Mercy Not Sacrifice
It’s crunch time for my book launch, and I’m supposed to be wearing my game face. I’m supposed to be exclusively using words like “thankful” and “excited.” I’m supposed to be humble-bragging about my endorsements and the number of supporters I’ve accrued for my thunderclap campaign. I’m supposed to be exuding the irresistible charm that will translate into viral buzz.
Because that’s how marketing works. People will only support your cause and buy your books if they think that you’re already winning. The reason I don’t win is because I haven’t figured out how to pretend that I’m already winning. There are few things that disgust me more than attempting to exude confidence and authority. There are few things that I resent more than feeling obligated to sell myself to other people.
I really hate spamming you. I really hate posting Facebook updates on how my thunderclap campaign is going and refreshing every two minutes to see if anybody has liked it and cursing Facebook for burying my posts because they want me to pay to sponsor them. I know I’ve posted too many updates this week and I’m sure some most of you were annoyed.
On Monday, Facebook cut me off from sending messages because I sent about 200 messages to ask people for help promoting my book. It said that I was “using a feature inappropriately,” but there was a link I could click to contact tech support if I thought there was a misunderstanding. So I wrote tech support and I said something like, “I know this looks like a clear case of spam, but each of those people I sent messages to is someone I know personally even though the content of each message is completely impersonal.”
About 20% of you responded to my messages. I’m not sure what to conclude about the other 80%. Social media is hell for people like me with anxiety, since there is no way to tell the difference between you not responding because you’re annoyed or angry and you not responding because you never check your messages or you not responding because you saw it, had to do something else, and forgot. The worst is when I know the date and time you looked at it, but you didn’t write back, which can mean anything, though in my paranoia, I’ve concluded that you hate me because I’m a disgusting white male narcissist and you’re going to unfriend me soon.
I tried to word the messages in such a way that they didn’t look cut and pasted. I obviously didn’t have time to custom-write 200 messages. I didn’t have time to ask you about your lives. My instinct was to be very direct with my ask and not preface it with a whole lot of “Hope you’re doing well” or “It’s been a long time.” Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe 40% or more of you would have responded if I didn’t so quickly cut to the chase of what you can do for me right now.
I should have asked about your kids or your job. I just hate those contrived, chit-chatty gestures. You don’t have time to update me on what’s happened since we saw each other at our 15th high school reunion or at our friend’s wedding 7 years ago. I don’t have time to prove to you that I care about your life. I really do want to care about your life. I want to care about something other than this stupid book I’m trying to sell. I’ve just forgotten how to live as though anything else in the universe exists. It’s like Frodo’s ring, and I just want to throw the whole damn thing into Mt. Doom.
It’s all your fault, by the way. If you were retweeting me like those twitter rock stars you viralize for their predictable quotes about intersectionality or being missional, then I wouldn’t feel like I have to spend every waking hour prostituting myself. I just want to arrive at that heavenly, walking-on-water place where I finally get to stop begging, where Christian celebrities send me personal emails, where publishers are fighting over my next book idea, where conferences are asking how much I would charge to headline.
And the worst thing about it is I know damn well that becoming a jet set, conference-hopping Christian celebrity would never make me happy. I know that happiness is only found in the moments when I actually lose myself in God’s presence, which will happen whether I sell 50 books or 50,000. I know that the best thing for my soul would be for this book launch to be a complete bust, for no one to show up at any of my book tour events, for me to end up with a dozen boxes of books in my attic to store next to the dozen boxes of my rock band’s CD from ten years ago that sold about six copies.
If that happens, I will finally be drop-kicked decisively out of the first half of my life and fall upwards into the second half, to use Richard Rohr’s terminology. The first half of life is about success; the second half is about making peace. I remember talking to a friend once who said, “The true rastas are hidden in the hills.” Maybe I will become one of the anonymous true rastas in the hills. Maybe I will be liberated from the toxic, ego-obsessed, achievement-oriented escalator I’ve made out of my life.
And yet amidst my queasiness about my self-prostitution, I honestly believe that God showed me some things I’m supposed to share with the world. I realize that’s a breathtakingly arrogant thing to say. I realize it’s insulting to the real-life Christian martyrs in the Middle East to say that my stupid book is a cross that I’ve been given to carry. But I still believe in what I wrote. And I honestly believe that someone might be healed by it, even though I’m in need of so much healing myself.
So please don’t be mad. And thank you so much for your grace. Give me feedback if I need to dial it back. I really do want to know about your kids and your job. I’m thankful for all the love that has been shown to me and continues to be shown. Please pray for me. And if you happen to retweet quotes from my book, you’ll make me smile (though it’s probably not good for me). 🙂
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