7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess

by Jen Hatmaker

  Okay, back to today, dinner was somewhat of a nice surprise. Not nice like “a filet covered in peppercorn sauce” but nice like “this didn’t stink as bad as I thought.” I had a sweet potato and sautéed spinach. These food items are not unfamiliar, but the stripped down cooking process was. Normally, I’d bake sweet potatoes in olive oil and sweet onions or slather them in butter and cinnamon. I love them whipped up with half-and-half and cream cheese. And spinach? Give me mushrooms, shallots, red pepper flakes, olive oil. Give me creamed spinach with nutmeg and butter.

  A microwaved sweet potato with just salt and pepper? Spinach sautéed in water? Surprisingly, not bad. There is nice natural flavor in both, which I couldn’t have possibly known since I condiment-up food (this is a verb) before taking my silverware out of the napkin. Again, it could be that I bought organic, local produce, notoriously more flavorful than its mass-produced, imported counterpart. But regardless, both tasted yummy, even though they were the not-as-cute wingman version of my usual hot chick dishes.

  Admittedly, I felt unanchored in my own kitchen today. I had a cupcake—a strawberry daiquiri cupcake with cream filling and fresh strawberries I made from scratch yesterday—on my counter looking at me. It was strange not to pinch a bite off. I stared it down, trying to own it with my mind. I opened my pantry and uttered, “You’re dead to me.” It was all bizarre.

  Which reminds me: I’m doing this for a reason. This is a fast, a major reduction of the endless possibilities that accompany my every meal. It is supposed to be uncomfortable and inconvenient. Not because I’m a narcissist but because the discomfort creates space for the Holy Spirit to move. This shake-up of my routine commands my attention. I can no longer default to normal, usual, mindless, thoughtless. It’s like having an eyelash under my contact all day.

  What will the Spirit do with this new space? I don’t know. We’ll see. It’s His to engineer. I won’t box Him in or assume I know what He’ll say. I’m not going to project my goals onto His movement. I have simply said, “Jesus, may there be less of me and my junk and more of You and Your kingdom.” I will reduce, so He can increase.

  Admittedly, the spiritual waters were stagnant today. I was distracted by the mechanics, the launching. I struggled to find a spiritual rhythm. Ingredients and headaches sidetracked me. Perhaps this is the philosophy behind the biblical fasts of three days, seven days, and forty days in the Word. Maybe we need more than one day to push through the inauguration onto the business of communion. After the shine wears off, the real spiritual work begins.

  And maybe these blasted headaches will wane.

  Dear coffee: I miss you already. We’re just on a break. Don’t worry. They say if you love something, set it free; and if it comes back to you, then it was truly addicted to you in the first place. Hold onto that. Mark it down: Jen/Java reunion in thirty days. Be strong.

  Late Night E-mail from Brandon Hatmaker

  Dear Jen Hatmaker:

  tor•til•la

  –noun, plural -til•las [-tee-uhz; Sp. -tee-yahs] Mexican Cookery.

  A thin, round, unleavened BREAD prepared from cornmeal or sometimes wheat flour, baked on a flat plate of iron, earthenware, or the like.

  This was my life.

  Day 2

  I’m sitting in the Dallas airport, happy to discover I’ve completed half a day on the road with no major incidents. I made my own breakfast, which was, well, exactly what I ate in the restaurant yesterday, but cheaper. I ate lunch during my layover, and this dawned on me:

  I eat a lot of food in airports. Like, a lot. Layovers are the bane of my existence so I eat in airports or I don’t eat sometimes. I walked past ten places before I found one that would work: That’s right . . . Subway, Jared’s yellow brick road to skinniness.

  Wheat bread, chicken breast, raw spinach, and avocado. Dry. Not only were these fast-food caliber ingredients; they were airport fast-food ingredients. Blech. The girl in front of me, possibly a lost sister, had not one, not two, but three sauces ladled on her sandwich: sweet chicken teriyaki sauce, honey mustard, and oil and vinegar. She even had him spread the sauces with a spatula for even coverage, which is exactly what I do (hello, OCD). I need my condiments and layers represented in exact ratios.

