire and save them.

Jude 1:23

Lies from Rachel Hollis and the Modern American Church:

LIE #1. Jesus can be something other than center in a Christian’s life. 

Rachel Hollis has built an empire on the idea that as good people who deserve more, we ought to be crushing it. Want a better life? Follow her ten easy steps. Have a goal? Rach has patented a “life changing” formula for meeting them.

As encouragement along the way, Hollis, bereft of even the slightest hint of tongue in cheek, urges readers to not compare “your beginning to my middle.” This is absurd if we look at her statement–clearly she must think she is God to state she is all-knowing, successful, and plainly in the dead center of her ambitions. I’m sure she will let us know when world domination is near. The rest of us can only hope our “beginning” someday amounts to more.

Sadly, this is a parallel image of where the American church is headed. The act of being satisfied within one’s own pursuit indicates we have left Jesus entirely out of the picture.

In my experience of moving, observing churches, and talking with people, Jesus is no longer center in most of our worship. We segregate the congregation and defend our actions by saying we’re “meeting people where they are”–when Jesus was very clear about the mission for his followers, and not once did He mention making the Gospel more palatable for the picky eaters. Jesus said, quite frankly, that your old ways, your old self, must die first, and then a new creation will sprout. Doesn’t have the most affirming ring to it, does it?

 In Paul’s letter to the Ephesian church he says, “Among you there must not be even a hint of sexual immorality, or of any kind of impurity, or of greed, because these are improper for God’s holy people. Nor should there be obscenity, foolish talk or coarse joking, which are out of place, but rather thanksgiving.” Ephesians 5:3-4

Our churches would be more effective, sincere, and smaller if we kicked this sort of junk out of our doors, but instead we welcome it in and greedily add up the numbers as church attendance. We love a good hipster preacher, a Rachel Hollis, that pumps up the energetic music and makes us feel like we’ve experienced something awesome.
We don’t want Jesus.

LIE #2. Prosperity doesn’t blind us. 

We as Americans live in the land the rest of the world views as Possible. Because we were initially founded on this idea that individuals are made in God’s image and therefore ought to pursue worship as we see fit, we were birthed a nation clearly blessed by our Creator. The freedoms we enjoy are directly correlated to men and women sacrificing their lives for a greater good. But most of us have forgotten we stand on blood-soaked soil. It’s incredible we don’t see the blood on our shoes, but this is the sneaky side of wealth and prosperity. We think we’ve done it all ourselves–we have Rachel Hollis’ed ourselves into a dreamworld where all our deepest desires are realized if we just make an “idea soup” and knock out one goal at a time. We pursue self-actualization as if it is the meaning of life. We’ve become absolutely blinded to our one true need for a savior. 

We are a sorry lot. Rachel Hollis plasters her face all over social media, the giddy, radiant smile her perfect proof of success. She eagerly marks her followers on Instagram with big golden balloons and office parties–the natural man or woman thinks if a crowd is following them, then they must be doing something right.

Taking it one step further, many Christians balk at the idea of their church representing prosperity-centered Gospel. But I’ll venture to say if your tithe money in any way affords your church a Sunday morning coffee bar, leather couches, big screens, snacks, childcare, a paid praise team–if in anyway you are receiving the greater benefit of your offering–you are blinded by this very prosperity Gospel. Your need for attention trumps your need for Jesus.
It is curious that we can do things in Christ’s name while pushing Him off the stage.  (Francis Shaeffer, No Little People, pg. 146, c.1974)

LIE #3. You can be near to God simply by giving Him credit for your success.

This might be the sneakiest, scariest lie of them all. Who hasn’t felt their heart swell with admiration at the professional sports player who sinks a three pointer or scores a touchdown and then points up to heaven in an all gracious, thank-you-Lord nod? American Christians love it when they detect a flicker of Jesus dust in a fairytale, magical moment, as if Patrick Mahomes was making the “good confession” every time he plowed across the endzone. 

