7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess

by Jen Hatmaker

  •We sponsored a new child through Help End Local Poverty with money we reallocated.

  •Lots of our friends have joined us.

  •Our prayers are changing.

  We came up with this list and then some, culling lessons out of 7 thus far. We talked about how fasting helps us think differently. We remembered the lifestyle of our Ethiopian kids, which centers us immediately. I validated their sadness at missing dinner, telling them my hardest 7 moments, too.

  As usual, Sydney was most engaged, my spiritually sensitive bleeding- heart child. She will live in Haiti or adopt ten children or translate the Bible into an obscure language one day. She carries her emotions close, and they leak out at the slightest provocation. She thinks deeply. She cares sincerely. She worries about homeless people on cold nights. She cries over dead squirrels (well, he should have looked both ways).

  Then there are my boys. I desperately worry they’ll have to provide for a family someday. Where thoughts on Scripture and life aspirations reside in Sydney’s brain, there is a black hole for the boys, crowded out by football and Nintendo and whatever is shiny in front of their faces. I can hold them in deep territory for about forty-three seconds.

  After a twenty-minute discussion on fasting, I noticed all three kids staring pensively out the window, thinking their thoughts. I decided to mine their conclusions to show my readers how well I parented through this experiment. “Hey guys? Whatcha thinking?”

  Sydney: You know? We only missed one dinner out with friends. Big deal. Think how many meals the homeless people miss, Mom. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I’m going to think about them tonight. At least we have a home to go to and food in our kitchen to eat.

  Caleb: Mom? If I had to pick a superpower, I would teleport.

  Awesome.

  I perfected a two-fork method for putting cheese on hotdogs that I plan to patent. Please note the dexterity here.

  Our Restore Group, putting together hygiene packs to pass out on Easter. These are gone in a nanosecond.

  The kids are actually in a gaggle at the end of the table, where we forced them to contain their enthusiasm against their wishes. They were five minutes away from a mutiny.

  This lovely man in the Mardi Gras beads informed us that he was the head of security for Mel Gibson on the Passion of the Christ set. Also for Joel Osteen. Mmmkay.

  Day 13

  Phone call from my girlfriend Stephanie:

  Steph: You want to meet for lunch at Torchy’s Tacos?

  Jen: I can’t this month. 7.

  Steph: Oh yeah. I’m paying.

  Jen: See you at noon.

  Day 17

  The Karpophoreo Project, our gardening partners through Community First, launched the concept of “Family Dinner,” a gathering of residents (formerly homeless) and KP volunteers once a month for dinner. Ideally using fresh produce from our gardens, backyard garden hosts cook a meal in the RV park community trailer to share with the residents.

  For the first Family Dinner, I volunteered to sous chef alongside my girlfriends Amy and Lynde. We assembled a menu of minestrone (thank you, Pioneer Woman!), crusty French bread, green salad chock-full of goodies, and homemade raspberry cobbler. We gathered our produce bounty and drove to the RV community, approximately four inches from the airport where planes just insist on taking off and landing constantly.

  The community center is a jazzed-up FEMA trailer with a beautiful three-hundred-square-foot deck built by my adorable, tall, supercute brother Drew. (He’s single, ladies, but he won’t last on the open market with that face; send your inquiries with a brief bio, and my sisters and I will review it.) As we chopped and cooked and baked and roasted, the residents chatted us up with glasses of sweet tea because that is what we drink in Texas, amen.

  Most of the residents have worked in our backyard gardens so we’ve been in each other’s lives for a year. This was a gathering of friends: Gordy, Brooke and Robin, Ms. Rosa, Jimmy, Kenneth and James, Gary, Avon.

  And then there was Ben.

  Ben has what we call “a little alcohol problem.” On this evening Ben had indeed consumed a little alcohol, enough to tranquilize an elephant. After showing my kids the broken-finger-magic-trick twelve times, I noticed their strained laughter and rescued them. Which is to say I became Ben’s new target. The bone of contention he picked was my ridiculous plan to adopt.

