Intentionality

My friend and colleague Richard Beck has written up a wonderful series of eight posts on the discourse and phenomenon of “intentionality” in Christian settings. The whole thing is worth reading. Richard is in part responding to me, both things I’ve written and conversations he and I have had offline. The topic came up again in a recent interview he did with another friend and colleague, Greg McKinzie, on his podcast Theology on the Way. They start talking about intentionality at about the 1:48:00 mark, discussing the matter for the final fifteen minutes of the video episode.

Before I add my own two cents, let me set the table. Two years ago, at the conclusion of a review of John Mark Comer’s latest book, I wrote the following:

[I have a question concerning] the idea of “intentionality.” Comer makes much of this, as do many Christian writers and pastors. I’m less convinced. If, for example, the forces that shape our daily habits are so hard to resist that they require a Rule of Life to counteract them—and I agree with this judgment—isn’t calling on individual believers to form a personal plan of spiritual action just moving the problem one step back? If most Christians are not moral heroes, if they are just trying to get by without losing their faith, is it reasonable to expect them to possess the resolve to audit their spiritual habits, fashion a personalized plan of attack, and execute it?

Like Comer, I believe the church has much to learn from Stanley Hauerwas, James K. A. Smith, and Tish Harrison Warren on the role of habits and “liturgies” in forming our hearts. The fly in the ointment, however, is that the kind of liturgical formation presupposed in Christian history was neither self-starting nor optional nor individually directed. It was a matter of communal obligation imposed by ecclesial authority. It was nonnegotiable, on pain of mortal sin.

You didn’t discern meatless Fridays. If you were Christian, if you were obedient, you did the fast like everyone else. You didn’t decide when to feast. The calendar told you when to do so. Fasting and feasting, sacrament and confession—these were just obligatory. For many they still are. As it happens, this is far more faithful to Aristotle and his insights on the formation of virtue through habit than our present attempts to personalize daily liturgies. We run the risk of DIY spirituality, which is the very thing we want to avoid.

Two quotes from the book illustrate this challenge. One has Comer citing “our vision for a new kind of church,” which he implemented while still a pastor. The other records Comer’s experience of finishing Kallistos Ware’s book on Eastern Orthodoxy: “It felt like coming home.”

These two impulses are at odds with each other. One rethinks church from the ground up; the other receives the church as it is from an authoritative past. The tension between them makes Practicing the Way an unusually resonant and useful resource, even as they quietly pull in different directions.

Consider them as ecclesial types. Is the church the corporate sacrament of salvation, whose liturgy is a foretaste of heaven and whose voice speaks with divine authority? Or is the church the company of disciples, a vanguard of urban contemplatives whose daily life together attests the kingdom of God? To my ears, the second sounds like a kind of spiritual Navy SEALs—elite, ultra, for the special few—whereas the first seems tailormade for normies, deplorables, mediocres, and failures. For the Simon Peters and Sauls, the rich young rulers and Kichijiros.

I’m sure Comer would say this is a false dichotomy: We don’t have to choose between them; that’s just the problem that got us into this mess. He may well be right. But I wonder.

That’s more or less still where I find myself. Note that the tone is diffident. That’s not coyness on my part, or mere kindness toward Comer. I think this is a very difficult question. I’ve benefited enormously from writing on the spiritual disciplines, and fashioning my own Rule of Life on an annual basis throughout my twenties was a crucial spiritual lifeline. I’m an insider to this discussion, not an outsider. (Hence the otherwise glowing review!)

The danger, as I see it, runs in one of two directions. Either we respond to individualistic, self-improvement DIY spirituality with only more of the same; or we so ramp up the criteria and expectations for the Christian life that the only folks remaining in the pews are the virtuous and the heroic—or even a certain personality type: the zealot, the passionate, the neurotic. But notice who’s not there: the loser, the mediocre, the motions-going-through-er, the wheels-spinner, the perpetual relapser, the self-loathing, the nominal, the failure.