Rachel Hollis writes, “I ran an entire marathon with Philippians 4:13 written on my hand in Sharpie, and I believe that my Creator is the strength by which I achieve anything. But God, your partner, your mama, and your best friends–none of them can make you into something (good or bad) without your help. You have the ability to change your life. You’ve always had the power, Dorothy. You just have to stop waiting for someone else to do it for you.” (Girl, Wash Your Face)

I’m telling you, this is a sneaky as they come. This is good old American fodder, pulling yourself up by your bootstraps with a flavor shot of Jesus. Hear me loud and clear: giving Jesus a head nod counts for nothing in the end.

    Jesus often gave the same message, what we call the Sermon on the Mount to crowds of people. It was radical. It challenged everything the Jews ever thought they knew about God and rules and getting along with people. It raised questions over every one of the ten commandments, it held everyone accountable for their thoughts and actions. It was flawless, and people were bewildered and amazed. At the very end of this sermon, Jesus warns the listeners to watch out for wolves in sheep’s clothing, because they will easily fool you, but if they looked closer, they would be able to “know them by their fruit.”

And then he said,

“Not everyone who says to me , ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only he who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and in your name drive out demons and perform many miracles?” Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!’

Jesus, you see, did not come to play church down here. He doesn’t even care if Patrick Maholmes points his finger to heaven or picks his nose when he scores a touchdown. He doesn’t care if Rachel Hollis finishes another marathon or another book or tattoos the whole book of Genesis on her face. It counts for nothing. Jesus will not recognize these people or even remember them if they try to trigger his memory–remember God? I’m the one who mentioned you in my bestselling book….I’m the one who pointed to you everytime I scored a touchdown!

Sadly, neither will He remember us for simply singing along to KLOVE songs on the radio or dropping our kids off at youth group. He will know us by our fruit, our foundation, the life that springs from a life hidden in Christ.
The difference is this: a life built on the words of Jesus or the life built on yourself with a sprinkling of Jesus jimmies on top.

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Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts. Join me tomorrow as we examine more lies of Rachel Hollis and the Modern American Church.

What was I supposed to be?

I sat in the waiting room, my legs dangling to the floor, a thin cotton robe wrapped around me. The tech had swiftly left the room, and all I could think about was how silly I felt to see the doctor again when I still was unsure if I was wearing the robe forwards or backwards. It seemed like something an adult should know without having to ask, so I didn’t.

After awhile–these things always take quite awhile–a quick rap at the door let me know he was ready to enter.

He was one of many OBGYNs at this office, and I’d seen him for a regular checkup and measurement only an hour before. While I waited the first time, I opened the book I’d brought with me, The Cider House Rules. 

Now, forgive a fool, but I am one. Without even a twinge of suspicion I had bought it for a dime from the thrift store only days before. In my defense–I can testify–I had not a clue what the book was about. Looking back on it now, I think I picked it up because in my hormonal pregnancy brain I thought it was a Steinbeck book. John Irving, John Steinbeck–pretty close, yes?

And there I was, two pages in, perched on the crinkly papered examination table when I met the doctor.

He was a stern older man who reminded me of my great-grandpa–thin and wiry, not apt to show his teeth. But my grandpa only ever wore blue overalls that I can remember. This doctor, with his starchy white coat surely lived a completely different life. Or did he? My grandpa pulled calves from their mothers, and this man did sort of the same thing. I watched his face soften as he turned his head to the side to see what I was reading.

I quickly closed the book, a little embarrassed he would be so bold to take interest in my reading habits.

“Cider House Rules!” he said, raising his eyebrows approvingly. “That’s one of my favorites. What do you think of it?”

Honestly, I didn’t know, but I was pretty sure my robe was on backwards, so I mumbled something about liking it so far. Maybe he wouldn’t think I was a complete idiot or sense how new I was to this pregnancy business. I made a mental note to do some Googling on John Irving when I had the opportunity.

“You know,” he said, “I do a bit of that kind of work.”

