by Jen Hatmaker
7, Digital Edition
Based on Print Edition
7
Copyright © 2012 by Jen Hatmaker
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
978-1-4336-7296-5
Published by B&H Publishing Group
Nashville, Tennessee
Author represented by the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, Colorado, 80920, www.alivecommunications.com.
Dewey Decimal Classification: 248.84
Subject Heading: MATERIALISM CHRISTIAN LIFE COST AND STANDARD OF LIVING
Unless otherwise noted, Scripture is taken from the New International Version (NIV), copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society.
Also used is The Message, the New Testament in Contemporary English, © 1993 by Eugene H. Peterson, published by NavPress, Colorado Springs, Colorado.
Also used is the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV), copyright © 1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of Churches of Christ in the United States of America, used by permission, all rights reserved.
7 8 9 10 11 12 • 17 16 15 14 13
Dedication
For Jesus, who lived so lightly on this earth,
He didn’t even have a place to lay His head.
I want so deeply to be like You.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Month One: Food
Month Two: Clothes
Month Three: Possessions
Month Four: Media
Month Five: Waste
Month Six: Spending
Month Seven: Stress
Conclusion
A Few Companies with a Conscience
Notes
Acknowledgments
No one lost their lunch on this joyride more than Brandon and my family, swept up in another one of “my little ideas,” as the hubs says. God love them. There are not four people I’d rather eat eighty pounds of avocados and learn how to compost with more than the Hatmaker tribe. Hey? I know! Let’s add two more kids and become a full-fledged circus. I love you, Brandon, Gavin, Sydney, Caleb . . . and our two Ethiopian darlings who have no idea what they are about to get into. You are the family I’ve always dreamed of.
The second gaggle of people who invested in 7 is The Council. For reasons yet unclear, you joined the fray and kept the wheels on. You ate seven foods and wore seven clothes and gave your stuff away and shut down Facebook . . . and you weren’t even getting paid. Your wisdom and enthusiasm were my fuel. Becky, Molly, Jenny, Shonna, Susana, and Trina: I love you, you crazy, wild, hilarious, inappropriate, loyal girls. Be mine forever.
Our little Austin New Church family has changed my life in such acute ways I can no longer envision my life without you in it. You are adopting, sacrificing, fighting human trafficking, dreaming, fostering, feeding, building wells, building orphanages, building the kingdom. In the context of ANC, 7 fit right in. I’m not even a weird girl around you people, and that is really saying something. I love you profoundly.
I want to thank the advocates and visionaries and dreamers and thinkers who guided me through the mazes of 7. I didn’t understand demand-side economics. Now I do. I didn’t know how sugar snap peas grow. Now I do. I’ve had so many teachers. Thank you for your books, your articles, your divergent and courageous lives. Keep saying what you’re saying. It matters.
Lee Hough, you are the best thing that happened to me this year. Why on earth you believe in me and champion me like you do, I haven’t the slightest idea, but you are the best advocate and agent in the galaxy. I’m so grateful you’re in my corner. Thank you for the tireless work you do on my behalf. If I ever have another baby, I’ll name it Lee Hough.
So much love to the B&H team. Special thanks to my editor, Jennifer Lyell, who became more than just someone who deletes my ellipses, but a true friend and advocate. We’ve shared Friday Night Lights, therefore, we are now in a covenant relationship. To Kim Stanford, Amanda Sloan, Jeff Godby, and everyone who made this better, beautiful, possible . . . thank you.
Introduction
This is all Susana’s fault. She had to trot out her little social experiment, “Pick Five” right when God was confronting me with my greed, excess, materialism, consumerism, envy, pride, comfort, insatiability, irresponsibility, and well, there was other stuff but I want you to like me, so I’ll shelve the rest for later. (Did I mention “need for approval”?) Let me back up. My husband, Brandon, and I have undergone profound transformation in the last three years. Let me sum it up: God really messed us up. We were happy-go-lucky; Brandon was a pastor at a big ol’ church making excellent scratch, and we spent our money however we wanted (on ourselves). We were climbing the ladder, baby. Fortunately, we didn’t have to worry with the poor because we were paid pros serving the saved. We spent so much time blessing blessed people, there was nothing left over. Besides, that wasn’t really “our thing.”
Then, let’s see, a bunch of stuff happened, the Holy Spirit leveled us and laid our motives bare, we turned into crazy people, yada yada yada . . . we started a new church centered on justice. Sorry for the gaps, but it’s too much (but my book Interrupted will walk you through the thrilling account of God turning our world upside down).
Our adventure in relearning the essentials of faith, Austin New Church, has been on the ground for two years. It’s a little faith community that has, quite simply, changed my life. Our mantra is “Love your neighbor, serve your city.” Taking a cue from Francis Chan, we take the Scripture “love your neighbor as yourself” seriously, and we give away half of all we receive. We won’t spend more on ourselves than our poor neighbor.
