Dear Twitter, I’m Leaving You for My Wife

I might have to walk this decision back, but for now, I’m leaving Twitter.
And Facebook.
And Instagram.  

The latter two accounts were killed more as collateral damage than being directly engaged as enemy combatants.

I suppose it’s probably more accurate to say I’m simply inducing a coma for my social media accounts than it is to say that I’m leaving them or even killing them—but death sounds more dramatic, and dramatic seems to get more attention, so let’s just say I killed them.

I’ll tell you a few of the reasons why I’m quitting Twitter, even though I won’t presume that one guy’s reasons for abandoning Twitter have any interest to you.

Basically, I joined and remained on Twitter for only a handful of reasons. I liked seeing what my friends from around the world were up to, most of whom are fellow pastors. And I liked seeing what my Christian heroes were up to—again, mostly pastors and authors. I also liked having a vague sense of what was going on more broadly in Christianity. Finally, I supposed that being on Twitter helped me share my books and articles. All of these—the friends, the heroes, the news-worthy events, the writing—were beneficial to me, even sources of joy.

But I started to realize that the underbelly of “Christian Pastor Twitter”—you know, all the snark, all the trolling, all the assuming-the-worst, all the myopic nitpicking—might not be the underbelly. The worst part of Twitter might actually be the whole pig—the head, the body, the arms, the legs, the snout, the curly tail, and not just the underbelly. The exception had become the rule. In fairness, Twitter has probably been this way for a good while, but my experience with Twitter had, at least until recently, remained primarily positive.

But then in the middle of March came a string of, what I can only call, insanity.

There was that lousy review of the book Gentle and Lowly. If you missed this, you are better for it. A book reviewer managed to misread an excellent book written by a hero of mine, and the review got people worked up, including me.

Then there was the shooting at the massage parlors in Atlanta, which seemed to cause several social commentators to offer bizarre and irresponsible hot takes. For example, within days of the shootings, some suggested that Christian teaching about sex caused the shooting because the shooter was a member of a church. An article in the New York Times spun it this way. One of my former seminary professors even took the opportunity to slander a thoughtful, biblical organization, saying that the organization had “radicalized” the shooter. That accusation is absurd—and again, slanderous. I know I shouldn’t care as much as I do, but I write for the organization that he slandered, and that organization has blessed me and our church in a thousand tangible ways. It seems wildly reckless to connect with a thick, straight line the worst version of Christian teaching about sex—teaching that would be better labeled as un-Christian teaching—and say that it is because of Christian teaching that women are dead. This connection, at best, is a thin correlation and certainly not causation.

That same week another hero of mine, Collin Hansen, tweeted about what a rough week it had been on social media and included a link to the new book he cowrote about hope. I’m so glad he wrote the book. What person couldn’t use more hope in our anxious age? But when I clicked to see the comments underneath Hansen’s tweet—it seemed to me—people salivated at the opportunity to tear him down. It was like Hansen and The Gospel Coalition, where he works, are the source of all the world’s problems. One person likened Hansen to an arsonist who feigns confusion of a burning house. In other words, you caused the terrible week on social media, so don’t be so perplexed.

Speaking of culpability, I should insert a note here I haven’t mentioned yet. I know that I am culpable for my Twitter feed. The specifics of all the social media algorithms may remain opaque, but the principle is readily known: the more you click, the more you get. And I certainly got. For every doofus Twitter comment I clicked, I got ten more comments in my feed. My eyes were reaping the seeds I had sown with my thumbs. Forgive me, Lord.

This reaping led to more and more reaping. Controversies I didn’t know existed were foisted upon me. And the “news” I had tried to remain vaguely aware of started to become the headlines I’d rather be completely unaware of.  “Beth Moore Leaves the SBC.” “James White Said Something Provocative and Made People Mad.” “Somewhere Someone with White Skin Said Something Racist.”

As an evangelical pastor, I began to feel like each time I opened Twitter, I stood trial for all the dumb things fringe evangelicals had done. To open Twitter was to be prosecuted by the mob. And mobs don’t do nuance well.