“Is that right?” I said, feigning interest. “Where?”

“Oh, over in town at the clinic. You know.”

I didn’t know, but I nodded.

I was twenty weeks along, about the time the ultrasound technicians ask if you’d like to know the sex of your baby. She didn’t have to tell me. I saw it for myself, a big thumbs up, the handle on a frying pan. I suppose it could have been any body part, but it seemed pretty obvious. Then again, if it wasn’t a boy, I didn’t need to know. I wouldn’t tell anyone anyway and it wouldn’t stop me from spending hours poring over baby names. If nothing else, I could pretend I didn’t know it was a boy and keep adding girl names to the list. No one ever said anything out loud, so to me it still counted as a secret.

But after she’d measured and clicked and printed a long strip of mostly undecipherable black and white baby pictures, she’d rushed off and told me to just sit still and wait.

When the doctor returned to the room, we’d obviously bonded over reading material. He leaned comfortably against the wall as he told me what they’d seen in the ultrasound.

“It looks like your baby has a two vessel cord,” he said. “Most babies have two arteries and one vein–yours doesn’t.” He explained the issue, and I asked him if this constituted a bigger problem. How worried should I be?

“We’ll just keep an eye on it,” he said. “If it looks like the baby–” he paused and looked down at a paper and then up at me, “boy or girl?” 

I shook my head, “a secret.”

“We will check you twice a week for the last several weeks. If the baby looks like it is failing to thrive, we’ll deliver it then.”

He smiled matter-of-factly and shuffled the papers back into a folder.

“Let me know what you think of the rest of that book.”

I was full of baby, sitting in the middle of an airplane when I finally got around to finishing The Cider House Rules. I cried. It shook me. Infants were put to death, mothers were sent away empty handed, and a naive boy who once startled at the sight of a mangled corpse turned into a hardened man who performed abortions without blinking. Justified, satisfied, content with his work, a hero. 

I thought of my doctor. I thought long and hard after I finished his favorite book, my two vessel cord baby stretching my belly into a watermelon.


I drove myself to the library and googled him. He wrote articles for the local paper in his spare time, expounding the benefits of population control to a town of 15,000 in southwest Colorado, folks hardly concerned with urban creep or the rest of the world. As long as you supported the local breweries and kept a three foot distance from the road bikers when driving, you might well live and let live. But this was my doctor’s cross he bore for the sake of humanity–he himself sounded the warning that our lives take up too much space, and something ought to be done about it.

My first baby was born healthy. He never failed to thrive. After my second baby, I switched from an OBGYN delivery to midwives. I tripled the size of my family, added four more to the population sign on the outskirts of town. Would the doctor have tried to discourage me from keeping each subsequent pregnancy? I don’t know. Maybe he kept his clinic work, his pro bono deeds, separate from his paying job. 

His website touts two grown children and a vasectomy–what a shining example. He performed abortions as his civil duty, only a mile from the pregnancy resource center where my friend Valerie encourages women to not be afraid to keep their babies. He pulled infants unwillingly from the womb, scrapes them from their mothers. The next day he delivered the wanted ones, swaddled this time, and placed on their mother’s chest.  He writes and publishes articles that favor the wise, the thoughtful planners, stable incomes, secondary education-minded. His concern is for the earth, for humanity, yet I cannot comprehend anything more inhumane than silencing a life that cannot physically cry out for mercy.

Here we have a responsible moral particularist, atheistic in his beliefs but deeply convicted of his life purpose. From where does he derive some greater calling? What made him think he has the authority to deem one life worthwhile and another worthless? Was it pure luck that his mother birthed him into the arms of a doctor who had enough compassion to unwrap the umbilical cord from around his neck?

