by Jen Hatmaker on April 2nd, 2013
228
dol·drums
[dohl-druh mz, dol-, dawl-]
noun ( used with a plural verb )
1. a state of inactivity or stagnation, as in business or art: August is a time of doldrums for many enterprises.
2. a belt of calms and light baffling winds north of the equator between the northern and southern trade winds in the Atlantic and Pacific oceans.
3. a dull, listless, depressed mood; low spirits.
~
Conversation with Brandon two months ago:
Me: Blah.
B: What’s wrong.
Me: Nothing. Just everything. Everything is bad.
B: Specifically?
Me: Just that our kids are probably all going to hate us and struggle with multiple incarcerations, I apparently will gain a pound a month until I die from diabetes, this house is a craphole of chaos, and my weird quirks are getting worse. I hid in the bathroom at another conference.
B: Is that all?
Me: And also, only two of my kids love to read, so obviously, Failure, your name is motherhood, and all I do is put out fires and discipline, so I’ve basically come to hate the sound of my own voice. I can’t stand myself and these kids aren’t faring much better on my Like-O-Meter, and I’m sorry to tell you, but your scores aren’t great either. I cannot even talk about emails. My Bible feels like a useless lead weight. I don’t feel like I’m taking skin care seriously enough. I also ate a tub of pimento cheese. All hope is lost.
B: But at least you’re working on that melodramatic tendency.
Me: Just lost another four points, Pal. Feels like a dangerous time to mess with me.
I essentially slid into a two-month case of the doldrums, trapped by inertia and overwhelmed by the escape requirements. On my best days, our life is heavy duty, but during my low days, Google search: “fake my own death and disappear,” which Brandon might dub melodramatic, but he is just a dude with a stable mind and can’t be trusted.
Here is the bummer about the doldrums: the very efforts needed to lift out are the same things you’ve lost energy for. The simplest remedies feel like weights drudged up from the bottom of the ocean. Your mind knows to do them, but your will refuses to cooperate. Which makes your mind furious and mired in shame, which makes your will dig its heels and wallow, which makes you realize you are turning on yourself, you are your own worst enemy. No one can oppress me like myself.
Nothing miraculous happened, except one day I said, this is enough. Virtually nothing changed that day. Or the next. These things aren’t overnight success stories, because if it took three months and 459 lazy, unhealthy, toxic choices to get stuck, it takes some time to climb out. Also, the work required is unsexy, ordinary, boring old labor that lacks the appeal of instant gratification and the pizzazz of an unsolicited miracle. I wish I had better news, but apparently we just have to grab a shovel and start digging.
For my dear readers stuck in the doldrums, and may I say that I love you and you are not alone, these are the labors that pulled me through, one teeny moment at a time:
First, make a list of everything you are behind on. The amount of emotional energy this steals from me is almost unbearable. Ironic too, because each line item could be accomplished in minutes at best, a day at worst: mail these things, return this, make those appointments, answer these emails (<--- just, omg), scan that contract over, send in the money for that school thing (this, times a zillion, free public school my eye), pick up that stuff, return that phone call (<--- just, omg), finish writing that article. Overdue tasks contribute heavily to my Shame Spiral, and writing them all down in one place and slowly crossing them off is an instant boon, literally. Unbelievable the weight that rolls off when the Behind Pile starts to shrink.
Second, the house. For the love of Mary Magdalene, the house. I am one of those annoying people who needs order and declutterfication. Oh to live in chaos and whirl and twirl amongst the piles instead of, say, barking like a seal at the humans who live here and begrudging everyone for being suchslobs unkempt people. But no.
So, brace yourselves, we launched another chore chart. This one is simple and repetitive. Everyone has one chore a day, and it is the same every week. This is not for pay, because their prize is getting to live in my house for free, oh my gosh. The kids did these tasks before but with no regularity and primarily after I turned into a lunatic. Not allowing the house to slip into entropy is mentally healing. The chart is imperfect, but even loose structure restores order to my inner turmoil.
[dohl-druh mz, dol-, dawl-]
noun ( used with a plural verb )
1. a state of inactivity or stagnation, as in business or art: August is a time of doldrums for many enterprises.
2. a belt of calms and light baffling winds north of the equator between the northern and southern trade winds in the Atlantic and Pacific oceans.
3. a dull, listless, depressed mood; low spirits.
~
Conversation with Brandon two months ago:
Me: Blah.
B: What’s wrong.
Me: Nothing. Just everything. Everything is bad.
B: Specifically?
Me: Just that our kids are probably all going to hate us and struggle with multiple incarcerations, I apparently will gain a pound a month until I die from diabetes, this house is a craphole of chaos, and my weird quirks are getting worse. I hid in the bathroom at another conference.
B: Is that all?
Me: And also, only two of my kids love to read, so obviously, Failure, your name is motherhood, and all I do is put out fires and discipline, so I’ve basically come to hate the sound of my own voice. I can’t stand myself and these kids aren’t faring much better on my Like-O-Meter, and I’m sorry to tell you, but your scores aren’t great either. I cannot even talk about emails. My Bible feels like a useless lead weight. I don’t feel like I’m taking skin care seriously enough. I also ate a tub of pimento cheese. All hope is lost.
B: But at least you’re working on that melodramatic tendency.
Me: Just lost another four points, Pal. Feels like a dangerous time to mess with me.
I essentially slid into a two-month case of the doldrums, trapped by inertia and overwhelmed by the escape requirements. On my best days, our life is heavy duty, but during my low days, Google search: “fake my own death and disappear,” which Brandon might dub melodramatic, but he is just a dude with a stable mind and can’t be trusted.
Here is the bummer about the doldrums: the very efforts needed to lift out are the same things you’ve lost energy for. The simplest remedies feel like weights drudged up from the bottom of the ocean. Your mind knows to do them, but your will refuses to cooperate. Which makes your mind furious and mired in shame, which makes your will dig its heels and wallow, which makes you realize you are turning on yourself, you are your own worst enemy. No one can oppress me like myself.
Nothing miraculous happened, except one day I said, this is enough. Virtually nothing changed that day. Or the next. These things aren’t overnight success stories, because if it took three months and 459 lazy, unhealthy, toxic choices to get stuck, it takes some time to climb out. Also, the work required is unsexy, ordinary, boring old labor that lacks the appeal of instant gratification and the pizzazz of an unsolicited miracle. I wish I had better news, but apparently we just have to grab a shovel and start digging.