  This is a good time to tell you that I take sandwiches very seriously. Ask my friends. I’m not going down with peanut butter and jelly or plain ham and cheese. Those are for amateurs. I pile up the ingredients: tomatoes, shredded cheddar or gruyere, thinly sliced honey ham, romaine, banana peppers, avocado slices, bread and butter pickles, honey mustard. The honey mustard is so essential that I would not make a sandwich should I find myself without it, which I would never allow to happen. Ever.

  I like my bread lightly toasted, then I pile the meat and cheese on one slice and slide it under the broiler for a meltdown. The cold ingredients go on the other piece, and then they get married and live happily ever after in my belly. I am a sandwich diva. I eat one almost every day.

  But I digress.

  Once I arrived to the church where I was speaking, my adorable hostess had a plain grilled chicken sandwich for me from—wait for it—Chick-fil-A (be still my heart). I’d sent an e-mail vaguely explaining my food limits and asking ever so nicely if I could stay within the boundaries of 7.

  Insert the scenario I was dreading:

  As we arrived at the church, my event planner said, “I want you to meet our pastor!” We trotted into his beautiful office, and he welcomed me by saying:

  “We’ve been hearing all about your weird food requests!”

  I knew it.

  I won’t be remembered as the funny author or the fascinating Bible teacher but as the high-maintenance girl who sent a list of culinary demands like I was Beyonce. So I babbled uncontrollably trying to explain 7 (which I haven’t done yet in under eight minutes), hoping to resurrect my reputation as low maintenance. I came across as a bizarre hippie who was a below average communicator.

  Anyhow, I had a Spirit encounter later that redeemed the day. I spoke to a group of young women, and at the end I invited them to leave something at the altar: tangible sacrifices for a homeless mission—shoes, coats, gloves, scarves; or intangible offerings like a relationship, a habit, a heartache, a dream.

  As I watched these dear girls leave their treasures for God’s safekeeping, we sang:

  I believe You’re my healer.

  I believe You are all I need.

  I believe You’re my portion.

  I believe You’re more than enough for me.

  Jesus You’re all I need.

  So I stood there with tears, hands raised, trusting Jesus to be enough. As I reduce, He is enough. As I simplify, He is enough. He is my portion where food and clothes and comfort fall woefully short. He can heal me from greed and excess, materialism and pride, selfishness and envy. While my earthly treasures and creature comforts will fail me, Jesus is more than enough. In my privileged world where “need” and “want” have become indistinguishable, my only true requirement is the sweet presence of Jesus.

  So I wrote my offering on an index card and left it:

  “All of me.”

  Day 5

  I ate a whole plate of nonsanctioned food today. I was still full five hours later. The only item remotely permissible was chicken, but it was covered with such rich sauce and exotic spices it isn’t even related to my bland chicken-with-salt-only.

  (Warning: impending justification.) The Council just transitioned to Ethiopian food, and they decided to experience genuine food prepared by a true national: enter Aster’s Ethiopian Restaurant. Here’s how the justification unfolded:

  Molly: You definitely want to come. Just eat first.

  Me: Of course I’m coming. Where is it?

  Molly: Well, I-35 and something. I mean, come on! It’s the little restaurant that faces the highway with
the GIANT PICTURE OF AFRICA AND THE ETHIOPIAN FLAG.

  Me: Oh yeah.

  I have an inexplicable, boundless love for Ethiopia, a country I have never set foot in. I’ve memorized pictures, I’ve poured over Web sites, read heaps of African books. I have thirty Ethiopian blogs bookmarked, which I devour with envy and pleasure. The beautiful people of Ethiopia frequent my dreams and nightmares. I know its history, nobility, its strength, its tragedies. I’ve mourned its losses and celebrated its triumphs. All this for a country I’ve never even been to.

  But we are adopting two of its children.

  Ironically, I mailed our adoption application today.