In other words, my fears is that Intentionality Discourse is a religion for the thoughtful, the educated, the self-reflective; for readers, thinkers, and doubters; for people who listen to Christian podcasts and who grew up going to church camp (or who converted as adults and are all in). It’s the Pareto Principle, or 80/20 Rule, applied to the church. But instead of admitting that twenty percent of a local congregation does eighty percent of the work, we rhetorically kick the eighty percent out so that the church becomes nothing but the twenty percent. Now we can get down to business with all the slackers out of the way! After all, if you’re not going to do your part, if you’re not all in all the time, then you must not be a real Christian!

The truth, though, is that most people, most of the time, just aren’t like this. Most people, including Christians, are worried about bills to pay and kids to raise and doctors appointments and that weird sound the truck keeps making. They’re not “on fire.” They’re not constantly self-conscious in their faith. They’re just there. They’re just people who believe in Jesus, trying to make ends meet and, in my view heroically, still finding time to give their worries to God in prayer and to make it to church on time.

I’m not suggesting that this, whatever this is, is “enough.” I’m not saying Jesus isn’t calling them, too, to follow him, to take up their cross like all disciples. I’m saying that there is a particular kind of discourse, a way of talking about the gospel and the Christian life, that both reflects and reinforces a specific, local, non-universal sub-group or class of people’s way of being in the world. And it’s not obvious why we should generalize this group’s mode of inhabiting faith to everyone else.

By analogy, consider marriage. For most of history, including church history, people were “just married.” Marriage was not a means to happiness or self-fulfillment. Marriage was successful if you formed a household, weathered the storms of life, raised children, and brought honor to your clan or community. The measure of success wasn’t how you felt about it—which doesn’t mean love or emotions weren’t a part of it, just that they weren’t the social index of the institution’s well-being.

Marriage is different today, at least in our time and place. In some ways that’s simply something we have to accept and work with. But there are ways of indulging the pathologies of this cultural shift, precisely within the church, that exacerbate the problem. When Christians talk about marriage in ways that only ramp up, rather than tamp down, the emotional expectations of young people that this is where personal fulfillment happens (and maybe only here), then we have set up a whole generation of believers for massive disappointment. Yes, we have to talk about “intentionality” in marriage today. But that’s not because “intentionality” is some cross-cultural, much less universal, virtue of “good” Christian marriage. Rather, it’s because the kinds of things many people in our culture expect from marriage call for response and engagement, not withdrawal and silence. Marital duties and obligations today really are different, in some respects, than past Christian marriages. That’s fine. But in responding to these changes we can make the problem worse as much as we might make it better.

So with faith and discipleship. What people need, in my view, are grooves to slide into that are not daily-curated individual choices demanding constant self-conscious reflection. That’s just the problem we’re dealing with. Heavier doses of it are little more than gasoline on the fire.

So the question is: If human psychology and habituated unconscious behavior remain facts about us—if that hasn’t changed since premodern times—how can Christians be “background believing” people in a pluralistic age? I’m riffing here on Richard’s helpful distinction between “background” and “foreground.” I think he’s right about the relevant shifts from Christendom to a secular era. But if it remains true, in spite of all that, that by nature we literally cannot function as always-on “intentional” people, what are we supposed to do? Ever more talk about intentionality isn’t going to get the job done. We need some spiritual automaticities humming away beneath the hood when we aren’t thinking—which is most of the time.

Even here and now in the twenty-first century West, this is actually how many people still operate, including religious people. Many people, maybe most, cannot not live this way. Most of your daily rhythms must be unchosen, unconscious, unintentional—in the strict sense. I don’t know if I could live for five minutes fully and utterly “on” about “everything.” And I’m a neurotic egghead stuck, all too often, inside his own psychodramas! I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. It can’t be the solution.

And to be clear, this has very little to do with high versus low church or Protestant versus Catholic. Contra Richard, this isn’t an oedipal reflex—i.e., if we only had the divine liturgy forming us, then we’d be fine. Richard’s, Greg’s, and my shared ecclesial upbringing (Churches of Christ) was the cream of the crop at training believers, old and young, in a broad set of “givens” that functioned as theological nonnegotiables for everyone in the community. Talk about an Aristotelian tradition. The CoC habituates you all right. No need for pope, creed, or mass. The local congregation’s got it covered.

