The Queen of BS
Today on Don Miller’s blog, he gives us a hint to what the endless cycle of self-promotion is doing to him. It’s very funny and well-written (as always…you disgust me), but he said something that’s been stuck in my head all day. You can read the whole thing here, but this is the quote that got me:
“Confession: Half the time, if not more than half, I am full of bullshit. I share what will make me look good. If I am vulnerable, I share just enough vulnerability to be perceived as vulnerable, rather than to actually humiliate myself so that others can talk more openly about their own insecurities. I also leak in my accomplishments, and I’ve become a master at it. I don’t even know I am doing it half the time, and the other half I strategically list my accomplishments so that they come off as dismissive or “in passing.”
Gah, if that didn’t cut me to the bone, I don’t know what could. First of all, it’s incredibly refreshing to hear someone say that they are, in fact, full of BS. Because, let’s be frank with one another, we all are. Especially as believers. I am so worried about coming off as (insert postmodern adjective here), that I’ve missed, oh, the whole point. And hearing Don Miller, best-selling author who loves Jesus and whom I happen to admire both as a writer and a person, say that HE is full of BS is freeing to me. Oh, he’s full of it, too? Huh. How about that? Even when I am trying not be full of BS and be real, I’m only being real for the sake of hoping people will look at me and think, wow, Erin is so real. And now I’m sure you’re all thinking, yeah, dummy, no kidding. You aren’t fooling anyone.
Either way, I wonder if you can even get past this. Can you ever be real because you are real and not because you want people to think you are? Can you ever be vulnerable because you want to help others and not because you want to show everyone how vulnerable you are? Maybe it’s just me, but I wonder if I can. I don’t think I can. It’s like this one time at the Robinson’s house, we told the stories of the Worst Thing We’ve Ever Done. And I told this story about how I joined in with a group of my peers in elementary school and tricked a retarded boy into sitting on a brownie. And if you can believe it, that’s not actually the worst thing I’ve ever done (hard to swallow, but it’s true). I’m sitting here, right now, thinking of the actual worst thing I’ve ever done and there’s NO WAY I’d share that on this blog or on the Robinson’s back deck or want to relive it in my head. So now I’m even BS-ing myself.
So I had this conversation with my friend Jon today. Jon and I are basically the same person in two different genders. He is, undoubtedly, one of the coolest people I know, an excellent writer, and my only regret is that I didn’t meet him earlier so we could be better friends when we lived in the same town. Anyway, I feel God calling me to work with people who have AIDS. Or something. I have NO idea what that even looks like. Does that mean I take meals to people who can’t because they have AIDS? Does that mean Ben and I adopt an AIDS orphan? Does that mean I need to clean bathrooms at Birmingham AIDS Outreach so someone else can be equipped to love? I don’t know. I really don’t. But either way, I feel this call to do something with people who are dying or have been affected by the AIDS epidemic. Anyway, Jon was asking me about that, because, incidentally, he’s sort of been approached by some people to get involved in that way as well (because we are the same person). And I started thinking about why I feel God’s called me to this. Why don’t I care about old people? Or people with diabetes? I need to be doing something with a cause that is socially relevant so I can be compassionately hip? Is it because I’m bored? Because I feel like I NEED to do something or Jesus won’t love me? What is my motive? Are they even in the same country as “pure”? And should I even been THINKING about this crap, because people just need to be loved and cared for and my motives should be secondary to someone getting sponsored by Compassion or getting a meal because their son just had brain surgery. Shouldn’t it? Wasn’t it Paul that said I don’t care what your motives are for preaching the gospel, I’m just glad the gospel getting preached (I’m clearly paraphrasing)?
I would never (in a million years) reveal my flaws unless they were going to make you like me more. WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT I’M DOING NOW. IT CAN’T BE STOPPED. Because what would you think of me? Did I reveal too much? Was I inappropriate? More than likely, yes. Which would cause you to feel uncomfortable around me and dislike me. And I so desperately need you to like me.
This is all really convoluted and I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say, other than I identify with Mr. Miller in that I’m full of BS. And I don’t want to be. It’s sort of like your wedding day. I have pictures of my wedding up all over my house. And I look awesome in them. A real makeup artist did my makeup. Friends that know their way around a straightening iron did my hair. It’s shockingly not in a ponytail. I’m about 45 pounds lighter and am wearing some gravity-defying undergarments. I’m wearing high heels, for crying out loud. But that’s not what I look like. That was the best version of myself. And I even had a little moment of “Oh, Erin. She keeps it real” when I took OFF my high heels and put on my flip-flops during the reception. What a kook! I spent the day BS-ing. Actually, I spent about 6 hours BS-ing. By the time Ben and I got to the hotel room, I’d already spilled sweet potatoes on my wedding dress. Just goes to show you can’t keep BS-ing for that long.
I guess the moral is that just like I have an amazing husband who can somehow connect the dots from the day we got married to the nightmare that he awakens to every morning, I am also surrounded by people and a Savior who can look through my BS and still see me, crappy me, that is incredibly insecure about…oh…everything, and care about me and love me in spite of myself. And there is grace for me, even in my incredibly selfish inner turmoil-ish monologue about how stupid and ridiculous I am. I know there are people out there who are not BS-ers (I know a few of them) and I salute you.
Now tell me your secret.