For my dear readers stuck in the doldrums, and may I say that I love you and you are not alone, these are the labors that pulled me through, one teeny moment at a time:
First, make a list of everything you are behind on. The amount of emotional energy this steals from me is almost unbearable. Ironic too, because each line item could be accomplished in minutes at best, a day at worst: mail these things, return this, make those appointments, answer these emails (<--- just, omg), scan that contract over, send in the money for that school thing (this, times a zillion, free public school my eye), pick up that stuff, return that phone call (<--- just, omg), finish writing that article. Overdue tasks contribute heavily to my Shame Spiral, and writing them all down in one place and slowly crossing them off is an instant boon, literally. Unbelievable the weight that rolls off when the Behind Pile starts to shrink.
Second, the house. For the love of Mary Magdalene, the house. I am one of those annoying people who needs order and declutterfication. Oh to live in chaos and whirl and twirl amongst the piles instead of, say, barking like a seal at the humans who live here and begrudging everyone for being such
So, brace yourselves, we launched another chore chart. This one is simple and repetitive. Everyone has one chore a day, and it is the same every week. This is not for pay, because their prize is getting to live in my house for free, oh my gosh. The kids did these tasks before but with no regularity and primarily after I turned into a lunatic. Not allowing the house to slip into entropy is mentally healing. The chart is imperfect, but even loose structure restores order to my inner turmoil.
Yes, I succumbed to chalkboard paint. Next up: Chevron.
Third, parenting. Obviously my five kids are perfect and make straight A’s and speak loving words to each other constantly, but clearly their classmates have poorly influenced them lately, because they’ve turned into savages. (This surely has nothing to do with their mother’s two-month doldrum disorder, because children are never the thermometer simply reflecting the temperature of their parents. I’m sure their digression is just a coincidence.)
So this cute thing happened where the kids were horrible and fighting and I went to my room to cry about these terrible children God stuck me with, and He said a little thing to me: He immediately brought to mind six, six lovely moments my kids engineered that very day, and He said, “You are only noticing the bad moments and completely ignoring all the good ones.”
God never coddles me when I want him to, GAH!
So we started the Brag Board. Anytime we catch someone being kind, helpful, gracious, or awesome, we write it down, big or small. It has to be about someone else, because the first thing my humble offspring would write is It was so incredible how I unloaded the dishwasher. Funny thing: I’m not positive they’ve had more shining moments than before, but I’m sure noticing them now. Evidently we will see exactly what we’re looking for. Does this mean I’ve had to follow a certain child around, searching for one tiny good thing to say? Yes. But catching kids in their goodness totally beats reprimanding them only in their struggles, and the Brag Board has pulled the whole family up a few degrees.
To be clear, Ben was recyling, not resicking, which we frown upon.
Finally, I made a list of all the practices that make me feel healthy. Not surprisingly, I noticed most absent in my doldrums: cooking, reading good books, limiting screen time, eating well, date nights, taking walks, scheduling time with a counselor, being outside, praying, changing out of my pajamas (this is a thing), my friends. All ordinary, nothing new or dramatic. These are mainly things that fit in the gaps of life. But I just committed some time back to my staples, maybe just one a day.
None of these were executed at once. Over a few weeks, I just implemented healthier practices, one at a time. It was not revolutionary when I sat down with Alan Bradley’s latest novel finally (“Whenever I’m a little blue, I think about cyanide which so perfectly reflects my mood” ~Flavia), nor did my world tilt back on its axis when I wrote the first entry on the Brag Board. The chore chart didn’t solve the crisis, and neither did catching up on emails.
But all together, over weeks, just doing the work, bit by bit, digging deep for diligence and grace and best practices, the doldrums receded. These things make us healthy and whole for a reason, because we are not succumbing to disorder and shame anymore. It’s not fancy or quick work unfortunately, but it is effective.
If you feel stuck today, can I suggest approaching the doldrums in a reasonable way, one tiny element at a time? Alone, none of these are monumental, but together they begin to lay small paver stones out of the mire, forging a path back to health. It will be imperfect with incremental steps forward and back, but God can use your brave movement to soothe the shame of stagnation and restore peace to the chaos.
Grab my hand. Let’s do this.
~
Two things: This is not a post for you to tell me my family is awesome, so thank you for refraining. I am writing this precisely because we have been so unawesome. Second, this does not apply to serious trauma or depression. The doldrums are a funk, not a severe crisis. Sometimes our hearts require therapy, intervention, and possibly medication, and the practices I described are inadequate. Readers, how else do you beat back the doldrums?
by Jen Hatmaker on March 25th, 2013
My friend Amy is a hot mess in December. At the slightest mention of the Baby Jesus, she dissolves into weepy, sentimental tears. She hangs red curtains in her house, plays Christmas hymns on an eternal loop, and falls apart every day until December 26th. Do not even make eye contact with her in church during the Christmas season. Her poor husband Brad practically has to sedate her to make it through. It is simply her most tender holy season.
Easter is mine.
I keep thinking this will be the year I manage without feeling painfully raw. How many Easters in a row can I plainly come undone? Apparently, infinity. For instance, at church yesterday, a few folks simply read the Passover story out loud in sections between songs. That was our whole church service, beautiful and haunting. I was assigned the passage about Jesus in the garden, asking God to take the cup from him. The other readers delivered their Scripture in clear, strong voices. I, conversely, croaked and cracked and bawled and inserted eternal awkward pauses and blubbered through my entire part. (I sat down by Brandon and said, “Well, I think that went well.”)
The story of our redemption breaks me. I simply cannot get over Jesus. His humanity moves me beyond words. His suffering shatters my heart. His courage leaves me undone. I am aching, so gratefully devastated. By his wounds I am healed, but his scars mark me too, and I am tender to the touch. The story that crushes me also saves me, and there is nothing to do but worship through the tears.
Easter will always be a broken hallelujah for me.