So that’s not quite what I’m getting at. Nor is the issue the language of volition or intention. I don’t think popular talk about “intentionality” shares much substantive content with technical theological definitions of the will and intention. “Intentionality,” as actually used in sermons and lessons and popular Christian writing, has much more to do with stepping back from one’s life, assessing it, making plans and goals, and being self-consciously purposeful rather than “mindless” or “automatic” in one’s daily spiritual walk with Christ. In practice, hence, it has much less to do with the kinds of things Richard rightly commends: obeying the teachings of Christ, setting one’s heart on the Lord, directing one’s attention to the Spirit. These are biblical commands and activities that pertain to all believers but remain distinct in important ways from what pastors and writers mean by “intentionality.”

Here are some ways of putting the difference. I can kiss my wife on the way out the door or I can do so as part of a written plan. I can hug my kids before they leave for school or I can think about it as I do so. I can tell my brother I love him or I can stand outside myself, noting clinically whether I feel anything as I say it. I can pray with my student or I can mean to pray with him (whether or not I ever get around to it). Perhaps I only move to pray with him if I muster sufficient sincerity within myself beforehand.

In short, am I commanded to follow Christ? Or am I commanded to maintain a continuous stream of conscious thoughts about following Christ as I follow him? In his book Decreation Paul Griffiths imagines heaven as a perpetual liturgy in which we are freed to worship God without subjective self-awareness. That is, we remain the agents and selves we are, but we are liberated from the prison of the inner theater and its endless dramas of the self on the stage, and in this freedom we are able fully, finally, and utterly to give our selves, to give our hearts and minds, our ears and eyes, to the Lord in his glory as the satisfaction of our souls’ desire. And we do so exactly because we aren’t thinking about ourselves; because we aren’t self-conscious. Self-consciousness, for Griffiths, is an artifact of the Fall. Our healing entails remaining conscious without self-consciousness.

Yet we are not less free in heaven. We are more free. So here on earth, granting our pilgrim state. Even if intentionality, for some of us, is a necessary tool, it is a limited tool meant to get us somewhere else. Saints are not intentional, whether or not they ever were. They climbed the ladder and kicked it over once they got to the top. Intentionality may—again, for some of us—be a means to maturity in a secular age, but it isn’t maturity as such. Maturity is where we’re going, not where we start or where we’re headed. And as both Peter Maurin and Jean Daniélou emphasized in their writing, we want our communities to be places where being good—praying, worshiping, following Christ—is easier, not harder. Why take secularism for granted? Why let it set the terms of what we’re working for in our churches? Perhaps what Stanley Hauerwas once called “peasant Christianity” is actually far more possible, far closer to realization, than we’ve assumed. I don’t like the language of turning back the clock or putting the genie back in the bottle. It’s true that we have to work with what we have, when and where we have it. But all too often we take for granted contingent conditions subject to change. They aren’t immovable. The Overton Window is not set in stone. Let’s name the desired destination, irrespective of our context, and then see what it might take, within our context, to get there.

That might take some intentionality(!) on the part of some of us: leaders, writers, thinkers. But as a general formula for normies, I’m not so sure.

Twitter and Thomas à Kempis

I’ve been on Twitter for nearly nine years. For the last three of those years I’ve wondered whether I should stay on, and I’ve gone back and forth. I quit for a few months while keeping my account active before returning in the spring of 2020, then took another big break that summer. Since fall 2020 I’ve stayed more or less consistent with a few self-defined rules for my Twitter usage:

1. The app is not on my phone.

2. I don’t scroll.

3. I don’t reply to tweets.

4. I don’t like tweets.

5. I look at half a dozen accounts daily or weekly, using them as RSS feeds.

6. I use my own account exclusively to share news about or links to my work.

This has been a winning formula the last 18 months. The first five are alike easy enough and simple enough to stick to, and following them has meant my Twitter usage has been both minimal and healthy, all things considered.

That said, the intentionally and insistently self-promotional aspect of #6 has begun to wear on me. On one hand, my Twitter profile has unquestionably been a boon to my writing career and whatever small profile I have among a few like-hearted readers. I’ve met genuine friends on there, and folks have bought my books after finding me on Twitter. On the other hand, can relentless flashing neon lights, operated by me, endlessly reiterating just how great I and my work are … can that possibly be good for the soul?