A poor church plant operating on half of its intake means we rent a worship space with dancing frogs painted on the back wall and carpet that saw the Nixon administration. Our front door won’t open properly, which resulted in one guy leaving during church to get something, not being able to get back in, and sitting on the curb until service was over. Our parking lot looks like it was hit by an earthquake—and then patched up by drunken monkeys. We have no support staff, no secretaries, no copy machine. Our band is almost entirely homegrown. When we needed a drummer, one of our guys reported playing “a few times in college.” He was on stage the next week where he kicked over a cymbal and accidentally launched a drumstick into the crowd. These are deficiencies most pastors would never stand for (or most churchgoers), but we won’t buy carpet at the expense of orphans. $10,000 for a new parking lot could fund a hundred thousand tree seedlings to reforest Africa’s decimated land and stimulate their local economy. It’s kind of a no-brainer.
But before you launch a parade, let’s revisit my description in the first paragraph. Granted, we descended many rungs in the last three years, and transformation did not come cheaply or without pain. We suffered loss—relationships, reputation, position, security, approval, acknowledgment—all the stuff I used to crave. But here is what I gave up the least:
Comfort.
I might have disagreed two years ago when having a conversation with a homeless man was the most uncomfortable situation I could envision. When God first sent us to serve the poor, every moment was awkward. Each confrontation was wrought with anxiety. In Interrupted, I made this statement: “I thought I’d never be happy again.”
However, God changed me and grafted genuine love for the least into my heart. I looked forward to every e
ncounter, rejected service that was labor-intensive rather than relationally focused. I became a girl who loved the marginalized. I couldn’t get enough of them in my personal space.
So what used to be comfortable (being a big fat consumer Christian) became uncomfortable; then what was uncomfortable (engaging the poor) became comfortable. Follow? Perhaps I gave up emotional comfort for awhile, but then God affirmed Himself as our provider, established the vision He gave us, and taught me how to love. The uncomfortable turned into our life’s mission, and we would never go back.
That said, a new tension began lurking. The catalyst was the week we housed twelve evacuees from Hurricane Ike. Our little church, four months old at the time, took in eighty strangers from the coast that had nowhere to go. We moved our three kids into our bedroom, washed sheets, blew up mattresses, rolled out sleeping bags, and readied the house for an onslaught. As carloads arrived and we welcomed them in, one ten-year-old boy walked into our home, looked around with huge eyes, and hollered:
“Dad! This white dude is RICH!”
We are.
For years I didn’t realize this because so many others had more. We were surrounded by extreme affluence, which tricks you into thinking you’re in the middle of the pack. I mean, sure, we have twenty-four hundred square feet for only five humans to live in, but our kids have never been on an airplane, so how rich could we be? We haven’t traveled to Italy, my kids are in public schools, and we don’t even own a time-share. (Roll eyes here.)
But it gets fuzzy once you spend time with people below your rung. I started seeing my stuff with fresh eyes, realizing we had everything. I mean everything. We’ve never missed a meal or even skimped on one. We have a beautiful home in a great neighborhood. Our kids are in a Texas exemplary school. We drive two cars under warranty. We’ve never gone a day without health insurance. Our closets are overflowing. We throw away food we didn’t eat, clothes we barely wore, trash that will never disintegrate, stuff that fell out of fashion.
And I was so blinded I didn’t even know we were rich.
How can I be socially responsible if unaware that I reside in the top percentage of wealth in the world? (You probably do too: Make $35,000 a year? Top 4 percent. $50,000? Top 1 percent.) Excess has impaired perspective in America; we are the richest people on earth, praying to get richer. We’re tangled in unmanageable debt while feeding the machine, because we feel entitled to more. What does it communicate when half the global population lives on less than $2 a day, and we can’t manage a fulfilling life on twenty-five thousand times that amount? Fifty thousand times that amount?
It says we have too much, and it is ruining us.
It was certainly ruining me. The day I am unaware of my privileges and unmoved by my greed is the day something has to change. I couldn’t escape the excess or see beyond my comforts though. I wrung my hands and commiserated with Brandon but couldn’t fathom an avenue out. We’d done some first-tier reductions, freeing up excess to share, but still . . . the white dude was really rich.
Which brings me back to Susana. About this time she announced her Pick Five project: only five foods for forty days subtitled “Simplified Life, Amplified God.” My first reaction was, “She’s so crazy.” (I really love food, and that will be become apparent in the next section.) But as the experiment unfolded and I heard what she was learning, I became a teeny bit enamored.
See, I am an extremist. I don’t learn lessons easily, subtly, or delicately. I can’t be trusted with loose boundaries. If God gives me an inch, I will take a marathon. Dipping one toe in doesn’t work for me; it simply hastens my return to the couch where I can return to my regularly scheduled program. I am a difficult student who is a lot—okay, extremely—bullheaded. Total immersion is the only medium that can tame me.
I was where all my best ideas happen (the shower), and in forty minutes—I apologized to God for the egregious waste of water—“Pick Five” turned into 7. It had sloppy edges and “undeveloped” is too kind, but I realized this extreme social experiment was my ticket out of nauseating consumerism. Or at least it would start the engine.