I want to ascribe to Jesus all the glory he was denied when they mocked his kingship and crushed his body. The crown of thorns, the robe on open flesh, the taunts of false worship, the sign above his head ridiculing his position…I find myself declaring his authority in defiance; Jesus is King, Lord of All, The First and the Last, The Bright and Morning Star, The Head of Every Man, I AM. May his glory eternally surpass his suffering, for he has saved the world and saved our lives. Let all the earth rejoice, for the Lamb became the King and grace beat back the darkness.
His kingdom come, his will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
This is the week Jesus rose to his task and split history in two. This is the week he rode on a donkey, cried in the garden, suffered on the cross, rose into glory. This is the week that sinful, broken humans were granted a pardon, justified to perfection and set free. It is too miraculous for words. Songs and sermons fail us; we huddle at the cross, overwhelmed by the punishment that brought us peace.
It is with a heavy heart that I join hands with my brothers and sisters, fellow sinners saved by this grace, and come collectively before the Light of the World, declaring our broken hallelujah. We bow in heartbroken reverence, thankful grief. We want our lives to scream WORSHIP, for our Redeemer lives and his kingdom cannot be shaken. Jesus reigns and we are his. There is nothing else to say. It is finished indeed.
Family, what does worship look like in light of this miracle? How do awe and wonder and gratitude and humility mark our lives as we honor the cross? As I’ve said before here and here, it seems barely worth mentioning that chocolate bunnies and fancy new dresses not only miss the gravity, but miss the point. I daresay the American response to Easter is insulting, devastating even.
Jesus gave us a hint during his last week, providing an appropriate response for us, understanding the cross would wreck and ruin and confound his followers. He laid a plumb line, offering a responsive script that would stand the test of time and culture and millenia:
“And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me. In the same way, after the supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.” (Luke 22:19-20)
My body, broken for you…do this.
My blood, poured out for you…do this.
And lest we imagine it means anything less, anything cheap, John tells us Jesus stood up from table, the King, wrapped his waist, knelt down, and washed the filthy feet of his disciples. The least the greatest, the last first, the humble soon to be lifted. The Savior the servant, turning the rules upside down and changing the template for the rest of history.
My body, broken…do this.
My blood, poured out…do this.
For me.
What does this look like for us? How do we worship in light of this Savior? For it is past time we, too, turn the rules upside down and change the template. Broken and poured out, may it be. Oh that his people would mimic the cross in worship this week, bypassing plastic eggs and patent leather shoes for servanthood, responding in a way befitting the sacrifice.
What if we calculated the money we’d spend on new clothes, anything having to do with a bunny and chocolate, and used that investment for great good, pouring out for someone in need of mercy? Maybe instead of matching outfits from Dillards, we invest in family t-shirts benefiting someone’s adoption, someone's mission for Christ. Perhaps rather than time and energy spent on ourselves, we ask: “Who can our family serve? Where can we put our hands and hearts to use in Jesus’ name?” Who in your city desperately needs hope but won’t find their way to the sanctuary Sunday filled by people dressed to the nines?
Where does the gospel need to go?
There is no better question to ask in response to the cross where Jesus was broken and poured out and the gospel was sealed. May we do the same in remembrance of him, not cheapening his sacrifice with self-serving, invented practices or neutering the miracle by missing the point entirely.
Church, let’s bring Jesus’ hope into the darkness this Easter – the lonely street corners, the strip clubs, the shelters, the prisons, the sad places. We can push back the darkness, because God “in his great mercy has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead” (1 Peter 1:3). Good has triumphed; Jesus won the day.
Jesus, our Almighty King, our brother and Savior, is in glory, his suffering is done and our salvation is secure. This is our celebration. May Jesus find the Bride honoring the cross exactly like he told us to, for we are so terribly unworthy but somehow, miraculously, against all sense and reason, we are saved.
“…to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen.”
Easter is mine.
I keep thinking this will be the year I manage without feeling painfully raw. How many Easters in a row can I plainly come undone? Apparently, infinity. For instance, at church yesterday, a few folks simply read the Passover story out loud in sections between songs. That was our whole church service, beautiful and haunting. I was assigned the passage about Jesus in the garden, asking God to take the cup from him. The other readers delivered their Scripture in clear, strong voices. I, conversely, croaked and cracked and bawled and inserted eternal awkward pauses and blubbered through my entire part. (I sat down by Brandon and said, “Well, I think that went well.”)
The story of our redemption breaks me. I simply cannot get over Jesus. His humanity moves me beyond words. His suffering shatters my heart. His courage leaves me undone. I am aching, so gratefully devastated. By his wounds I am healed, but his scars mark me too, and I am tender to the touch. The story that crushes me also saves me, and there is nothing to do but worship through the tears.
Easter will always be a broken hallelujah for me.
I want to ascribe to Jesus all the glory he was denied when they mocked his kingship and crushed his body. The crown of thorns, the robe on open flesh, the taunts of false worship, the sign above his head ridiculing his position…I find myself declaring his authority in defiance; Jesus is King, Lord of All, The First and the Last, The Bright and Morning Star, The Head of Every Man, I AM. May his glory eternally surpass his suffering, for he has saved the world and saved our lives. Let all the earth rejoice, for the Lamb became the King and grace beat back the darkness.
His kingdom come, his will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
This is the week Jesus rose to his task and split history in two. This is the week he rode on a donkey, cried in the garden, suffered on the cross, rose into glory. This is the week that sinful, broken humans were granted a pardon, justified to perfection and set free. It is too miraculous for words. Songs and sermons fail us; we huddle at the cross, overwhelmed by the punishment that brought us peace.
It is with a heavy heart that I join hands with my brothers and sisters, fellow sinners saved by this grace, and come collectively before the Light of the World, declaring our broken hallelujah. We bow in heartbroken reverence, thankful grief. We want our lives to scream WORSHIP, for our Redeemer lives and his kingdom cannot be shaken. Jesus reigns and we are his. There is nothing else to say. It is finished indeed.
Family, what does worship look like in light of this miracle? How do awe and wonder and gratitude and humility mark our lives as we honor the cross? As I’ve said before here and here, it seems barely worth mentioning that chocolate bunnies and fancy new dresses not only miss the gravity, but miss the point. I daresay the American response to Easter is insulting, devastating even.
Jesus gave us a hint during his last week, providing an appropriate response for us, understanding the cross would wreck and ruin and confound his followers. He laid a plumb line, offering a responsive script that would stand the test of time and culture and millenia:
“And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me. In the same way, after the supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.” (Luke 22:19-20)
My body, broken for you…do this.
