by Jen Hatmaker
The ivory-tower approach to sermonizing just wore me out after twenty-five years. I developed resistance to sermons because so many have been heard but rarely seen. This detachment is clearly not good. If I cannot be moved by God’s delivered Word, I’ve set myself up as untrainable. That is some seriously dangerous territory.
So today in church, Matthew, our missions pastor, was at the helm. (A quick insert: my husband and our other two pastors are so on mission, they run out of time for church stuff. Two of them, including Brandon, are bi-vocational with their second jobs in nonprofit work. Brandon has never made it through one sermon without choking up. These dudes are not just talking about it, yet my sermon resistance has flared up even at my own beloved church.) Matthew is our resident theologian/activist. He’s the guy who reads Tozer, then drives off to work with refugees.
Note that 7 is a one-week-old baby today. Spiritually, I’ve noticed a thaw. I can’t pin it down yet except to describe a general softening. God has His eye on a couple of these hardened areas. He is showing me that my emotional barrier is throwing the baby out with the bathwater; I’ve missed some really good babies because they were once immersed in the bathwater of stale organized religion. The Spirit is whispering, “You are fighting a straw man here.”
Matthew’s sermon today confirms this. Or rather, my response to his sermon confirms this. After some smack-you-around Bible teaching on Acts, he asked three questions:
1.What in my life, if taken away, would alter my value or identity?
2.What causes an unhealthy change of attitude, personality, or focus when “it” becomes threatened?
3.What is the thing outside of God that you put everything else on hold for?
I sat there in a tsunami of convictions.
Rather than the arrogant, hard-edged, I’ve-heard-this-stuff-before reaction, I asked God the three questions. And lo and behold, He had some answers. Not surprisingly, I am unhealthily attached to the very things I’ll be giving up during 7: approval, stuff, appearances, money, recognition, control.
That critical perspective has to go, too. Cynicism wreaked some havoc on my gentleness, my humility. When God interrupted our lives a couple of years ago, He deconstructed some toxic paradigms and rebuilt them on a sturdier foundation. However, unwilling to address them, I left a few in rubble, never reconstructed or reimagined. The debris proved fertile soil for cynicism, as it always does for the obstinate.
So I repent today, acknowledging my reflection in the Scripture we studied: “You stiff-necked people . . . you always resist the Holy Spirit!” (Acts 7:51). That is not the legacy I want to leave. I want to live gratefully, humbly, hopefully. Clinging to criticism has not made me happier; it just made me cynical. It played a bit part when Jesus used discontentment to move me, but now it is simply baggage I must shed if I hope to carry on with integrity.
Day 8
Hey, guess who I hate? That’s right, you, Chicken Breast. I can’t believe I ever had feelings for you. You’re so dry, and you only taste good when someone covers up your blahness. Salt and pepper is just lipstick on a pig or, in this case, a fowl. I spent forever making a sweet potato and apple hash and stuffing it into your innards, only to be sorely disappointed by the Sahara Desert dryness of your boob meat. You need to be breaded, coated, injected, and smothered to be decent. We’re going to have to part ways. I’m shacking up with your little friends Thighs, Legs, and Weird Parts Underneath That Taste Good. You’ve ruined my last dish.
However, I had a glorious culinary moment today, quite by accident. Like an addict returns to her crack house, I watched the Food Network today during lunch. Listen, I can’t quit the FN. Those people are my friends, my muses. I sent an e-mail to the Neeleys once asking if they would adopt me. I mute Rachael Ray to avoid her wordy words but copy her oh-so-marvelous dishes. Giada gets lots of play as long as the hubs is gone, since I’m not all about her low-cut shirts near my man. There aren’t words to express my devotion to Paula Deen. I enjoy watching thirty minutes of food preparation as much as watching Brandon do the dishes.