  So I had a clear dog in this hunt. I couldn’t miss an Ethiopian restaurant to breathe its smells, its character. I joined my girlfriends and enjoyed a fascinating tutorial by Judy Kassaye, Aster’s daughter. She taught us about Ethiopian cuisine, how to eat it with injera bread. She explained each dish on the buffet, a veritable feast from the cradle of civilization.

  When she left us to our dining, my girlfriends closed ranks.

  “You have to eat this.”

  “It’s a crime if you don’t.”

  “You’re going to have to cook this stuff soon!”

  “We can’t eat Ethiopian food before you do.”

  “We have Council Majority here. We say yes.”

  So we agreed on a 7 moratorium, and I grabbed a plate, thrilled to share in the Ethiopian spirit and palate. On Judy’s advice we took a spoonful of every dish, around twenty varieties of a few meat dishes and mostly vegetarian fare. Onions, garlic, ginger, turmeric, Berbere, cinnamon, fresh lemon, tomatoes, green peppers; I died and went to flavor heaven. I’m an adventurous eater anyway, but this was a whole new frontier.

  Admittedly, some got spit into my napkin. (I’m sorry, Ethiopia. You would spit out our processed American cheese food and McDonald’s “chicken” nuggets, trust me.) We all had, um, intestinal issues by the day’s end because I’d been eating bland whole foods, and The Council ate like homeless Haitians all week.

  However, we marveled together and discussed favorites and surprises. In fact, everyone but me went back for seconds, because I was already in seriously gray territory and one round of prohibited food was all my Type-A conscience could handle. The Council came back with desserts that looked like chocolate cake and lemon cake. When they pushed it over to me, I said: “That just looks like cake. Do you think it’s uniquely Ethiopian?”

  Silence.

  Crickets.

  “Whatever, Jen. It was made in an Ethiopian restaurant. Stop ruining our fun.” All right. But I passed on what was clearly chocolate cake and lemon cake you could get at Applebee’s.

  Aster immigrated to the U.S. from Addis Ababa when Judy was two, but Judy didn’t join her until she was nine. In so many ways she was like the children we’re adopting: changing countries in elementary school, joining parents who were basically strangers, starting over with Ethiopia cemented in her blood, her language, her heart.

  “Judy? I’m adopting children from Ethiopia who will be around the age you were when you moved to Austin. If you could give me one piece of advice, what would it be?”

  “The kindest thing you can do is keep them connected to their country. Teach them the proud history of Ethiopia and instill love for their mother country. Cook our food. Pray our prayers. Take them back to walk on the soil where they were born. They might push back because sometimes adopted children just want to be American, no different from the other kids around them. But when they are grown, they will be so grateful you kept their heritage alive.”

  At this point Shonna and I were bawling (we’re both adopting and that’s what we do), and all of us were enraptured. I wanted to kidnap Judy and make her be my best friend. We came for Ethiopian food but left with Ethiopia in our hearts. Plus, I bought a pound of Ethiopian coffee beans and a hand-painted mug Aster made. It will be the first thing I enjoy twenty-three days from now, butwhoiscountingnotmeofcourse.

  I came home floating.

  Cut to dinner.

  I made the kids breaded fish fillets, baked and crispy, which they have eaten a thousand times. I put a few goodies on the side (my seven-year-old Caleb loves “cold broccoli,” which I consider a parenting victory and might mention on my adoption paperwork). Since Brandon and I had finished our chicken and spinach, I ran upstairs to do something terrifically exciting like sorting laundry or washing it or drying it or folding it or putting it away. (Jealous?) I came down five minutes later to find all three kids in the living room.

  “Did you finish eating already?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you eat everything?”

  Long pause.

  “Pretty much.”

  I went to the trash and saw five of the six fish fillets uneaten, even unbitten.

  When the kids saw my face, they mumbled: “We didn’t have any ketchup.”