It’s not that I don’t care about Beth Moore and the like, but I am a pastor of a church with plenty of our own problems, and all of our church problems I care about far more than the problems I didn’t start and I can’t fix. Indeed, one day I will be held accountable to God, not for whether I engaged in the latest Twitter storm, but whether I loved the sheep of my flock. And while we’re on the subject of divine accountability and moral imperatives, I also have a large family, and they are my first pastoral priority. Each time I turn around, my children grow an inch or two and seem to be one step closer to walking out our front door and onto a college campus. Time flies when you have toddlers and teenagers in the same house.

Rod Dreher argues in his popular book The Benedict Option that Christians should retreat to the places where we can have meaningful influence, to—in a sense—become Benedictine monks on Noah’s ark. Conservative Christians, he would say, must become those who actually have something to conserve (re: godliness) and spend our time conserving it. I read the book a few months ago and found it insightful even if I don’t take his conclusions to be the only, or even the best, option for Christians. But perhaps Dreher’s arguments worked on me more subtly than I realized. Today, I feel content to let the Twitter dumpster fire burn while I retreat to play with my kids and love my wife and pastor my church.

This gets to the real issue. In addition to all the drama, Twitter had become an all-consuming time drain, devouring every bit of my mental rest and human interaction. Do I really need to open Twitter while I walk upstairs to grab my running shoes? Do I need to recheck when I walk down the stairs to see what I missed during the 30 seconds it took to find my shoes? Do I need to check Twitter with one hand and brush my teeth and comb my hair with the other? Do I need to check Twitter as I walk from my car to the office in the morning and then again while I warm my coffee in the office microwave? No, no, no, and no. And more importantly, do I need to multitask when I talk with my wife? Same answer.

When I tweeted that I was leaving Twitter, I wrote that “If you want to reach out to me, send me a text message.” A few days later I checked the comments, and someone had asked, “Do you mean a direct message?” Actually, no. I did mean text message. If you have my cell phone, let’s keep in touch.

So, Dear Twitter, for all these reasons, I’m leaving you for my wife. And for my family. And for my joy. Your tidal wave of trash and the general social media sea of cesspool finally rose so high and crashed so hard on my little island oasis of joy where I visited with my friends and heroes that I’m going to float away.

Maybe one day the violent waters will recede, I’ll get off my ark, and we can be friends again.

* Photo by Jean-Pierre Brungs on Unsplash

New Social Media Strategy: Relentlessly Encourage, Edify and Inform

I really don’t know what I’m doing with social media. As a pastor and someone who enjoys writing, I really should be better at it. Sometimes I tweet a Bible verse; sometimes I share a cute picture of my kids on Instagram or a meme on Facebook; other times I share about my writing on all three platforms. I’m sort of hodgepodge that way.

The one thing I do know is that I don’t like to be told what I should and should not post about on social media. For example, it drives me nuts when people imply that if I don’t post about “X” [insert latest controversy], then I don’t care about “X.” Come on, people.

While being annoyed and against something has a place, it can’t rightly occupy a proactive, positive strategy. I want to take the Bible seriously when it tells us “death and life are in the power of the tongue” (Proverbs 18:21). I want to hear the force of Jesus’s statement that “on the day of judgment people will give account for every careless word they speak” (Matthew 12:36). And I want to embody Paul’s approach to language when he says that he has “renounced disgraceful, underhanded ways,” instead committing to “the open statement of the truth,” (2 Corinthians 4:2)

For all these reasons, Ligon Duncan’s tweet last week about his strategy for social media caught my attention. Duncan is the Chancellor of Reformed Theological Seminary and a popular author and speaker. His Twitter thread went like this:

My social media strategy:

1. Relentlessly encourage, edify & inform.

2. Ignore trolls, mockers & slanderers into oblivion.

3. Starve dissensionists, narcissists, & errorists of the attention they crave.

4. Point people to sound people & resources.

5. Exalt Christ. Bible. Grace. Truth. Gospel.

6. Stay out of food fights. Don’t lob hand grenades into serious discussions. Bring people together.

7. Be kind. Persuade (rather than rally).

8. Treat people on social media like I would treat them in person.

9. Don’t be different on social media from what I am in my life, family, church and ministry. Be the same person online and offline.