So while I dined on spinach (again) and half a sweet potato (again), what to my hungry eyes should appear, but Ina Garten, Mrs. Barefoot Contessa, pulling out ingredients for a dish that looked 7-approved. It was like watching lottery balls pop up while I held my precious ticket with its seven small numbers:
“Butternut squash . . .”
I can sub sweet potatoes!
“Nice tart apples . . .”
(gasp) Check.
“Sweet onions . . .”
(sigh) I can omit.
“Olive oil . . .”
Oh my stars.
“Salt and pepper . . .”
Come on, come on . . .
“And a little chicken stock.”
OH MY GOSH! OH MY WORD! I can’t believe it! I won! These are all my ingredients! I called my friends and sent out a mass e-mail. It was thrilling. I emerged from food poverty with one magnificent windfall.
Following directions to a T, I roasted the cubed sweet potatoes and apples in olive oil and salt and pepper, making good use of their natural sugars as they caramelized in the oven. A quick buzz in the food processer to smooth it out. Back into a saucepan to thin out with chicken stock (which I made the day before) and cracked pepper.
Gavin: What’s chicken stock?
Me: It’s basically chicken-flavored water.
Gavin: Awesome! Will you put some in my lunch tomorrow instead of juice?
Me: You’re telling me you want to drink chicken water?
Gavin: Who wouldn’t?
So anyway, the soup started bubbling, the caramelized bits rose to the top, and I did a happy hand clap. I sliced up half an avocado for the perfect topping, took a picture of my precious new dish, and let me tell you something: I blacked out a couple of times. It was soup divinity, and I became its disciple. I can’t fathom how good it will taste when I add roasted onions and a dash of cream and fresh thyme. Oh, mama. Thank you, Ina Garten. Goes to show you: Never trust a skinny cook, but always trust one with a nice big squishy middle because that girl understands her some good food.
The kids are picking recipes and planning menus. The number of children who chose recipes involving cheese: 3. The number of children who chose recipes involving vegetables: 0.
Day 10
Brandon is insisting I tell you that I ate a tortilla in the airport with my eggs. They didn’t have toast, okay? Plus, everyone knows a tortilla is a thin, round, unleavened bread prepared from cornmeal or sometimes wheat flour, baked on a flat plate of iron, earthenware, or the like.
Day 11
I just got off the phone with Trina, and it’s official: 7 draws a strong response. Intentional reduction is so uncommon people just don’t know what to do with it. Folks are adding, not subtracting.
We’re encountering two responses. For those hungry for simplicity too, they beg, “Take me with you!” 7 resonates with people already carrying tension about what enough really means. They immediately pledge devotion to 7, complete with a dissertation on how tired, broke, unhealthy, and disappointed they are with the American rat race.
“I’m doing this with you. Send me everything you have so far.”
“My whole family is in.”
“This is the best idea I’ve ever heard next to the Bible.”
“I feel violated, like you’ve been reading my thoughts!”
“My wife came home ranting about gardening and adoption after eating lunch with you.” (Sorry, Luke.)
Ironically, studies show that increased consumerism comes at a steep price. A rise in prosperity is not making people happier or healthier. Findings from a survey of life satisfaction in more than sixty-five countries indicate that income and happiness track well until about $13,000 of annual income per person. After that, additional income produces
only modest increments in self-reported happiness. It’s no wonder. We are incurring debt and working longer hours to pay for the high-consumption lifestyle, consequently spending less time with family, friends, and community.
“Excess consumption can be counterproductive,” said Gary Gardner, director of research for Worldwatch. “The irony is that lower levels of consumption can actually cure some of these problems.”6 That makes sense: If we buy only what we need and can afford, debt becomes a moot point. When accumulation is not our bottom line, we are liberated to disperse our time and resources differently. I know working to pay off The Man and keep the house of cards intact has not made me a happy camper. A bunch of us are wondering if there is a better way.
But not everyone. I’m developing a thick skin for the other reaction 7 draws. The Council concurs. It goes more like this:
“Why would you do that?!”