  Jen: We’re adopting siblings from Ethiopia.

  Ben: Excuse me, ma’am. Excuse me, with all due respect, did you say you’re adopting? ADOPTING??

  Jen: Yes, Ben.

  Ben: Excuse me, ma’am, ma’am, with all due respect, are you *#@!-ing crazy?? You’re going to adopt kids who are not like you and bring them into your home? Now I’m about to be the dumbest guy in the world [Ben’s other favorite drunky phrase], but this is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. Do you know what you’re doing?? DO YOU?? I’m Puerto Rican! [I don’t know how this is relevant, but he included it often.]

  Jen: They don’t have parents, Ben. They’re in an orphanage. We’re going to be their family.

  Ben: Excuse me, ma’am, with all due respect, but you are an IDIOT! That’s like adopting ME. Do you understand that? Like bringing ME into your home and expecting that to work!

  Jen: It would be exactly like that, Ben, if we were adopting a middle-aged Puerto Rican alcoholic, but these are kindergartners.

  Ben: Ma’am, with all due respect, and I’m about to be the dumbest guy in the world, but you’re about to *#@! up your life.

  After a half hour of this dialogue, Ben was escorted (read: strong-armed) to his trailer to sleep it off. Upon a stern scolding the next morning, Ben couldn’t remember a thing, but he was extremely embarrassed and remorseful, which is something I want you to know. Ben is human, capable of regular emotions and reform, just like the rest of us. I, too, have woken up the next day and thought, My gosh, did I really say that? His social misstep was no different from any regrets I’ve suffered from poor choices or flawed discernment. Ben sent his deepest apologies, the most noble response to failure. He messed up, then he asked forgiveness—it’s the oldest song of humanity, one we’ve all sung.

  Jen and Steven, the KP directors, declared Family Dinner a colossal failure. (Jen’s e-mail to me: “I was mortified. I felt like my children were misbehaving. I have no idea how to play the role of mother at the ripe young age of twenty-six to the residents.”)

  Failure? I totally disagree.

  First of all, “Family Dinner” implies some dysfunction. I call as my witness thousands of American Thanksgivings, full of drama and infighting, barely held together by a roasted turkey. Families fly their freak flags with one another; it’s what families do. We expect Uncle Albert to drink too many rum and Cokes and start telling whacked-out stories. Families circle the wagons around this behavior, balancing concession and reprimand. Oh, Uncle Albert! You did NOT invent Facebook, you crazy old loon! Stop telling that to people! Gah, I love Uncle Albert.

  Community First teaches chronically homeless people damaged by the streets how to live respectfully and responsibly together. Pragmatically, they are being parented again through manners, fiscal stability, home ownership, and healthy habits. This is a long, messy process that requires grace and patience. If parents gave up on their kids after the first failure, no child would make it past fifteen months old.

  Because the community wouldn’t tolerate this behavior, Ben learned a lesson; he lost out on Family Dinner. By next year, who knows how consistent modeling and boundaries will affect Ben’s addiction? He is a member of a healthy community for the first time in his adult life; we’ll be patient while God works on his transformation.

  The other residents were absolutely lovely. Dinner discussion was perfectly sane on the other end of the table. They were thankful and gracious, complimenting the chefs and protecting the spirit of communi
ty. My kids sat outside with the smokers, entertaining the men and cautioning them against the dangers of nicotine. (They are a true credit to their public school Red Ribbon campaign.) Gordy, who has the mental capacity of a nine-year-old, enjoyed a long lament with Caleb, discussing their moms’ annoying rules; just two brothers under maternal oppression, trying to get by. Ms. Rosa marveled at Sydney’s Bible knowledge, holding an impromptu Sunday School class. Gimme that old time religion; it’s good enough for me.

  The kids ran around the street climbing trees, their laughter drifting in the window, the men patted their full bellies and retired to the deck with cobbler, while the women packed up leftovers and cleaned the kitchen, and I thought, Family dinner indeed.