10. Don’t give inordinate attention to people whose only “platform” is social media & who elsewhere have little accountability, responsibility.

Duncan speaks of “ignoring trolls,” meaning those only trying to provoke conflict and grind an ax. I don’t have to worry much about trolls; they tend to congregate under larger bridges. Still, for the time being, I’ll try to make his approach, my approach.

Oh, I’ll still probably share some cute family pictures on Instagram too.

* Photo by Tom Holmes on Unsplash

Social Media Jealously

I’m taking a break from social media. A few weeks ago, on all three of my main social media accounts (Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram) I posted some version of these sentences:

Except for the occasional post, I'm taking a rest from social media. My heart is frazzled. If rehab goes well, I'll be back in November.

Bringing up my time away from social media on my blog, however, feels strange, perhaps even wrong. I almost feel guilty of what the Babylon Bee was making fun of in the article, “Man Live-Tweets Social Media Fast.” Their point was this: get over yourself.

Still, I thought I’d mention a few of the reasons for the break, not primarily because I think “everyone wants to know,” but because I thought it might help you think through your own usage of social media.

For the most part, the decision was motivated by three things. First, I was receiving so many updates and notifications that it was hard to function with the constant interruptions. And even when I wasn’t receiving notifications, I developed a strange, creepy desire to constantly check my phone. I felt this urge the second I woke up; I felt it while I worked; I felt it at home. I was beginning to have trouble concentrating. It’s difficult to measure, but it seemed to me that I was even reading my Bible with less and less thoughtfulness. It was terrible.

The second reason for the break was that I was beginning to resent the trivializing of all information that was taking place in my heart. As you scroll through your social media feed, you see both stupid cat videos and shootings. Personally, I don’t know if the human soul was meant to take in information that way; I know that I’m not able to do it.

The third reason for the break was the main reason. I found myself having a strange twinge of jealousy every time I opened a social media app. It was awful.

At its core, envy is the belief in an alternate “gospel.” It’s the belief that something other than Jesus will satisfy our deepest longings. It’s the belief that something—whatever it is—if we have it, it will let us “depart in peace.”

When I’m jealous of what I see in other people’s social media feeds—whether family stuff, or pastor stuff, or writing stuff, or exercise stuff, or big-house stuff, or whatever stuff makes me become jealous—I’m not believing the real gospel. Rather, I’m believing The Gospel of Stuff: if I have the right stuff, then I can depart in peace.

Do you know what event made me realize how badly I need a break? It was a book review, actually—one I posted a few weeks ago. Now, let me say this first. The book is a good book, certainly one worth reviewing. We even sell it in our church bookstore.

But let me tell you why I also wrote the review. In part, I wrote the review because I’d love to become friends with the two young authors who wrote the book. Moreover, I have a writing project that I’ve been tinkering with for the last 18 months, and I think it would fit perfectly with the same publisher that published their book.

Do you see where this is going? If I reviewed their book, well, maybe it would grease the publishing wheels a bit.

I suppose this motivation isn’t entirely wrong. After all, the wheels of publishing don’t turn easily. But I do know that the size of my desire for these things grew to a sinful proportion.

By the end of that Tuesday night, both authors had hit “like” to my Tweet about my review. It felt nice. When I saw the second author do that right before bedtime, however, I could hear Jesus say to me, “You have received your reward in full.”

Now, he didn’t actually say this to me, as though I saw a bright vision and heard an audible voice. But if God has ever spoken to me, I’d say that he did so then. Those words come from a sermon Jesus gave in Matthew 6. Jesus spoke them to some people who were trying very hard to earn the approval of others. And when they got it, he told them they’d “received their reward in full.”

So, I’m taking a month off from social media. My heart is frazzled and needs to heal. I’ll keep writing and posting things on my blog, but I need to spend some extra time repenting of sin and soaking in the gospel. By the way, I’m so thankful that when Jesus truly loves someone, he loves them enough to keep them from drifting away from himself, even if it’s only in subtle ways at first. Thank you, Jesus. 

[Picture by Kate Serbin / Unsplash]