This man who has an intimate, front row seat to the rhythm of life refuses to acknowledge there is a God who designed such an intricate being. He denies God himself, whose heart beats out a rhythmic love song for people. He denies a Creator who knits each of us in our mothers’ wombs, who made each one of us in His image. In Him we live and move and have our being. Not one is an accident or mistake, not one life is without purpose or identity, not one is born or dies without His eye fully upon them. We, the born and unborn, are precious to Him–even my abortion-performing, overpopulation-wary doctor. Oh, if that man only knew. If people only knew how much He loves them.

I have tried to consider his reasoning, the idea that there are unwanted children, people the world would be better off without. Usually this attitude is scrubbed up and repainted as a quality-of-life social issue. I once read an acceptance speech for a prestigious award. In their speech, the recipient said,

“Recently, the press has been filled with reports of sightings of flying saucers. While we need not give credence to these stories, they allow our imagination to speculate on how visitors from outer space would judge us. I am afraid they would be stupefied at our conduct. They would observe that for death planning we spend billions to create engines and strategies for war. They would also observe that we spend millions to prevent death by disease and other causes. Finally, they would observe that we spend paltry sums for population planning, even though its spontaneous growth is an urgent threat to life on our planet. Our visitors from outer space could be forgiven if they reported home that our planet is inhabited by a race of insane men whose future is bleak and uncertain.

There is no human circumstance more tragic than the persisting existence of a harmful condition for which a remedy is readily available. Family planning, to relate population to world resources, is possible, practical and necessary. Unlike plagues of the dark ages or contemporary diseases we do not yet understand, the modern plague of overpopulation is soluble by means we have discovered and with resources we possess.

What is lacking is not sufficient knowledge of the solution but universal consciousness of the gravity of the problem and education of the billions who are its victims.”

In 1966, Planned Parenthood presented this particular Margaret Sanger Award to one Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. (read the rest of the speech here). I nearly choked on his comparison between his battle for equal rights and Margaret Sanger’s struggle to provide illegal abortions in the slums in the early 1900s. Nevermind the desperation of poverty–when the question becomes when to abort instead of whether–we have quite drifted out of our zone of authority.

The same man who raised a generation of civil rights activists was not exempt from the lofty self-righteousness that comes with worldly wisdom. In all his work, in all of his trials that brought forth equality and victory, his convictions became muddy.

Friends, no matter how well meaning we are, no matter how noble our intentions–we are not afforded the liberty to take another’s life. Our job will never be to curb population growth because God, in the beginning, instructed humans to fill the earth. One life equals one life; significance, worthiness–isn’t a sliding scale. Sin is what brings about death, not good intentions. We get old and die. Natural disasters occur. Car accidents, murders, neglect. This all happens because we are a sin-tainted world.

My dear doctor is among many misguided, well-meaning folk. But God–He is a lover of life. His wisdom is foolishness to the world (1 Cor.3:19). Our world is thirsty for this truth.

We are held to a higher moral standard. Life isn’t negotiable. It blows my mind that in a country where we think we have a decent handle on equal rights, there exist folks who think this world would be nicer without people in it. 
Jesus said, “Be careful that you do not look down on one of these little ones. For I tell you, their angels in Heaven always see the face of my Father in Heaven.” (Matt.18:10)
Sanctity of life is a holy matter, and it sits right in the presence of God. Lord, forgive us when we step out of bounds.

My old doctor was hit by a car as he crossed the road downtown one day. He didn’t die, but he was hurt pretty bad. Recovery was rough. Years later, he survived a terrible car accident. Again, it made the paper. I read it. I began to wonder if God was trying to get his attention.

Wouldn’t a God who loves us try to get our attention? Yes, I think He would.

When Jesus walked upon the earth

Along the shores of Galilee

He said to His disciples,

“Let the little children come to me.”

I wonder if up in Heaven

Do you suppose we will see 

Little children asking, 

“What was I supposed to be?”

Was I to be a prophet,

Used in the ministry?

A doctor, used to find a cure

For some terrible disease?

Even if I’d been born imperfect,

Why couldn’t my parents see

I’d have been made perfect

When You came back for me.

Oh, Jesus

What was I supposed to be?

