7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess

by Jen Hatmaker

  Oh sure, there will always be people who want Jesus in the Oval Office, on Primetime, across from Oprah, on the Red Carpet, spruced up by a stylist and touched up for the cameras. They try to assign Him the power and public sway He always resisted; people want to make a starlet out of Jesus. But He insisted His power was activated in the margins. Jesus didn’t redeem the world on the throne but through the cross.

  I don’t want to consume the redemption Jesus made possible then spurn the methods by which He achieved it. Jesus’ kingdom continues in the same manner it was launched; through humility, subversion, love, sacrifice; through calling empty religion to reform and behaving like we believe the meek will indeed inherit the earth. We cannot carry the gospel to the poor and lowly while emulating the practices of the rich and powerful. We’ve been invited into a story that begins with humility and ends with glory; never the other way around. Let’s align ourselves correctly, sharing in the humble ministry of Jesus, knowing one day we’ll feast at His table in splendor.

  After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied; by his knowledge my righteous servant will justify many, and he will bear their iniquities. Therefore I will give him a portion among the great, and he will divide the spoils with the strong, because he poured out his life unto death, and was numbered with the transgressors. For he bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors. (Isa. 53:11–12)

  Month Three: Possessions

  2,465 square feet.

  Four bedrooms.

  Two living rooms.

  Two and a half bathrooms.

  Nine closets.

  Twenty-six cabinets.

  Three bookshelves.

  Ten dressers and armoires.

  Every last one of them packed full. I invented an engineering trick to get them closed that I should patent. Some cabinets are stacked so high I have to remove forty pounds of stuff before I can retrieve the bottom dwellers. I don’t even know what’s in some of them.

  About three times a year, I rant around the house, screaming at our stuff: “What is all this? How did this get here? Why do we have so much junk? How am I supposed to keep up with all this? Where did this all come from?” And then I remember:

  I bought it all.

  I suppose acting like someone snuck into my house while I was feeding the homeless and filled my shelves with more black shirts and a fourth set of Legos against my will is probably ignoble. To hear me fuss, you’d think I was a victim of drive-by consumerism. Guess what, doves?

  I’m a part of this little game.

  I see it (on you, on them, in their house, at Target, on TV). I manufacture a need for it. Then I buy it. I use it a little or not. I store it/shelve it/stack it/stuff it/get tired of it, then wage war against it one day when all my little things are strewn about as escapees from their shelves and drawers.

  I could blame Big Marketing for selling me imagined needs. I could point a finger at culture for peer pressuring me into having nicer things. I might implicate modern parenting, which encourages endless purchases for the kids, ensuring they aren’t the “have-nots” in a sea of “haves.” I could just dismiss it all with a shrug and casual wave of the hand. Oh, you know me! Retail therapy!

  But if I’m being truthful, this is a sickening cycle of consumerism that I perpetuate constantly. I used to pardon excess from the tension of the gospel by saying, “Oh, it doesn’t matter how much you have; it’s what you do with it.” But that exemption is folding in on itself lately. Plus, let’s be honest: what does “it’s what you do with it” even mean? Are we really doing something honorable with our stuff other than consuming it? I’m not sure carting it all off after we’re bored with those particular items is a helpful response since we just replace it with more.

  Anyhow, I’m getting ahead of myself. So here’s the word of the day: giddy. That’s how I feel about this month. I originally planned on doing this as the fourth month, but I moved it up after the realizations from the last month horrified me. I am starving for reform. Here is the deal:

  • One month.

  • Give seven things away that we own.

  • Every day.

  Yes, I’ve done the math; 210 items out the door. This is a whole family project, and there won’t be a drawer left untouched. I predict the first half of the month will be a cakewalk. I’m a purger by nature; ask anyone. Everything goes. When my friends keep sentimental baby clothes and old newspapers, I threaten to call “Hoarders” on them. Clutter stresses me out. I like clean counters and labels. I’ll gladly purge the first round of stuff.

  It’s the second round I’m guessing will pinch. When the obvious things are gone and things move into the sacrificial zone, let’s see what a peppy cheerleader I am. (My friends have gently skirted my treasures: “So, um, what about your books, Jen?” Back off or you’re dead to me.)

  This month will be executed with The Council and other participating friends. Some will be generic donations, and others will be specific; I’m looking for the perfect recipient. Donating everything through a third party removes the relational magic when one human connects with another. Donating to Goodwill is fine, but I read the following quote three years ago, and it changed my life:

  “I had come to see that the great tragedy in the church is not that rich Christians do not care about the poor but that rich Christians do not know the poor. . . . I long for the Calcutta slums to meet the Chicago suburbs, for lepers to meet landowners and for each to see God’s image in the other. . . . I truly believe that when the poor meet the rich, riches will have no meaning. And when the rich meet the poor, we will see poverty come to an end.”1 (Thank you, Shane Claiborne, for messing me up.)

  So off we go. Seven things a day. Clearly missing the point, my friends asked to paw through my giveaways in case they want something before it gets to the poor. Nice. This reminds me of Caleb who asks every single time we feed the homeless if he can have a burger. One night when I refused, he mumbled: “The homeless get everything.”