My blood, poured out for you…do this.
And lest we imagine it means anything less, anything cheap, John tells us Jesus stood up from table, the King, wrapped his waist, knelt down, and washed the filthy feet of his disciples. The least the greatest, the last first, the humble soon to be lifted. The Savior the servant, turning the rules upside down and changing the template for the rest of history.
My body, broken…do this.
My blood, poured out…do this.
For me.
What does this look like for us? How do we worship in light of this Savior? For it is past time we, too, turn the rules upside down and change the template. Broken and poured out, may it be. Oh that his people would mimic the cross in worship this week, bypassing plastic eggs and patent leather shoes for servanthood, responding in a way befitting the sacrifice.
What if we calculated the money we’d spend on new clothes, anything having to do with a bunny and chocolate, and used that investment for great good, pouring out for someone in need of mercy? Maybe instead of matching outfits from Dillards, we invest in family t-shirts benefiting someone’s adoption, someone's mission for Christ. Perhaps rather than time and energy spent on ourselves, we ask: “Who can our family serve? Where can we put our hands and hearts to use in Jesus’ name?” Who in your city desperately needs hope but won’t find their way to the sanctuary Sunday filled by people dressed to the nines?
Where does the gospel need to go?
There is no better question to ask in response to the cross where Jesus was broken and poured out and the gospel was sealed. May we do the same in remembrance of him, not cheapening his sacrifice with self-serving, invented practices or neutering the miracle by missing the point entirely.
Church, let’s bring Jesus’ hope into the darkness this Easter – the lonely street corners, the strip clubs, the shelters, the prisons, the sad places. We can push back the darkness, because God “in his great mercy has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead” (1 Peter 1:3). Good has triumphed; Jesus won the day.
Jesus, our Almighty King, our brother and Savior, is in glory, his suffering is done and our salvation is secure. This is our celebration. May Jesus find the Bride honoring the cross exactly like he told us to, for we are so terribly unworthy but somehow, miraculously, against all sense and reason, we are saved.
“…to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen.”
by Jen Hatmaker on March 22nd, 2013
Maybe I’ve been getting this whole thing wrong, good readers. Perhaps while I’ve been pulling my hair out over 4 million dollar fish tanks in church lobbies and the most expensive building campaign in American church history, what I should’ve been doing was listening to solid, reliable, extraordinarily famous and revered leaders explain what’s what. Maybe I just need a better guide through the maze of Christian superstardom and the genius of excess.
Why am I getting all bogged down with the poor and marginalized when I could be running with the bulls? So I decided to go straight to the top; no mamby-pamby middle dwellers, no mediocre Nancy boys. I sought wisdom from the crème de la crème of Christian leadership. You may know him from his world-renowned sound bytes on Twitter (@CelebrityPastor), what with his sharp wit and attention to greatness. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you an exclusive interview with:
CELEBRITY PASTOR!
Why am I getting all bogged down with the poor and marginalized when I could be running with the bulls? So I decided to go straight to the top; no mamby-pamby middle dwellers, no mediocre Nancy boys. I sought wisdom from the crème de la crème of Christian leadership. You may know him from his world-renowned sound bytes on Twitter (@CelebrityPastor), what with his sharp wit and attention to greatness. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you an exclusive interview with:
CELEBRITY PASTOR!
He has graciously offered us minions his time and brilliance, and we should all be grateful, for the heavens are surely smiling on us today.
CP, when did you first know you wanted to be a pastor?
I knew from the moment I was born. According to my mother (bless her soul), I actually came out of the womb holding a Bible (The Message Matrix Version). And, oddly enough, I was preaching a full-length sermon. It was obvious to everyone from a young age that I was destined for greatness of epic proportions. Plus, I was able to accurately throw a ninja star by age three.
Did you go to seminary? Or does this level of awesomeness just come naturally?
Yes I did go to a seminary: The Seminary of Hard Knocks. To be honest, your average seminary doesn't teach you a lot of what you really need to know for pastoral ministry. For example, have you ever heard of a seminary offering a class in falconing? I think not! Or bull riding? Or fog machine use? Or how to reenact the entire ending scene of "Braveheart"? As you can see, there are some serious problems with today's seminaries.
Describe your church to us.
Wow. Perhaps you'd like me to describe heaven next. You enter the lobby and you immediately feel like you are home. You feel warm, welcome, and fuzzy inside, like you just ate a Hot Pocket. You also immediately feel like you are at a U2 concert. So perhaps the only people who can truly know what my church is like are the members of U2.
What can other so-called pastors learn from you?
I think you nailed it on the head when you said, "so-called". To be a pastor of my caliber takes a level of commitment that is usually only found in Olympic athletes. You have to be willing to go all in, to go big or go home, to kick butt now and apologize later...or possibly never. You have to be willing to do you own stunts. Pastors, are you willing to go head-to-head in a cage match with a rabid mother bear? If not, it's time to give up the calling.
Where do you get your inspiration?
I find my inspiration in unexpected places. One weekend I took my wife, LaFonda, to the circus. I was blown away by those dudes who blow fire and swallow swords. The next week I incorporated sword swallowing into my sermon. Of course, I ended up in the hospital for a week with a deeply cut esophagus, but that's beside the point. Inspiration is everywhere!
What's the hardest thing about being you?
Well, keep this on the down low, but the hardest part about being me is working with my staff. As a spiritual leader of 100% Shock and Awe, I expect nothing less from my staff. Yet so often I run into road blocks. I'll come up with a brilliant idea and my faithless elders will say something like, "We can't do that! It's illegal!" Or my interns will chicken out on the extreme team building, faith building exercises that I create for them, such as a trust fall off a 40 foot cliff into a fiery pit of vipers.
You're a spiritual leader. What can you tell us to blow our minds?
I'll give you the advice I give everyone: only follow me if you want all your hopes and dreams to come true. If you would prefer something else, I can give you the name of some churches.
Do you have any pics, memes, or icons we can use as our screensavers?
Sorry, my only picture is my icon on Twitter. Any other pictures would probably cause your screen to melt.