This morning I was reading Thomas à Kempis’s The Imitation of Christ. Here is the second chapter of the opening book, reproduced in its entirety:

Every man naturally desires knowledge; but what good is knowledge without fear of God? Indeed a humble rustic who serves God is better than a proud intellectual who neglects his soul to study the course of the stars. He who knows himself well becomes mean in his own eyes and is not happy when praised by men.

If I knew all things in the world and had not charity, what would it profit me before God Who will judge me by my deeds?

Shun too great a desire for knowledge, for in it there is much fretting and delusion. Intellectuals like to appear learned and to be called wise. Yet there are many things the knowledge of which does little or no good to the soul, and he who concerns himself about other things than those which lead to salvation is very unwise.

Many words do not satisfy the soul; but a good life eases the mind and a clean conscience inspires great trust in God.

The more you know and the better you understand, the more severely will you be judged, unless your life is also the more holy. Do not be proud, therefore, because of your learning or skill. Rather, fear because of the talent given you. If you think you know many things and understand them well enough, realize at the same time that there is much you do not know. Hence, do not affect wisdom, but admit your ignorance. Why prefer yourself to anyone else when many are more learned, more cultured than you?

If you wish to learn and appreciate something worthwhile, then love to be unknown and considered as nothing. Truly to know and despise self is the best and most perfect counsel. To think of oneself as nothing, and always to think well and highly of others is the best and most perfect wisdom. Wherefore, if you see another sin openly or commit a serious crime, do not consider yourself better, for you do not know how long you can remain in good estate. All men are frail, but you must admit that none is more frail than yourself.

These words nailed me to the wall. Or rather, if I may be permitted the severity of the expression, to the cross. Can any serious Christian read this passage and approve of spending even ten seconds of a day cultivating and curating a Twitter profile dedicated to nothing whatsoever except self-promotion? St. James advises that not many of us become teachers, “for you know that we who teach shall be judged with greater strictness” (3:1). What of those of us who proclaim our surpassing wisdom, our eloquent wit, our impressive pedigree, our latest important publication to the world? In an infinite scroll of self-regard and pride?

I’ve never used one of the penitential seasons to fast from Twitter, but I may do so this Lent. I may begin sooner than Ash Wednesday. My inner PR rep tempts me against this, urging me to consider that I have a book to sell this April, a profile to maintain, readers to woo and buyers to court. What self-indulgent nonsense. God help me if my insecurities and anxieties keep me on a website I know in my heart is wicked, on whose platform I continuously proclaim without shame my pride and self-importance to the world in a doom loop of frustrated desire, hoping beyond hope “to appear learned and to be called wise.”

As Thomas says just one chapter earlier, the whole aim of Christian faith is to study the life of Christ and thence to pattern one’s own life on his. What better time to get started than now? “Behold, now is the acceptable time; behold, now is the day of salvation” (2 Cor 6:2); “you know what hour it is, how it is full time now for you to wake from sleep. For salvation is nearer to us now than when we first believed; the night is far gone, the day is at hand. Let us then cast off the works of darkness and put on the armor of light; let us conduct ourselves becomingly as in the day, not in reveling and drunkenness, not in debauchery and licentiousness, not in quarreling and jealousy. But put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires” (Rom 13:11-14).

With St. Paul and with St. Augustine, we all say: Amen.

An amendment to the amendment

If you couldn't tell, I've spent a good part of 2019 trying to figure out what to do with Twitter. I limited my time on it, I nixed tweeting, I cut out all but Saturdays, I basically exited for two months. Then a few weeks ago, after seeing friends at AAR in San Diego whom I had "met" via Twitter, I decided to amend my tech-wise policy and dip my toe back into the service. And once the semester I ended, I allowed myself to get back on a bit more while home for the Christmas break.