  Well, this month they certainly will.

  Day 1

  I wanted for this first entry to be charming and hilarious like the others have been (and clearly humble). I thought I’d share a cute anecdote or let my freak flag fly, easing into Month Three, warming up for this monstrous giveaway. But here is what happened:

  I cleaned out my closet and I am sick.

  Sick to death.

  I couldn’t even count the items or get them organized. They are piled on my closet floor and spilling into my bedroom as we speak. I had to walk away and breathe and sort through my emotions, which are churning too fast to keep up with. So many issues surfaced, I don’t know where to begin. They’re all screaming, “Pick me! Pick me!”

  Okay, here’s one: I grossly underestimated how much I’ve spent on clothes. I pulled out clothes I haven’t worn in three years: Limited, Express, BCBG Max Azria, Seven (hello irony), Banana Republic, Cache, Nordstroms, Lucky, Steve Madden. These did not average $10 each, dear reader. And because I buy at the eleventh hour, moments before I need them, I mostly paid full price. No time for frugality when you’re panic shopping.

  Here’s another reality check: I counted around forty items I’ve worn fewer than five times; four with tags on, never even worn. I might as well have sautéed that money in olive oil and eaten it. I think this bothered me most. Forty items barely worn. How indulgent and irresponsible and wasteful. Careless, that’s the word. If I bought something that didn’t warrant more than three wearings, I did not need it. That is thoughtless, default consumerism: see it, like it, buy it.

  Cleaning out clothes that represented “my last life” kept me on a low simmer the whole morning. This was the bulk of all I purged, and I felt sad. These were beautiful clothes from another time, what I wore before we started Austin New Church—gorgeous, expensive clothes from
a gorgeous, expensive season.

  I don’t know why I felt so sad. Maybe because these are the last reminders of a formative time. I wore these the first time I taught women, the first time I spoke, the first time I had a book signing, the first time I taught in church on a Sunday morning. These pretty clothes gave me confidence when I was terrified and uncertain. I’m looking at them and see Christmas brunches, women’s conferences, memorable weddings, the church lobby. I lived my life in these clothes for seven years, and getting rid of them is a final farewell to our old life.

  After this there is nothing left from “before.”

  Clothes used to define me when my genuine identity was fuzzy. When I didn’t know who I was or what I was here for, I dressed like someone who did. I dolled up the container, but I’m learning that I’m really just a jar of clay. Because that was all I was ever supposed to be. It will be my pleasure to give these beautiful, well-crafted clothes to someone who needs them.

  Because I don’t need them anymore.

  Folks, I give you hundreds of my books. Buyers were like, "Wow. Someone is really into women. And God. And church. And Jodi Piccoult."

  This is how many hanging clothes I got rid of, which doesn't even include folded clothes, shoes, and accessories. Lady Bird is looking at my hanger pile with clear disdain.

  We gave away almost everything in our garage. Everything left fit into these cabinets Brandon found on Craigslist for $20.

  Day 2

  125 things.

  That’s how many items survived the closet cut. It was easier to count what was left than what I donated, a 62 percent reduction. I came off the ledge and got to business. Yesterday was a mess, meaning I was. I left everything everywhere, and we stepped over/on it until this morning. My paralysis receded today, and I engineered a massive Sort and Organize. I had so many clothes that subcategories were required:

  • Trendy dressy

  • Dressy dressy

  • Out of style dressy

  • Ten-pounds-ago-clothes

  • Cute sleeveless

  • Ball diamond sleeveless

  And on and on. Good grief. I could’ve opened a boutique with this inventory. There were two categories: business appropriate and everything else. “Everything else” was loaded into my car (seats laid down to accommodate the plunder), and off I went to SafePlace.

  What is SafePlace, you may ask? Well here you go. SafePlace’s vision, as they report it is:

  Working toward a community free of rape, sexual abuse and domestic violence. SafePlace provides physical safety for women and families affected by sexual and domestic violence.2

  The abused find immediate shelter at SafePlace; the staff intervenes in the hospital and counsels children through trauma. Working to break the cycle, SafePlace provides community outreach, Expect Respect Program for teens and youth, disability services, deaf services, and community dialogue. Violent patterns won’t be repeated on their watch.

  I thought about how my lovely clothes propped up the outside while my inside was struggling to find its way. I smile to think of a broken, abused woman slipping these pretty things on and propping up the outside a bit during her healing process. I pray they remind her that she is beautiful, she is valuable, she is worth it.

  In the giant pile was my second pair of cowboy boots. If you read Interrupted, you’ve been here with me once, but let’s go again (the following is excerpted from Interrupted):

  Easter snuck up on us—the day that changed everything. Deeply moved by Shane Claiborne among others, evidently Brandon sent him an e-mail through dubious channels basically telling him The Irresistible Revolution was messing his wife up, and now he was reading it and didn’t know what to do with it in his context. But we were wrestling and asking new questions, so that was probably good. He just wanted Shane to know that his message mattered to a pastor in the suburbs, even if it was driving us crazy. Sent and forgotten.