~
I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’ve been schooled. Thank you, Celebrity Pastor, thank you. You can access this brand of genius daily by following Celebrity Pastor on Twitter. If you are smart, you can also check out his book, “Shock and Awe,” (forward by Thomas Jefferson), and don’t just take my word for it:
Be sure to show your gratitude to CP in the comment section, because praise for Caesar is certainly due in this case.
CP, when did you first know you wanted to be a pastor?
I knew from the moment I was born. According to my mother (bless her soul), I actually came out of the womb holding a Bible (The Message Matrix Version). And, oddly enough, I was preaching a full-length sermon. It was obvious to everyone from a young age that I was destined for greatness of epic proportions. Plus, I was able to accurately throw a ninja star by age three.
Did you go to seminary? Or does this level of awesomeness just come naturally?
Yes I did go to a seminary: The Seminary of Hard Knocks. To be honest, your average seminary doesn't teach you a lot of what you really need to know for pastoral ministry. For example, have you ever heard of a seminary offering a class in falconing? I think not! Or bull riding? Or fog machine use? Or how to reenact the entire ending scene of "Braveheart"? As you can see, there are some serious problems with today's seminaries.
Describe your church to us.
Wow. Perhaps you'd like me to describe heaven next. You enter the lobby and you immediately feel like you are home. You feel warm, welcome, and fuzzy inside, like you just ate a Hot Pocket. You also immediately feel like you are at a U2 concert. So perhaps the only people who can truly know what my church is like are the members of U2.
What can other so-called pastors learn from you?
I think you nailed it on the head when you said, "so-called". To be a pastor of my caliber takes a level of commitment that is usually only found in Olympic athletes. You have to be willing to go all in, to go big or go home, to kick butt now and apologize later...or possibly never. You have to be willing to do you own stunts. Pastors, are you willing to go head-to-head in a cage match with a rabid mother bear? If not, it's time to give up the calling.
Where do you get your inspiration?
I find my inspiration in unexpected places. One weekend I took my wife, LaFonda, to the circus. I was blown away by those dudes who blow fire and swallow swords. The next week I incorporated sword swallowing into my sermon. Of course, I ended up in the hospital for a week with a deeply cut esophagus, but that's beside the point. Inspiration is everywhere!
What's the hardest thing about being you?
Well, keep this on the down low, but the hardest part about being me is working with my staff. As a spiritual leader of 100% Shock and Awe, I expect nothing less from my staff. Yet so often I run into road blocks. I'll come up with a brilliant idea and my faithless elders will say something like, "We can't do that! It's illegal!" Or my interns will chicken out on the extreme team building, faith building exercises that I create for them, such as a trust fall off a 40 foot cliff into a fiery pit of vipers.
You're a spiritual leader. What can you tell us to blow our minds?
I'll give you the advice I give everyone: only follow me if you want all your hopes and dreams to come true. If you would prefer something else, I can give you the name of some churches.
Do you have any pics, memes, or icons we can use as our screensavers?
Sorry, my only picture is my icon on Twitter. Any other pictures would probably cause your screen to melt.
~
I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’ve been schooled. Thank you, Celebrity Pastor, thank you. You can access this brand of genius daily by following Celebrity Pastor on Twitter. If you are smart, you can also check out his book, “Shock and Awe,” (forward by Thomas Jefferson), and don’t just take my word for it:
- "When I read this book I wanted to stand up and applaud!" - Winston Churchill
- "You can burn all your other books on leadership. This is all you'll need." - George Patton
- "George Washington. Martin Luther King Jr. And now Celebrity Pastor. You won't regret buying this book." - Ghandi
- "I'm sorry, who wrote this book?" - John Piper
- "I never agreed to endorse this book." - Mark Driscoll
- "I've never refused to endorse a book. Until now." - J.I. Packer
Be sure to show your gratitude to CP in the comment section, because praise for Caesar is certainly due in this case.
by Jen Hatmaker on March 18th, 2013
Like most graduating high school classes, mine rewarded our parents and educators by perpetuating Senior Skip Day right before finals. I can only imagine these satisfying gestures are why secondary teachers are able to get out of bed in the morning.
In a slightly innocent twist, my class of clowns decided on the Wichita Zoo for our naughty excursion, so off we went in our scrunched socks and Keds, Z Cavaricci jorts, and oversized striped rugbies.
In a slightly innocent twist, my class of clowns decided on the Wichita Zoo for our naughty excursion, so off we went in our scrunched socks and Keds, Z Cavaricci jorts, and oversized striped rugbies.
Note my cool shades on the front row that are so dated, they are now "ironic."
My seventh grade daughter has a pair. Hold me.
My seventh grade daughter has a pair. Hold me.
I begged my mom to call in a feigned illness for me, and when she refused, I tracked the soft target, because Dad would’ve assuredly provided an alibi, but he was missing in my hour of need, so I…simply skipped. The only attendance bail in my high school history, and despite the breezy, cool aura I’m clearly projecting, I spent the day with my stomach in knots. (When I received the subsequent day of in-school suspension, I cried silent, hot tears the second I entered the ISS room, and the monitor found me pitiful and let me sit in her office playing solitaire all day.)
For such a prim rule-follower, it was surprising when they started strangling me.
I grew up immersed in typical Christian subculture: heavy emphasis on morality, fairly dogmatic, linear and authoritative. Because my experience was so homogenous and my skill set included Flying Right, I found wild success in the paradigm. My interpretations were rarely challenged by diversity, suffering, or disparity. Since the bulls-eye was behaving (we called it “holiness”), I earned an A.
But careening into adulthood, my firm foundation endured some havoc. I noticed very few of my Third Day Acquire The Fire Disciple Now Weekend Mercy Me compatriots stuck with church after high school. Evidently, that is absolutely the trend: According to Rainer Research, approximately 70 percent of American youth drop out of church between the age of 18 and 22. The Barna Group estimates that 80 percent of those reared in the church will be "disengaged" by the time they are 29.
80 percent. Gone.
A recent nationwide poll on religious identification noted that respondents citing “no religion” (The Nones) made up the only group that grew in every state, most numerous among the young: a whopping 22 percent of 18- to 29-year-olds claimed no religion, up from 11 percent in 1990. Worse yet: the study also found that 73 percent of Nones came from religious homes; 66 percent were described by the study as ‘de-converts.’