  Maybe it was the headache I couldn’t shake this week. Maybe it was the pizza commercial I saw that caused me actual pain. But probably it was my afternoon in an Ethiopian restaurant where I prayed for my African children and worried they were hungry and wished desperately they knew I was coming. It was probably the haunting knowledge that East Africa is suffering drought for the sixth year in a row. I wish I didn’t know that Ethiopian Disaster Prevention Minister Mikitu Kassahas denied reports that millions need urgent food aid and claimed the government was helping those hit by the drought. He argued, “In the Ethiopian context, there is no hunger, no famine.”3

  My children live in the ninth poorest country in the world where 46 percent are undernourished with a global hunger index listed as “extremely alarming.” Tragically, the World Food Programme, that assists eleven million people in Ethiopia, reduced the emergency food ration by one third, just when food assistance is critically required.4 Meanwhile, embarrassed government officials are insisting the sky is not falling and international intervention is not needed. The chances my African children are going to bed hungry are so high I almost don’t need to waste a line space speculating.

  And tonight my kids here with me in the land of plenty threw away a pound of food because they didn’t have ketchup.

  How can we extract our children from this filthy engine where indulgence and ignorance and ungratefulness and waste are standard protocol? Where they know they can throw perfectly good food away because there is always more in the pantry?

  I wept for all my children tonight, my Ethiopian children orphaned by disease or hunger or poverty who will go to bed with no mother tonight and my biological children who will battle American complacency and overindulgence for the rest of their lives.

  I don’t know who I feel worse for.

  “Tell me about the world before. What was it like?” “We didn’t even know what was precious. We threw away things that people would kill for today.”

  —The Book of Eli

  Day 7

  I could arguably be the Christian poster child. My dad is a pastor, and I went to church three times a week as a fetus. I am fluent in Christianspeak and can navigate the (wacky) world of Christian subculture blindfolded. I can still sing a few Petra songs by heart, and I used to pretend to be Sandy Patti belting out “Via Dolorosa.” I burned my secular tapes and re-bought them all twice. There isn’t an Acquire the Fire, One Day, Passion, or Women of Faith conference I haven’t sat through. I once wore a T-shirt to high school that said, “This is your brain. This is your brain in hell. Any questions?” I wish I were kidding. (If these references make no sense to you, then you obviously didn’t grow up in the Bible Belt, or you’ve repressed the memories. Carry on.)

  Consequently, I have heard more sermons, talks, messages, and lectures on Christianity than can possibly be impactful. I have spent half my life listening to someone else talk about God.

  Because of
this history, I’ve developed something of an immunity to sermons. Typing that is embarrassing; it makes me sound so unteachable. Teaching by example, radical obedience, justice, mercy, activism, and sacrifice wholly inspires me. I’m at that place where “well done” trumps “well said.” When I see kingdom work in the middle of brokenness, when mission transitions from the academic soil of the mind into the sacrificial work of someone’s hands, I am utterly affected. Obedience inspires me. Servant leaders inspire me. Humility inspires me. Talking heads dissecting apologetics stopped inspiring me a few years ago.

  Like this rhetoric I stumbled on:

  I have been thinking lately about how to classify different types of theology. What I am interested in here is only secondarily connected to the sorts of theological positions taken by those doing theology in any of the modes that I will explicate. The modes themselves are what interest me. It seems to me that one can fall anywhere on the continuum between orthodoxy and heterodoxy while working within any of these modes. Of course, some modes may make it easier than others to lean toward one or the other pole on this continuum, but that is beside the point.5

  What the what? I would suggest this entire line of thinking is beside the point. I’m over this. Before I lose my doctoral students, trust me, I know theology has its place. And I appreciate the irony of a Bible student, paid speaker, and pastor’s wife penning these thoughts. But when the exhaustive exegesis of God’s Word doesn’t create people transformed into the image of Jesus, we have missed the forest for the trees. Or perhaps Jesus explained it better: “You diligently study the Scriptures because you think that by them you possess eternal life. These are the Scriptures that testify about me, yet you refuse to come to me to have life” (John 5:39–40).

  The careful study of the Word has a goal, which is not the careful study of the Word. The objective is to discover Jesus and allow Him to change our trajectory. Meaning, a genuine study of the Word results in believers who feed poor people and open up their guest rooms; they’re adopting and sharing, mentoring and intervening. Show me a Bible teacher off mission, and I’ll show you someone with no concept of the gospel he is studying.