  Ring-ring-ring. “Hi, is this Brandon? This is Shane Claiborne . . . yes it is . . . oh, I got your number off your e-mail . . . no your wife is not involved in this. . . . Anyway, I’m going to be speaking at a small Asian American church in Austin Easter night, and I thought maybe we could have coffee afterward . . . no, you’re not being punked . . . okay, I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  Seriously? Who does that? I get e-mails from strangers all the time, and I was feeling good about responding to them, much less pilfering their numbers off their signature line and scheduling coffees with them when I come to their cities. (As a traveling Bible teacher, Shane also convinced me to imitate the hospitality model of the New Testament and stay in homes when I travel instead of hotels. Best decision I’ve ever made. Guess what? There are people who actually have the gift of hospitality and are really good at it! Who knew? Paul and Jesus. And Shane.)

  Anyhow, there was a 100 percent chance that coffee was happening, so we cleared Easter evening to spend with the members of Vox Vaniae and Shane. (Check out this cool church at www.voxveniae.com—if I could, I would eat their Web site.)

  Easter weekend, we blew the six services out of the water at our church: big, incredible, fantastic production, guest musicians, “When the Saints Go Marching In,” trumpets, lights, gospel singers, rappers, sweet videography, killer. We herded approximately ten billion people in and out of there like cattle, clearing out as fast as possible for the next service. As far as wow-factors go, no one left disappointed. You got it, Jack. And Jackie.

  Fast forward a few hours later, and we changed into jeans and drove downtown for Vox Veniae’s one little Easter service with their guest speaker, Shane Claiborne. The church rented this crappy space on the University of Texas campus, and we parked in a ramshackle-looking parking lot a block away. As we walked up to the church, we saw a homeless-looking guy with weird hair, wearing what appeared to be a burlap sack in the shape of pants and a tunic. This was, of course, Shane. (He’s been “escorted out” of several churches before they realized he was their guest speaker. Claiborne: Making Deacons Feel Awkward Since 1998.)

  Maybe 150 people were at this Easter service, and it was simple and stripped down. There were candles, an unscripted welcome. The worship was so un-self-conscious and pure, maybe three or four guys in the band. It was completely unproduced and humble, all of it. It smacked of regular people and simple church; their only preoccupation was this obsession with Jesus. It was tangible. I loved every molecule of it. I wanted to sell my house and move into this room.

  Toward the end of Shane’s talk, he mentioned his time that morning with a large homeless community in San Antonio. He had asked their spokesman what their main needs were. Above all else, they needed good shoes. He explained how they were on their feet all day, and the shoes they got from shelters and Goodwill were everyone else’s castoffs, worn down, worn out. (The homeless community has chronic leg and back pain from long days standing in inadequate shoes.)

  As we were about to take communion, Shane said, “You are under no coercion, but if you want to, you can leave your shoes at the altar when you take communion. Oh! And leave your socks too. We’ll wash them and deliver them all to the homeless community in San Antonio tomorrow.”

  Two significant particulars: One, Easter 2007 in Austin was unseasonably, crazy cold. Like 31 degrees that morning cold. Understand that in April in Austin, we would all typically be wearing shorts and flip flops. Guaranteed. From the youngest to the oldest. As it was, every person there had on real, substantial shoes because it was freezing outside.

  Two, Brandon and I looked down at our shoes in unison and just started laughing. Why? We were both wearing our brand new cowboy boots we’d given each other for Christmas. By a huge margin, they were the most prized and expensive shoes we’d ever owned. I loved them so much, I gave them their own special box in my closet where moth and rust could not destroy.

  Having thrown myself into thi
s arena for a few months, I thought I would be thrilled to rip those boots off my rich feet and happily give them over to the homeless (who would promptly sell them since they are entirely impractical and worth a pretty penny—I’ve learned a few things). But I was discouraged to feel the twinge of selfishness rear its head first. Seriously? I’m going to make a deal over boots? Have I come only this far, God? I suck.

  Jesus, unwilling to entertain my melodrama, cut to the chase: “Give them up. I have something to teach you.” Evidently, this moment was not about me and my urban cowgirl boots. So I took them off, raised them to my lips for a farewell kiss, oh okay, and an embrace, and Brandon and I left them at the altar along with our socks and the last remaining thread of reluctance.

  I’ll not do the moment justice, but at the close of the service, I watched all these smiling people gladly walk barefooted out into the cold, and I heard Jesus whisper: This is how I want My church to look. I want her to rip the shoes off her feet for the least every single chance she gets. I want an altar full of socks and shoes right next to the communion table. I want to see solidarity with the poor. I want true community rallied around My gospel. I want a barefooted church.

  A barefooted church.

  Brandon replaced those boots on Mother’s Day, and today I gave them away again. As we inventoried my things, I told this story to the SafePlace volunteer. He promised to personally ensure my boots found the right feet, someone who needed reminding that though she feels like the least, she is loved by a Savior whose eye is on the sparrow.