This gave me pause, because the mechanism was not holding. More precisely, the church I grew up in was not making disciples. The religion I knew was leaving young adults disinterested at best, hostile at worst. It failed to capture their loyalty. Dechurched adults cited grievances that gave definition to my own inner struggles:
- Emphasis on morality and voting records to the exclusion of weightier matters like justice and transformation
- A suspicious amalgamation of the American Dream and Armed Forces
- A me-and-mine stance as opposed to you-and-yours
- Persistent defensive posture, treating unchurched or dechurched people like enemies instead of future brothers and sisters in Christ
- Narrow talking points that slice and wound and slash; principles over people
- A boring religion of behaving instead of an adventurous life of true discipleship
- An unreasonable opposition to science
- Arrogance over humility, using the Bible as a bludgeon instead of a balm
Jesus remained politically neutral, unswervingly, despite the teeny tiny fact that the Savior was expected to engineer freedom through political upheaval. He never once pandered to the powerful and prominent. He was called a drunkard and a fool for the company He kept. Jesus committed His kingdom to the most unlikely: the sick, children, women, the poor, the marginalized. Everyone else? Blind, deaf, according to Jesus.
So if it wasn’t Jesus making enemies out of the adopted, it had to be the structure in which we contained Him.
This was the point my ministry took a hard left.
If you’ve been around me at all in the last six years, you’ve heard me pushing for reform, asking the church to stretch, to become the new wineskins my generation is begging for. I’m hungry for a church less known for sanctimony and more for their shocking intervention for hungry babies and human trafficking and racism and injustice. Christianity is too thrilling to reduce to middle/upper-middle class First World Problems, encapsulated in issues and gauged by a nebulous moral compass that lost its bearing decades ago.
People are starving – spiritually and physically – and this world needs some Good News, but they can’t decode what is actually good about us. Good is finding a safe place to struggle, to doubt, to ask hard questions. Good is food when you’re hungry. Good is warm, kind, genuine love extended, no strings attached. Good is clean water, medicine for your sick baby, education, family. Good is community, even before ‘belief’ binds us tight. Good is sustainable work, dignity. Good is Jesus and His backwards, upside-down ways.
I constantly ask these hard questions of the Bride, of myself, of my own little family.
Because of this, I was recently uninvited to speak by a large church. They cited my struggle with the church, concerned that “these disparaging glimpses at the church certainly can be helpful to a more mature follower but cause great confusion to those who are not quite so far along in their walk with the Lord.” In fact, it is the exact opposite. It is the young believers asking the questions and finding very few safe places to do so. Sanitized Christianity in which the church is propped up and healthy criticism is labeled as “spiritual attack” is the head-in-the-sand approach turning away the next generation.
Second, and not surprisingly, a blog was cited in which my hilarious friend jokingly brought a bottle of margarita mix to a Lifeway taping, hoping to cast us as boozers in front of my very conservative publisher. (To their credit, the filmmakers just laughed and carried on because, you know, it was a joke, and my LW peeps totally get me. We are guilty of many offenses, but taking ourselves too seriously is not one of them.) This satire pushed an envelope that is still licked shut, and the uninvitation was sent.
It doesn’t matter what church it was or where, but here is what I want to tell them:
I understand. I really, really do. Not only did I appreciate your gracious tone, but I genuinely know where you are coming from. I get the things that make you uncomfortable and why, and I realize we will likely never see eye to eye, and that is okay. Unquestioningly, you love Jesus and the church, and I have no doubt you are serving your community and each other. Within your tribe in your demographic in your city in your tradition, you are exactly how and where you should be. My feelings toward you are terribly warm, seasoned with familiar memories of the church that raised and loved me.
But what makes me unsafe to you is exactly what makes me safe to others. The skeptic, the cynic, the doubter; my arms are wide open. Their questions and disbelief don’t scare me; I am unthreatened. The loosey-goosey, tambourine shaking, barefoot liberal who loves Jesus and the earth and votes straight-ticket Democrat? I love her. The young adult generation who is leaving the church but running to Jesus in unfamiliar, new ways – I gather them to me like a Mama because they are going to change the world.
I am not put off by creed or denomination or sexual orientation or terrifying doubt or outright anger or nationality or socioeconomic status or issues or weirdness or politics. I’m not going to make a deal out of a glass of wine when 25,000 people will die today of starvation. I just can’t muster the energy. (And since Jesus’ first miracle was turning 150 gallons of water into wine at a wedding in Cana, I’m pretty sure He hedges left here.)
With nearly 8 million people leaving the American church a year, we need some renegades closer to the margins, building bridges, creating safe spaces to question, wrestle, rethink. Plenty of churches exist to serve the 20 percent already connected. For them, I am grateful. Enough shepherds are on the ground for those sheep. They have a deep well of leadership, and my absence will not even be felt. They are brothers and sisters, and I’ll see them on the other side.
As for me, I’m throwing my lot in with the other 80 percent, the ones with their arms crossed, their hearts broken, their worth unrealized. The ones who shake their fists and shake their heads, but still crave hope and redemption, because we all do. Bring me your doubts, your fear. My Jesus can handle it all and then some. He is all of our dreams come true. If you don’t believe me, start in Matthew and read until the end of John. Jesus is a hero, a brother, a Savior in every since of the word. He is everything good and gracious. His love for us is embarrassing, boundless, without standards at all.
Along the way, if I make some of my brothers and sisters uncomfortable and we must part, I hope we can throw our arms around each other and promise to write. I trust you will do your part over there, and I’ll do mine out here where life is sticky and faith is less a blueprint and more a compass, gently leading all us ragamuffins north. I’m willing to wrap us all in grace, because one day we’ll both discover we got some parts right and other parts wrong. Jesus’ mercy is going to be enough for us all.
So if anyone wants to venture out to the margins, past familiar boundaries, through sanctioned Christian staples, beyond guilt-by-association fears, outside traditional approval – I’ll be here with my people, with Jesus, making others crazy and getting uninvited from things…
…unless it is a wedding in Cana and the wine has run out.
by Jen Hatmaker on March 5th, 2013
I’ve had a rash of negative missives lately (see: Facebook), and it’s had me thinking for weeks. Questions like, when did we become so mean? And, have we lost all semblance of kindness? And, is criticism the plague of our generation? And, is the Christian community marked by callousness? And, should I give lessons on satire?