“What was I supposed to be?

What were my eyes supposed to see?

Why did I taste of death

Before I even drew a breath

Or laid my head at my mother’s breast 

To sleep

Oh, Jesus

What was I supposed to be?”

Keith Lancaster, Acapella (1987)

the puppy bed

We stood there in Costco in the pet aisle, and I stared at the dog beds while another shopper tried to sell me on one. 

“I’ve had rottweilers for 20 years and these are the best,” he said. “You really should buy one while they’re in stock–they last forever.”

After about three minutes’ consideration, I loaded it onto my cart. Forty dollars seemed like a fair investment, and the rottweiler guy was pretty convincing. As I drove home, we talked about our spoiled puppy. Seven months old and on her second dog bed (the first too fuzzy to resist gnawing the guts out), we reckoned this homecoming would register as another in the long line of “best days of her life.”

As I pulled into our garage, the other kids burst through the door to the house like they always do after I’ve been gone. 

“We’ve got a surprise for Minnie!” Jubal announced, and they all rushed to see what was in the trunk.

It isn’t lost on me that my dog sleeps on a nicer bed than most of the people in this world. And yet, dragging that pad into the living room and encouraging a dog to sprawl out on it is as much fun as eating a fluffy mountain of cotton candy. I am forever lost in this disparity, the unfairness of what I have in life, what others don’t. I try not to get carried away at the grocery store, the thrift store, the makeup aisle, or Chipotle. Amazon has my mailing address but it doesn’t have my soul. I don’t feel the urge to dress my kids up in nice new clothes or have a shiny car, but I will drop a mean wallop at Costco. I am grateful, most of the time. But I wonder–does my gratitude move me toward indifference? Am I so thankful for my own blessings and Dave Ramsey wisdom that I flat out ignore Rome is burning?

Several years ago my brother drove his family out to visit us for Christmas. As we played cards the Eve before, as kids squealed over Uno and we drank cream soda straight from the brown barrel bottles, I pulled my laptop open and searched for charities that served Syrian refugees. The compulsion to see outside my snowglobe and into a world where it was cold and hopeless drew me in, and I couldn’t help it.

“What are you doing?” they asked, and I shrugged it off. “Just wanted to sneak in an end-of-the-year gift,” I said.

It was that night I learned about the struggle of refugees, though I thought I knew something of it before.

As a foreign exchange student in Rio, I had seen the most awful street beggars. Little children with rods sticking straight out of their legs, wounds inflicted by favela drug lords to induce pity. It worked. I couldn’t bear their pain. On a visit to the city center I saw, for the first time, groups of children huddled around aerosol cans, passing them around to inhale and get high–any respite from their real life as orphans. Once, on the beach, a little fellow marched up to me and ripped my sunglasses right off my face. I was pissed. I grabbed them back and they snapped. We both lost that day. Oh, I’d seen despair. I couldn’t forget its hopeless, glassy gaze. It was hardened and indifferent–poverty and riches have the same outcome.

I still force myself to look it in the eye. It would be so much easier to look away, but especially on those days when I buy a forty dollar puppy pad, I sit down, open my laptop, and stare brazenly into its face. I watch videos from other parts of the world. I fix my eyes on what can’t be real, not possibly–refugees dragging an un-upholstered foam pad no bigger than my puppy’s bed–into a scrubby, worn, scrapped-together tent.
Lord, don’t let me feel immune to their despair. 

Syrian refugees have been displaced in Lebanon and other countries for going on ten years. Folks who fled their homes thinking they’d be back soon have eked out a new life in another country–one that doesn’t want them there. Nearly one in four people residing in Lebanon are Syrian refugees. They are unwelcome, denied work, school, and most basic human rights. I learned this after I donated some money and signed up for quarterly email updates.

Now, there are other people we know around the world in grave need of help, loans for their businesses, food and education for their kids. But none seem as trapped to me as refugees in a camp. Their tents with tarps flapping and worn bedpads host memories of war, cold winter nights, futureless dreams.