I ruminated for six months, letting it marinate, forcing my friends to discuss it with me. I started praying about what God wanted; what would move me closer to His agenda and further from mine? How could this be meaningful, not just narcissistic and futile? What areas needed the most renovation? How am I blind and why? Where have I substituted The American Dream for God’s kingdom? What in my life, in the lives of most westerners, is just too stinking much?
• Food
• Clothes
• Possessions
• Media
• Waste
• Spending
• Stress
Seven months, seven areas, reduced to seven simple choices. I’m embarking on a journey of less. It’s time to purge the junk and pare down to what is necessary, what is noble. 7 will be an exercise in simplicity with one goal: to create space for God’s kingdom to break through.
I approach this project in the spirit of a fast: an intentional reduction, a deliberate abstinence to summon God’s movement in my life. A fast creates margin for God to move. Temporarily changing our routine of comfort jars us off high center. A fast is not necessarily something we offer God, but it assists us in offering ourselves. As Bill Bright, founder of Campus Crusade for Christ, said, “It is exchanging the needs of the physical body for those of the spirit.”1
“‘Even now,’ declares the LORD, ‘return to me with all your heart, with fasting and weeping and mourning. Rend your hearts and not your garments. Return to the LORD your God, for he is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love” (Joel 2:12–13). According to Scripture, fasting was commanded or initiated during one of six extreme circumstances:
• Mourning
• Inquiry
• Repentance
• Preparation
• Crisis
• Worship
As I write this, I enter the next seven months for (at least) two of these extreme reasons. First and foremost, repentance. 7 will be a tangible way to bow low and repent of greed, ungratefulness, ruined opportunities, and irresponsibility. It’s time to admit I’m trapped in the machine, held by my own selfishness. It’s time to face our spending and call it what it is: a travesty. I’m weary of justifying it. So many areas out of control, so much need for transformation. What have we been eating? What are we doing? What have we been buying? What are we wasting? What are we missing? These questions grieve me, as well they should. I’m ready for the deconstruction.
My second reason is for preparation. Most of my life is in front of me yet. I’m thirty-five and only six years into my assignment as a writer and Bible teacher. The bulk of my work lies ahead. My children are young—still entirely impressionable. It is not too late to untether them from the lie of “more.” Our church vision is new, and our mission is really just beginning. I’m hungry for the reconstruction.
I’m ready to adopt Jesus’ version of rich, blessed, and generous. He had plenty to say on the subject. I look forward to what God will accomplish in the next seven months. He will meet me, I’m certain. I’m anxious about turning the soil, but I’m so eager for liberation that I’m still willing to become weird and eccentric for the next seven months. It’s the means to the harvest.
Jesus, may there be less of me and my junk and more of You and Your kingdom.
Here we go.
This was the week that started it all: Our house guests evacuated from Hurricake Ike, standing in front of the White Rich Dude's house.
Two of our house guests during the hurricane with Caleb. The house was filled with so much fun and laughter, we let the kids stay home from school and play with their "new best friends."
In the week they stayed with us, I gained three pounds after a steady diet of enchiladas, tortil
las, sopapilla, and chips. I took one of the women shopping for ingredients, and she said, "You get the white girl food. I'll get the Mexican girl food."
The Council
I have a personality that would land me in prison without a steady influx of wise intervention. I’m something of a loose cannon. Left to my own devices, I’d be a recurring character on Dog the Bounty Hunter. Luckily, I married Mr. Responsible who has rescued me from disaster more times than I’d like to admit. Brandon senses when I am about to self-destruct:
“Take your fingers off the keyboard and back away from that e-mail.”
“You have that look in your eyes. Go for a nice drive in the country.”
“Now is a good time to stop allowing words to flow out of your mouth.”
“Once that picture goes on the Internet, it’s there forever.”
So a project like 7 sounds straightforward to you, but to me it sounds like a wealth of opportunities to hedge. I’ve already polished up the phrase “extenuating circumstance” to use regularly for the next seven months. What about a wedding? What about the airport? What about a season finale? What about a series finale? For the love of the land.
I will clearly need help to keep me on the straight and narrow.
Enter The Council. Six friends, six personalities, six chances to keep this thing from derailing. The seven of us will confer on all things 7 for the duration of the project. They are advisors, cheerleaders, decision-makers, counselors, collaborators, and brainstormers. They are my personal think tank.
When I encounter a weird situation or roadblock, these girls are the Supreme Court. They helped develop the framework for 7 already and hinted at probable participation. Their creative ideas go straight into the 7 bucket, although Trina insists that her angle on Month One could become a best-seller and net her millions which she won’t share. (Jenny argued that she was codeveloper of the angle and is entitled to half. I’m going to let them fight this out in the courts, knowing they will not land on Oprah given that it is going off the air before the book comes out and instead will just advise some random author for seven months for no pay.)