So I turned those questions inward and didn’t like what I found. I struggle with an impulse to critique, to deconstruct, to dismantle. I too easily write people off and assume the worst. I am undoubtedly my own worst enemy. I see sharp edges that need softened, and I realize every problem has the same answer:
More grace.
This just might heal the world, mend relationships, sooth our inner turmoil. It could grease the machine of humanity and keep it running rather than grinding to a halt, stalled out for lack of mercy. It reminds us we are brothers and sisters, not demigods over one another. It is the way Jesus came, and it is precisely what saved our souls.
So in an attempt to be the change I hope to see, these are the goals in front of me:
MORE GRACE FOR MYSELF
I will stop the inner voice that batters me day and night. I’ll not listen to the whispers assuring me all hope is lost, nothing good is happening, I could be doing so much better. That voice is so debilitating. She is like the gang leader of a prison mafia. You blew off the fifth chore chart in two years? I will shank you!
No more. I will name the little lovely things, the beautiful moments, the good parts. Small victories deserve noticing. None of us are good at everything, but all of us are great at something. No rule requires focus on the parts we get wrong. There is always, always something worthy to honor if we’re brave enough to live like that.
We will show grace to ourselves, because how dare we rob our transformed hearts of the mercy Jesus won for us already. Living in guilt and despair is such a drag. There is too much goodness, too much love, too much possibility to go on like that. Enough of it. Let us live in the wide open spaces we’ve been granted, and laugh and dance and celebrate and notice the ordinary little wonders we are conditioned to minimize.
MORE GRACE FOR MY HUSBAND
I will stop expecting him to read my mind, decode my body language, meet all my needs, and shut the cabinet doors (<---okay, just please, this one). We’ve logged 19 years of marriage, and that sort of longevity deserves more mercy, more apologies, more celebrating.
I can hardly think of ahorrible fight disagreement we’ve had that grace wouldn’t have unscrambled. Every misunderstanding could’ve been truncated. Every ounce of tension lessened. Now, we’ll never be that lovey-dovey couple who writes sappy things on Facebook to each other. We don’t get vows renewed; we get tattoos. We are who we are. In our marriage, grace won’t mean what it might in yours. All I know is, rather than a list of techniques to work on (“What I hear you saying is my refusal to put things in our shared iCalendar makes you want to put my paper calendar in the wood chipper…”), all our junk can be soothed if not solved altogether by the simple addition of more grace.
What do any of us face together where this isn’t true? Imagine the most pressing issue you are dealing with in your marriage. Now take away the need to be right, to be the winner, to nurture the injury like a little pet, keeping it safe and thriving and growing. Now add grace – undeserved maybe, unexpected perhaps. Persistent, warm, selfless mercy can turn even the biggest ship around.
MORE GRACE FOR MY KIDS
I spoke at an adoption conference last weekend, and although unclear on my actual contribution, I left with renewed resolve to show my children far more grace thanthey deserve I have offered lately. You know what’s hard? Being a kid. Remember the fears you harbored and the weird ideas that confused you and the secret worry that everything might careen off course? You know what else is hard? Being adopted internationally. You know what else? Welcoming in two new siblings and Figuring.All.That.Out. You know what else? Having us as parents. Also, apparently it is very hard to put socks in the dirty clothes basket and take turns talking (my full car is God’s tool for my personal sanctification).
There is a reason God told us His kindness leads us to repentance. His holiness awes me. His righteousness humbles me. His power shocks me. But it is His kindness that moves me to repentance, to adoration, to transformation. Grace just wears down your defenses after awhile. At some point, it becomes clear: this person is really for me.
So I’m going to try to lead with grace for my kids. I hope to laugh first, listen longer, forgive quicker, surprise them with mercy. I will attempt to find the gracious response, even in discipline, even in exhaustion, even in pull-my-hair-out-rend-my-garments frustration. For instance, if a son, hypothetically, didn’t complete his reading minutes and upon an inquiry by his teacher he replied, “I can’t do my homework because we have very late dinners,” although we eat at 6:00pm and blaming your mother for your personal abdication is for chumps, well, I suppose grace has a place in there somewhere, though I didn’t necessarily find that gear last week. Hypothetically.
MORE GRACE FOR THE CHURCH, CAPITAL C
It is no secret that I struggle with the Church. Trust me, I didn’t want the role of a prophet, yet I find myself hungering for a better Bride, pushing for reform, traveling further away from the safe confines of American Christendom, finding my own spiritual heartbeat in the words of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Micah, Amos. Sometimes my discontent with the Church I see is so intense, I fight the urge to run away from the whole mechanism and search for something that looks more like a hospital for the sick and a sanctuary for sinners. I think more Jesus is the answer, not more staff, more buildings, more mailers, more landscaping, more fish tanks.
I want to be a part of the answer, but so often I’m still part of the problem.
But when I get quiet and still and drop down from the 30,000-foot view, and I look around at real people and real life, I see the Church rising up everywhere in all her glory. I see brave, ordinary disciples literally changing the world. People are being loved, lives are being honored, bellies are being fed. I see this, because it is happening. It is happening, because regular people are following Jesus into the kingdom. They are doing this, and I love them for it so intensely, these brothers and sisters of mine. I am so proud. These are my people, my family, and I treasure their stories as my own, tucked into my heart, giving me ridiculous courage.
The Church needs more grace, and I am going to give it to her. Since when did anything but grace comprise the family of God? If all we have is doctrine and theology and morality, or if all we have is prophecy and fire and deconstruction, then we are nothing, a resounding gong, a clanging cymbal. If grace doesn’t bind us, then religion will destroy us.
I will still beg for more from this little family of ours, I still hope justice becomes our brand and mercy our calling card, but I will also remember that some are far, far ahead of me and I am further down the road than others, yet we are all moving forward, navigating the narrow path.
So many of us are trying, and that deserves grace.
As life carries on, I hope my edges soften, my defenses weaken. I so desperately want it said of me that I loved well. I don’t want to be the theologically-fierce, prophetically-intense rock that everyone else breaks against, nor do I care to be the critical, bitter cynic that suffocates people with critiques from the wings. That is so exhausting and numbing.