Following all that experimentation, I think I'm back to where I was last May. That is, at the macro level, the world would unquestionably be better off without Twitter in it, because Twitter as a system or structure is broken and unfixable. But at the micro level, the truth is that my experience on that otherwise diabolical website is almost uniformly positive. Aside from the "itch" that results from any social media participation—an itch that is not conducive to the life of the mind or of the soul—my time on Twitter is basically beneficial. I meet new friends, interact with old ones, and generally have fun talking theology, pop culture, and other such things. I avoid toxic profiles and bankrupt topics, and am not prone to tweet things that could get me into trouble.

So I think I'm going to return in full, with the usual prior disciplines intact (no app on the phone, for example) and one remaining ascetic caveat. I'm not going to sign on to Twitter, either to tweet or to read others, during work hours on weekdays. The best thing about my self-imposed exile was the way in which it freed up my mental energy and attention while reading or writing in my office, as opposed to dwelling on some ongoing thread or idea for a tweet.

So that's the amendment to the amendment. I'll check back in a month or two and share how things are going.

Oh, and happy new year!

A Twitter trial

I'm reconsidering my presence on Twitter. I wrote earlier this year about why, for the time being, I was still on the platform. But as I said (via tweet) yesterday, I'm not long for that website. Let me lay out, briefly, why that is, and the experiment I'm going to undertake in the coming weeks.

1. Even with the comparatively limited time I spend on Twitter, I find during working and non-online hours that it burrows too deeply into my skull. I have a thought or read a great line and think, "I should tweet that out." Or I do tweet something out, and 40 minutes later I think, "I should put down this book and see if anyone's responded." That's crazy and unhealthy. Best to be off entirely.

2. Even having removed Twitter from my phone, even blocking access to it on my laptop for long stretches using Freedom, I still open up my computer too often wanting to "check in," and more often than not I end up getting sucked in for 10 minutes instead of 5, 20 minutes instead of 10, and so on. No más, por favor.

3. I'm persuaded that Twitter is bad for writers. Though it is good for connecting writers to one another and to editors and publications—I've certainly benefited from that—it is a terrible wastrel of a parasite on the writing mind and the writing process. It sucks blood from the writer's intelligence, wit, and courage. It also encourages a kind of anticipatory conformity and fear. I'm tired of seeing that in other writers, and I'm tired of resisting it in myself.

4. The effect on writers is a function of the larger Twitter Brain problem, according to which the Extremely Online mistake Twitter for real life, both in terms of the prevalence of certain views and in terms of their importance. But Twitter is not representative, nor is what the Twitterati considers important actually so. More often than not, it's a tempest in a teapot. And that, too, warps the mind as well as one's affections. No more.

5. Tech critics like Postman have convinced me of the power of form over content. The form is not neutral; Twitter is not a delivery system for otherwise untouched or unshaped material. And in this case, the medium intrinsically and necessarily distorts the message beyond repair. The infinite scroll of the timeline flattens out, de-contextualizes, and thereby trivializes everything that passes through it. All becomes meme. What is important becomes a football for play, and what is unimportant generates rage, mockery, hatred, and division. Twitter is a hothouse for the formation of vice; it detests, slanders, and butchers virtue wherever it is found. Nothing good can come from a means of communication that sets cat memes next to articles investigating child abuse next to sports GIFs next to the brother of a murder victim forgiving his murderer next to a spit-flecked thread arguing over the existence of eternal conscious torment next to a recipe for gluten-free lasagna next to a GoFundMe for a child with severe brain trauma next to a tweet about impeachment by the President. I repeat: Nothing good.

6. Not to mention that people are getting harassed or losing their jobs over their activity on public (and "private") social media. Why take the risk?

7. Add do that how companies like Twitter (and Facebook, my account on which I have deleted; and Google, my account on which I have not—that will be next in these tech-wise reflections) are profiting off our data in ways legal and only semi-legal but certainly immoral, harmful, and deceptive. That is what makes them "free": we are selling ourselves to be online, engaging in activities that are bad for ourselves and bad for others. There's a word for that, y'all.

8. Perhaps there is no healthy future for life online, but I am certain that there is no healthy future for life online that includes Twitter and Facebook. And if I think that, why prop it up? My exit won't make a difference, true. But if these companies are a brothel and we're paying the lease with our time, I'll spend my time somewhere else, thank you very much.