“Weird.”
“Don’t you think this is a little extreme?” (Um, yes.)
“You’re turning eccentric.”
“What is the point?”
“Hmmm.”
“You always have to have something, don’t you?” (I don’t even know what this means.)
I can tell who is going to dig it and who so isn’t. I’m getting used to the “I-thought-you-were-normal-but-now-I-see-I-was-plainly-wrong” face. Maybe I am turning into a girl who always has to have something, I don’t know. What I do know is that my “something” is a desire to look more like Jesus. I am pierced by Gandhi’s astute observation: “I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.”
Would Jesus overindulge on garbage food while climbing out of a debt hole from buying things He couldn’t afford to keep up with neighbors He couldn’t impress? In so many ways I am the opposite of Jesus’ lifestyle. This keeps me up at night. I can’t have authentic communion with Him while mired in the trappings He begged me to avoid.
I wouldn’t dare call this reaction to 7 persecution since that would be laughable. I’m not sure “I think you’re stupid” is in the same category as “I’m going to kill you” as far as spiritual backlash goes. But it does forge a small sense of solidarity with Jesus, as He was always misunderstood for His countercultural ideas.
The least shall be the greatest.
Blessed are the meek.
Humble yourself like a child.
Sell all your things and give to the poor.
Don’t gain the world only to forfeit your soul.
I can’t imagine these were popular ideas either. I’m sure Jesus got the “I-thought-you-were-normal-but-now-I-see-I-was-plainly-wrong” face plenty of times. He seriously knew how to thin out a crowd. He always gunned for less, reduced, simplified. He was the most fully and completely unselfish, ungreedy, unpretentious man to ever live, and I just want to be more like Him. It’s as simple and hard as that.
So if eggs and apples, bread and spinach, sweet potatoes and chicken, avocados and water can help Jesus overcome me, then so be it. I’m okay with my oddball label.
Day 12
I had a glorious, marvelous 7 evening.
It started with a dinner invite, although this would typically be disastrous. (When consulting The Council on what to do when people cook for me or take me to dinner, they advised: “Don’t be an imbecile.”) I tell people the basics of 7 and hope for the best when I’m not in control of the kitchen.
Sidebar: This position resulted in two extraordinary food oases this month. First, an event planner in Texarkana catered a dinner, anchored by chicken salad sandwiches. Striving not to be an imbecile, I ate it. Oh, did I eat it. Chicken and mayonnaise should spawn sandwiches like this one forever and ever, amen. Second, my event team in Columbia hosted a dinner involving creamed spinach. I couldn’t speak because there were no words. I ate every bite before my fork acknowledged the chicken. I don’t care what it is—drown it in cream and Parmesan, and, as we say in Texas: It’ll eat.
Anyhow, this dinner invite was safe because it was Council Member Susana’s parents, Dale and Laurel, who’d already navigated Pick Five with her. Laurel asked about my seven foods in advance, so I didn’t waste any emotional space worrying about an impending evasion.
Dale and Laurel are Messianic Jews who go to our church along with most of their giant family/commune. We arrived at 6:00, just as the sun was setting. The table boasted a beautiful presentation of all seven foods. It was so dear and thoughtful, I almost burst into tears.
Traditionally, on Friday afternoon, observant Jews begin Shabbat, or Sabbath, preparations. The mood is like preparing for the arrival of a special, beloved guest: the house is cleaned, the family dresses up, the best dishes are set, and a festive meal is prepared—in our case, a 7-inspired meal. Shabbat candles are lit and a blessing recited just before sunset. This ritual, performed by the woman of the house, officially marks the beginning of Shabbat.
The two candles represent two commandments: zakhor (“remember” creation and God’s deliverance from captivity) and shamor (“observe” the day of rest God initiated at creation). Dale led us through a traditional Kiddush, a prayer over wine sanctifying Shabbat while passing a loaf of challah, a sweet bread shaped into a braid.