Sometimes I don’t like to open my email. Honestly, I don’t want to hear one more sad story. Every media outlet plasters the heaviest woes on their front page, blasting fear and shame without a shred of dignity. We all eat up the news, ride the waves of whatever “journalists” deem their top ten. But CNN tired many years ago of talking about refugees. Those families, split at the border? If there isn’t a heartwarming or shocking story, it is largely forgotten or else misconstrued. News outlets thrive on exploitation, pulling heart strings and invoking anger. They stir pots and then they go home, remove their makeup, and sleep on feather beds.

I met a refugee at our school two weeks ago. He had been in the States for four years, and just ten days prior to meeting him, the rest of his family was finally able to join him. He was a bit nervous for his children to begin elementary school in a new country. But boy, was he thankful and excited. I hugged him–I couldn’t help it. I scribbled my phone number on a scrap of paper and pressed it into his hand.
“Call me,” I said. “Bring your wife and family to our home.”

“Everyone has been so helpful to me,” he said. “It has been wonderful to bring my family to America. How can I thank God for the blessing he has given me by allowing me to bring my family to this country? I will spend the rest of my life trying to thank Him.”

I stood there in the front office of the school, my hand on his shoulder, my heart and eyes leaking secondary joy. Then he said,
“You Americans, you do not understand how blessed you are in this nation. It is the very last frontier for freedom. You must protect it. You cannot let every immigrant into the United States, even though you think you can. The whole world would be here! This would be no life.”

As I walked back to my car, I let his words replay in my mind. I have never heard these words from the lips of a refugee. In fact, I’m pretty sure the news would have me to believe we are all a bunch of selfish brats for neglecting the rest of the world to live in our palaces. That if we don’t start drinking less water from plastic bottles, we will be cooking in our own carbon dioxide. That we might should consider more wind and solar power and stop being so wasteful. Well, I’ve seen piles of trash bigger than St. Louis, where people sort through discarded rubble a mile deep, looking for things to recycle so they can eat that night. I’ve seen shacks built on top of shacks on top of shacks in third world countries, but just down the street from me they’re building brand new subdivisions with solar panels on million dollar homes. Please tell me where wisdom sleeps, in a poor or rich person’s bed? 

Perhaps we do not want to become another Lebanon, where hate is thick and compassion is scant, where refugees are a quarter of the population, unwanted and unhelped. But tell me, what exactly is the difference between refugee life here or there? Wealth that leads to stony platitudes of indifference, the lie that we actually might know how to take the higher road? Or is it true, scrappy poverty where hope is as futile as the high from an aerosol can? Until we toss out our good intentions in the garbage, we can’t even hold the gaze of a person who has seen their family bombed out of house and homeland.

You must protect it, the man said. He wasn’t referring to our country’s resources, but to her freedom. He never suggested we spread the wealth, but acknowledge what made us wealthy. He wasn’t pointing fingers at my dog bed, but at me.

And this, I’ve realized, is our duty. We can welcome those who have already entered, and we can better use the resources we have. But perhaps we can best help others by looking inside our own walls, those who have somehow slipped in through the front door, instead of inviting the whole world to our table. Do for one what you wish you could do for all, a wise person has said. Stop pretending you can be a savior. Instead, be a neighbor.

Still, we set a watchful eye on the heartbroken. We practice more of that quick-to-listen, slow-to-speak life. We aren’t building tables instead of walls or whatever nonsense makes us look better than we really are. We can’t rightly understand it, but the Lord didn’t make a mistake when He plopped us down in the land of the free and the home of the brave. So we will do our darndest to remind one another it doesn’t matter if our Chiefs win or lose a Superbowl this Sunday. We will revel in what we have, and we will look not only to our own interests, but also to the interests of others.

We will stare down poverty and wealth till it makes us uncomfortable, till every time I look at that puppy on her bed I’m reminded most people aren’t even half as lucky as us.