Rather, I want to gather my own little chicks, my husband I’ve been married to as many years as I haven’t, and I want to open my arms to this messy, complicated spiritual family of ours and call forth everything beautiful, lovely, brave, call out each wonderful moment, act of courage, show of mercy, and walk gently forward together, letting grace fill the spaces and offering the benefit of the doubt with abandon.
Grace is the beginning of freedom, and there isn’t a corner of earth that doesn’t need more of it.
So let’s give it.
Need to show more grace? To yourself? Spouse or kids? And…how ‘bout the Church? (That crazy Bride.) Tell me. Let’s hold hands and pray for grace to ruin us all.
So I turned those questions inward and didn’t like what I found. I struggle with an impulse to critique, to deconstruct, to dismantle. I too easily write people off and assume the worst. I am undoubtedly my own worst enemy. I see sharp edges that need softened, and I realize every problem has the same answer:
More grace.
This just might heal the world, mend relationships, sooth our inner turmoil. It could grease the machine of humanity and keep it running rather than grinding to a halt, stalled out for lack of mercy. It reminds us we are brothers and sisters, not demigods over one another. It is the way Jesus came, and it is precisely what saved our souls.
So in an attempt to be the change I hope to see, these are the goals in front of me:
MORE GRACE FOR MYSELF
I will stop the inner voice that batters me day and night. I’ll not listen to the whispers assuring me all hope is lost, nothing good is happening, I could be doing so much better. That voice is so debilitating. She is like the gang leader of a prison mafia. You blew off the fifth chore chart in two years? I will shank you!
No more. I will name the little lovely things, the beautiful moments, the good parts. Small victories deserve noticing. None of us are good at everything, but all of us are great at something. No rule requires focus on the parts we get wrong. There is always, always something worthy to honor if we’re brave enough to live like that.
We will show grace to ourselves, because how dare we rob our transformed hearts of the mercy Jesus won for us already. Living in guilt and despair is such a drag. There is too much goodness, too much love, too much possibility to go on like that. Enough of it. Let us live in the wide open spaces we’ve been granted, and laugh and dance and celebrate and notice the ordinary little wonders we are conditioned to minimize.
MORE GRACE FOR MY HUSBAND
I will stop expecting him to read my mind, decode my body language, meet all my needs, and shut the cabinet doors (<---okay, just please, this one). We’ve logged 19 years of marriage, and that sort of longevity deserves more mercy, more apologies, more celebrating.
I can hardly think of a
What do any of us face together where this isn’t true? Imagine the most pressing issue you are dealing with in your marriage. Now take away the need to be right, to be the winner, to nurture the injury like a little pet, keeping it safe and thriving and growing. Now add grace – undeserved maybe, unexpected perhaps. Persistent, warm, selfless mercy can turn even the biggest ship around.
MORE GRACE FOR MY KIDS
I spoke at an adoption conference last weekend, and although unclear on my actual contribution, I left with renewed resolve to show my children far more grace than
There is a reason God told us His kindness leads us to repentance. His holiness awes me. His righteousness humbles me. His power shocks me. But it is His kindness that moves me to repentance, to adoration, to transformation. Grace just wears down your defenses after awhile. At some point, it becomes clear: this person is really for me.
So I’m going to try to lead with grace for my kids. I hope to laugh first, listen longer, forgive quicker, surprise them with mercy. I will attempt to find the gracious response, even in discipline, even in exhaustion, even in pull-my-hair-out-rend-my-garments frustration. For instance, if a son, hypothetically, didn’t complete his reading minutes and upon an inquiry by his teacher he replied, “I can’t do my homework because we have very late dinners,” although we eat at 6:00pm and blaming your mother for your personal abdication is for chumps, well, I suppose grace has a place in there somewhere, though I didn’t necessarily find that gear last week. Hypothetically.
MORE GRACE FOR THE CHURCH, CAPITAL C
It is no secret that I struggle with the Church. Trust me, I didn’t want the role of a prophet, yet I find myself hungering for a better Bride, pushing for reform, traveling further away from the safe confines of American Christendom, finding my own spiritual heartbeat in the words of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Micah, Amos. Sometimes my discontent with the Church I see is so intense, I fight the urge to run away from the whole mechanism and search for something that looks more like a hospital for the sick and a sanctuary for sinners. I think more Jesus is the answer, not more staff, more buildings, more mailers, more landscaping, more fish tanks.
I want to be a part of the answer, but so often I’m still part of the problem.
But when I get quiet and still and drop down from the 30,000-foot view, and I look around at real people and real life, I see the Church rising up everywhere in all her glory. I see brave, ordinary disciples literally changing the world. People are being loved, lives are being honored, bellies are being fed. I see this, because it is happening. It is happening, because regular people are following Jesus into the kingdom. They are doing this, and I love them for it so intensely, these brothers and sisters of mine. I am so proud. These are my people, my family, and I treasure their stories as my own, tucked into my heart, giving me ridiculous courage.
The Church needs more grace, and I am going to give it to her. Since when did anything but grace comprise the family of God? If all we have is doctrine and theology and morality, or if all we have is prophecy and fire and deconstruction, then we are nothing, a resounding gong, a clanging cymbal. If grace doesn’t bind us, then religion will destroy us.
I will still beg for more from this little family of ours, I still hope justice becomes our brand and mercy our calling card, but I will also remember that some are far, far ahead of me and I am further down the road than others, yet we are all moving forward, navigating the narrow path.
So many of us are trying, and that deserves grace.
As life carries on, I hope my edges soften, my defenses weaken. I so desperately want it said of me that I loved well. I don’t want to be the theologically-fierce, prophetically-intense rock that everyone else breaks against, nor do I care to be the critical, bitter cynic that suffocates people with critiques from the wings. That is so exhausting and numbing.
Rather, I want to gather my own little chicks, my husband I’ve been married to as many years as I haven’t, and I want to open my arms to this messy, complicated spiritual family of ours and call forth everything beautiful, lovely, brave, call out each wonderful moment, act of courage, show of mercy, and walk gently forward together, letting grace fill the spaces and offering the benefit of the doubt with abandon.
Grace is the beginning of freedom, and there isn’t a corner of earth that doesn’t need more of it.
So let’s give it.
Need to show more grace? To yourself? Spouse or kids? And…how ‘bout the Church? (That crazy Bride.) Tell me. Let’s hold hands and pray for grace to ruin us all.
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