We shared some beautiful readings of Scripture together (until the Hebrew parts when Brandon and I stayed silent to not butcher this lovely moment with atrocious pronunciation). Dale and Laurel sang a few sections, and the whole thing was beautiful. Between the communion, the food prepared with loving hands, the Scripture, and the ancient rhythm of it all, I was overjoyed.
There are many Shabbat readings available, but this one I love:
There are days when we seek things for ourselves
and measure failure by what we do not gain.
On the Sabbath we seek not to acquire but to share.
There are days when we exploit nature
as if it were a horn of plenty that can never be exhausted.
On the Sabbath we stand in wonder before the mystery of creation.
There are days when we act as if we cared nothing
for the rights of others.
On the Sabbath we are reminded that justice is our duty and a better world our goal.
Therefore we welcome Shabbat.
Day of rest, day of wonder, day of peace.
Day 16
Facebook status/thread by Brandon:
I’m tired of avocado and eggs. And I hate spinach without a bunch of ranch. There. I said it.
Jen Hatmaker: Don’t forget dry chicken breast. I hate you, chicken breast.
Brian J: Try stewed spinach. Had some in grade school. Scarred me for life!
Becky F: I love avocados and eggs, but I include sausage, sour cream, and cheese. Is that helpful?
Matt F: Are you on a reality show?
Brandon H: Feels like it, Matt. Feels like it.
Becky M: Dear Sweet Jesus, Please make the chicken juicy. Amen.
Day 17
So I had my first 7-induced cry. I felt it coming on. I alerted Brandon that at some point today I would probably cry, and it wouldn’t be his fault, but I might blame it on him. He was warned.
It was the perfect storm of factors. I was ousted from my house for the last three days, making 7 adherence profoundly difficult. I’ve had five coffees/breakfasts/lunches in three days, meaning other people drank coffee, and I pretended to listen while fixating on their java.
Or they ate tomato-basil soup at La Madeline’s while I picked at plain chicken and dry spinach. Cashier: “So you don’t want the bacon on your salad?” No. “What about the candied walnuts?” No. “Red onions or feta cheese?” No. Just spinach on a plate, dude! Gah! It still came out tossed in vinaigrette and I had to send it back.
Plus, I burned my third batch of baked sweet potato chips. I
JUST WANT A SNACK FOOD, FOR THE LOVE OF PETE. I need a handful of little somethings I can pop in my mouth. Listen, this is how sweet potato chips bake: too soft, too soft, too soft, burnt. I can’t get it right. They need to be fried in oil, or just forget about it.
Then, last night, some pastor friends from Chicago were in town for a conference and wanted to have dinner. “We’ve heard all about Hula Hut!” they chirped. “Can we meet there?”
%@*#!!
Hula Hut is the greatest Mexican/Hawaiian fusion restaurant ever, a total Austin icon. They make homemade tortillas and salsa I would commit actual murder just to have. My craving for tomato products is so severe, I think I’ve developed a disorder. I dream about salsa, marinara, spaghetti sauce, and pico de gallo. And ketchup. I feel lightheaded just typing it. Sitting at Hula Hut with its glorious salsa six inches away was torture. So was my condiment-free entrée while our friends were all experiencing food spasms.
Plus, it’s been raining for five days.
Plus, Texas lost to Baylor in overtime. Baylor.
Plus, the Super Bowl is Sunday, and 7 is going to ruin it.
So that’s why I looked at an avocado next to yesterday’s chicken and burst into tears. I just want to eat. Other stuff. All my foods except apples are soft and bland. (If it weren’t for apples, I’d be bereft.) I had a nice, dramatic lament while Brandon commented helpfully, “This whole thing was your idea, you know.”
I tried to redirect my emotions toward Jesus, but I struggled to maintain composure. Everything felt dark; I couldn’t find center. I retreated to my bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed and prayed:
