"I Don't Watch The Bachelor" (And Other Ways I Ruin Connections)
One Way We Fail In Building Community
Last week I stood in front of a roomful of people of faith and basically told them they were doing it wrong. In truth, though, I wasn’t really talking to them—they’re probably already living beautifully congruent lives. Mostly, I was speaking into myself as I delivered the line:
“Many Christians become versions of themselves that could not reach the unsaved version of themselves.”
Could I appeal to or connect with my 21-year-old self and his wonderfully flowing locks?
While this is a massive topic for people of faith, I think it actually goes beyond that—into how we build community, or, more pointedly, why we can’t. For whatever reason, the nagging gravitational pull of self stymies possible connection in a way that impacts faith engagement, but also affects friendship-building, parenting, management, sales... self-centeredness is this incredible barrier we constantly, unintentionally build.
It's like my son’s hands. My boy Joey just has to touch things—all the things, all the time. His siblings’ toys, the oven, fire alarms, priceless ceramic relics. His hands become little Gollums, snatching up all things precious. Derisively, when the impulse takes him, our family uses the moniker “Hands” to scold him. “What are you breaking now, Hands?” is a familiar sentence around our house.
For humans, we just can’t help breaking things verbally. We have some devilish impulse to implode an opportunity for connection by making it all about us.
Consider The Bachelor. A new one of those just started up because a new one of those always just started up. I think it is the one at the beach with all the gratuitous making out—not the one at the mansion/zipline/pool/rodeo/country music concert with all the gratuitous making out. I don’t really know for sure because I don’t watch The Bachelor. I’m too Christian or too masculine or too intentional with my time or too . . . I’m some virtue that I feel compelled to signal at all times to anyone who does watch The Bachelor.
So it plays out like this: A coworker is chattering on about the new season of The Bachelor. She’s chronicling all the different slurping sounds of the gratuitous make-outs and whatnot. And my little internal Jiminy Cricket—or whatever—is shouting, “MY TURN, MY TURN, MY TURN!” I can’t wait till her sentence ends—so sometimes I don’t—so I can proudly announce, in my most patronizing, assured, confident manner: “I don’t watch The Bachelor.”
Often it doesn’t stop there—I’ll preach a little about the moral high ground for my choice, a blend of Jesus, astute decision-making, and good old-fashioned family values. I may even throw in something about honoring my wife and guarding my heart, just to make the language as clichéd as possible. “Pastor says we shouldn’t watch smut,” I’ll say without saying.
And the conversation ends. Next topic. I have used my perceived moral superiority to effectively signal my virtue—cutting off the person on the other side of me from sharing something she is passionate about. Your passion ends where my scruples begin, ma’am, I’ve said without saying. And I’ve created a barrier and a dead-end all at once.
This is equally unhelpful whether I’m trying to share my faith or sell a car. It is useless to anyone but me—and likely it actually doesn’t help me out either, unless I’m trying to earn a rep as Angela from The Office. (Oh, I don’t watch ‘The Office’ you may be thinking . . . just stop. Breathe. Wait!).
Now, what if we approached life and others like this instead? She starts yammering about The Bachelor, and then, when she finishes expressing her thoughts, you ask, “What do you love about The Bachelor? What draws you to it?”
You’ve created a blessed void, an opportunity of space, a beautiful window into the soul. This person is now invited to share their more sacred thoughts, hopes, failures, and dreams. Undiscovered pages are now opened before you. This person shares themselves, perhaps more deeply than you’ve yet come to know. They’ve become more seen and known, and now you know whether they need the SUV with a third row or not. Or you now have a better idea what present to purchase for their birthday. Or how to make a gospel appeal that meet-cutes their unmet desires—how they yearn for more. Or how to better be their friend. You’ve gathered information on how to show up more purposefully in their life.
One of the greatest gifts that we can give another person is a 30,000-foot view of themselves. But that only works if we take our eyes off ourselves and our fragile perception of piety.
If I could encounter 21-year-old me, I’d be tempted to judge him and his lifestyle. To tell him all the ways to fast-track his life and become exactly like old-man me. I’d go at his behaviors by flaunting my own.
Or, hopefully, I wouldn’t do any of that. Instead, I’d love him right where he was. I’d ask him what he’s been reading—without it being a trap. I’d ask how his baseball season was going without wedging in some sort of platitude about “keeping his weight back.” I hope I’d just listen—allowing him to be seen and known, and allowing him to discover my own life’s insights as I discovered his.
Of course, I can’t go back and meet my 21-year-old self. But I can meet the person in front of me today—the coworker, the parent, the classmate—and choose to really see them. Not as a project. Not as a problem. But as a person.
Will I demand they come to where I am first, or will I start by meeting them where they are?
The question stands before us in the form of humanity. Some are even named Mark as a really pointed play by the Universe. Love is the obvious answer. And just like love, the best answers are discovered—not dictated.