  Day 18

  7 caused the worst trauma in memory today. It started with a problem called: My oldest son needs a haircut because he looks like a stoner. His blond, shaggy hair had taken over his head. Brandon, as if scales fell from his eyes like Saul, stared at Gavin, tossed his book down and said, “That’s it. Get in the car. You’re getting a haircut.”

  Wait a minute.

  Supercuts isn’t an approved line item. As Keeper of the Tenets of 7, I put the brakes on this excursion, but Brandon was on a mission. He came downstairs with clippers, positive he could knock this out himself. According to Brandon, this need not be left to the professionals. No money? No problem. Gavin resisted, of course, but with pressure from Brandon and his friend Matt, who wanted to witness this free show, they headed to the driveway for a shaving.

  Ten minutes later all good feelings were gone.

  Forty times shorter than he wanted and fairly wonkety, Gavin went from shaggy soccer cool to boot camp special. I can’t possibly overstate how upset he was. He ran outside screaming, assuring us that not with every ounce of our power, nor threat of dismemberment, nor brute force would we get him to school the next day. He ordered his friend the conspirator home immediately, and he didn’t speak to us for three hours. The look on his face was as brutal as a sack of dead kittens.

  While he hunkered in the backyard, we threatened our other children’s very lives if they said one word about his hair; nay, if they made the slightest face, we would drive them to the orphanage. I texted my friend taking him to football practice later to feign blindness, as if she couldn’t see his haircut but could miraculously only see to drive.

  This was an epic fail; a bad haircut to a seventh grader feels like the end of the world. He is certain everyone is thinking about him 72 percent of the day anyway. I explained this to Brandon, who has no patience for drama, especially since Gavin’s hair looked fine; it was just too short for his liking. There is no reasoning with a preadolescent in a tailspin. Just let him pull out on his own.

  And he did. Unprompted, Gavin apologized to Brandon for acting like a psychopath (paraphrased). I laid out hair products, cool hats, pictures of short-haired studs like David Beckham and Ashton Kutcher and George Clooney. (“Mom! He’s like a grandpa!” You shut your mouth, kid.) We cooed and cajoled and tested to see if we could joke about it yet (no). He forgave, but trust me, he won’t forget. He plays for keeps.

  So Gavin will probably reduce 7 to one sound-bite: “My parents wouldn’t pay for a haircut, and Dad sheared me like a sheep.”

  Day 20

  Wow. We spend a lot of money. Combing through a year of bank statements, we are not big-ticket item buyers; we nickel and dime ourselves to death. We spend almost everything we make, and honestly, I can barely account for half of it.

  This is why spending has flown under my radar; it is subtle, incremental, seemingly inconsequential. Just this little thing here, and that small thing there. I don’t feel like cooking; let’s just get this. Individually, nothing too egregious, but together our spending amounts to a startling number.

  Big deal, right? Do I really need to care about this high-end lipstick? Does it actually hurt someone if I buy these jeans or help someone if I don’t? Let’s say I cut spending down and work toward less consumption. So what? Is there even a chance my choices would matter?

  I think they might.

  Let’s imagine a whole group of us, maybe thousands or even millions decided to challenge an unjust economic system with these sorts of discrepancies:

  Annual U.S. spending on cosmetics: $8 billion

  Basic education for all global children: $6 billion

  Annual U.S. and European spending on perfume:$12 billion

  Clean water for all global citizens $9 billion

  Annual U.S. and European spending on pet food:$17 billion

  Reproductive health for all women:$12 billion3

  Consider this report from The United Nations:

  Today’s consumption is undermining the environmental resource base. It is exacerbating inequalities. And the dynamics of the consumption-poverty-inequality-environment nexus are accelerating. If the trends continue without change—not redistributing from high-income to low-income consumers, not shifting from polluting to cleaner goods and production technologies, not promoting goods that empower poor producers, not shifting priority from consumption for conspicuous display to meeting basic needs—today’s problems of consumption and human development will worsen.

  The real issue is not consumption itself but its patterns and effects. Inequalities in consumption are stark. Globally, the 20 percent of the world’s people in the highest-income countries account for 86 percent of total private consumption expenditures—the poorest 20 percent a minuscule 1.3 percent.4

  That’s us: That 20 percent at the top-buying 86 percent of the stuff. So no, maybe one person pulling out wouldn’t matter. But if hundreds and thousands then millions of us challenged the paradigm, let’s say we said “no” for every two times we said “yes,” if we acknowledged the power of our consumer dollar—to either battle inequality or reinforce it—then our generation could turn the ship around.

  I see three easy shifts we could make, starting today:

  One, nonconsumption.

  This is the simplest and hardest. It takes true courage to rage against this machine. Could we be countercultural enough to say, “We’re not buying that. We don’t need that. We’ll make do with what we have. We’ll use the stuff we already own.” If this causes anxiety, I’m with you, trust me. Because who else does that? Who curbs their appetites anymore? Who uses old stuff when they could buy new stuff? Who sews patches on jeans or uses last year’s backpacks? Who says ‘no’ when they can afford to say “yes”?

  We could. We could wisely discern needs from wants, and frankly, at least half of those line items are misfiled. Let’s take advice from Matthew Sleeth in Serve God, Save the Planet: “My grandmother has hundreds of axioms. One of them was ‘If you think you want something, wait a month.’ One of three things will happen if you follow this sage advice. One: You will forget. Two: You will no longer need it. Or three: You will need it more. Most often, numbers one and two will happen.”5

  We can simply stop spending so much, use what we have, borrow what we need, repurpose possessions instead of replacing them, and—the kicker—live with less. Like Barber noted, “The challenge is to demonstrate that as consumers we can know what we want and want only what we need; and that, with the rest of our lives we intend to live as lovers or artists or learners or citizens in a plethora of life worlds in which consumption need play no role.”6

  Two, redirect all that money saved.

  Humor me: What if we lived on 75 percent of our income and gave the rest away strategically? Or what if we downsized to 50 percent, bringing fresh meaning to Jesus’ command to “love our neighbor as ourselves.” Pulling out of a lopsided market is one thing; redistributing wealth to the world’s vulnerable is a whole ’nother level. Global microlending, anyone? Go to www.kiva.org to learn about microfinancing for small businesses, for as little as $25. There is a 98 percent repayment rate. Astoni
shing. Empowering indigenous people to transform their own communities is the most effective weapon against global poverty.

  Your giving can effect extraordinary change. Pick a need, country, people group, an organization focused on empowerment and sustainable independence. You could be an answer to countless prayers. The poor don’t lack ambition, imagination, or intelligence; most simply lack resources. We have what they require and more than we need. We could share.

  Three, become wiser consumers.

  We get to choose our vendors. It’s simple to find out if products are made with integrity or on the backs of slaves and children. With watchdog groups like Not For Sale, free2work.org, change.org, and others now that consumers are denouncing human trafficking and slave labor, there is no excuse for ignorantly supporting a corrupt supply chain. The reason a shirt is $4 is because a worker was paid $.10 to make it; insistence on the cheapest prices is at the expense of freedom or living wages for workers.

  Boycotting vendors who refuse public accountability and conceal their supply-chain records is a demand-side tool of responsible citizenship. This civic consumerism involves thoughtful shoppers who use consumer clout to shape what is sold and how it is sold. Joining watchdog groups, signing online petitions, making a twenty-second call to your senators, buying from responsible producers . . . these are simple steps with potential for massive reform. Exercised strategically, this demand-side power will eventually affect the supply-side manufacturers, insisting on “corporate responsibility in which the producers wear civic caps while captaining their corporate vessels, steering companies away from obvious abuses and profiteering selfishness of the Enron variety toward responsible decisions that benefit society as well as shareholders.”7