So here's what I'm going to try, in lieu of immediately (rashly?) deleting my account for good:

1. I will remain signed out of Twitter all week except for Saturday.

2. I will sign in to Twitter and "be" on there for a maximum of 30 minutes on Saturday.

3. When signed in, I will not retweet, like, or reply to other tweets.

4. When signed in, I will not tweet "thoughts" or the like. I will, instead, do one of two things. I will tweet out links either to things I have written or to things I have read and are worth sharing with others.

And the following are matters I'm still deliberating about:

5. Whether or not to delete all past tweets, so as to re-shape my Twitter profile into a kind of static "online hub" for folks to find me, discover who I am, see what I've written, and to follow links there either to my blog, to my Academia.edu page, or to my contact info so as to get in touch directly.

6. Whether or not to communicate via DMs or to make my email address clear enough for folks who'd like to contact me that way.

7. Whether or not, during the week, while signed out, to treat a handful of Twitter profiles as if they are RSS feeds meant to share links of pieces worth reading. I can imagine this being a healthy way of using Twitter against its wishes. But we'll see, since the whole point is to be off Twitter entirely during the week. And I wouldn't want to compulsively check Profile X throughout the day. For now I think I'll limit it to Saturdays, with the exception of one or two profiles (maybe, maybe, maybe).

As you can tell, I'm still in the middle of this. My mind's not quite made up yet. I may end up deleting my account entirely by year's end. Or I may discover some other mode of minimal-to-no usage. We shall see. I'll report back here later, as I always do.

Are there good reasons to stay on Twitter?

Earlier this week Nolan Lawson wrote a brief post extolling people to get off Twitter. He opens it by saying, "Stop complaining about Twitter on Twitter. Deny them your attention, your time, and your data. Get off of Twitter. The more time you spend on Twitter, the more money you make for Twitter. Get off of Twitter."

Alan Jacobs picked up on this post and wrote in support: "The decision to be on Twitter (or Facebook, etc.) is not simply a personal choice. It has run-on effects for you but also for others. When you use the big social media platforms you contribute to their power and influence, and you deplete the energy and value of the open web. You make things worse for everyone. I truly believe that. Which is why I’m so obnoxiously repetitive on this point."

I've written extensively about my own habits of technology and internet discipline. I deleted my Facebook account. I don't have any social media apps on my iPhone; nor do I even have access to email on there. I use it for calls, texts, podcasts, pictures of my kids (no iCloud!), directions, the weather, and Instapaper. I use Freedom to eliminate my access to the internet, on either my phone or my laptop, for 3-4 hours at a time, two to three times a day. I don't read articles or reply to emails until lunch time, then hold off until end of (work) day or end of (actual) day—i.e., after the kids go to bed. I'm not on Instagram or Snapchat or any of the new social media start-ups.

So why am I still on Twitter? I'm primed to agree with Lawson and Jacobs, after all. And I certainly do agree, to a large extent: Twitter is a fetid swamp of nightmarish human interaction; a digital slot machine with little upside and all downside. I have no doubt that 90% of people on Twitter need to get off entirely, and 100% of people on Twitter should use it 90% less than they do. Twitter warps the mind (journalism's degradation owes a great deal to @Jack); it is unhealthy for the brain and damaging for the soul. No one who deleted their Twitter account would become a less well-rounded, mentally and emotionally and spiritually fulfilled person.

So, again: Why am I still on Twitter? Are there any good reasons to stay?

For me, the answer is yes. The truth is that for the last 3 years (the main years of my really using it) my time on Twitter has been almost uniformly positive, and there have been numerous concrete benefits. At least for now, it's still worth it to me.

How has that happened? Partly I'm sure by dumb luck. Partly by already having instituted fairly rigorous habits of discipline (it's hard to fall into the infinite scroll if the scroll is inaccessible from your handheld device! And the same goes for instant posting, or posting pictures directly from my phone, which I can't do, or for getting into flame wars, or for getting notifications on my home screen, which I don't—since, again, it's not on my phone, and my phone is always (always!) on Do Not Disturb and Silent and, if I'm in the office, on Airplane Mode; you get it now: the goal is to be uninterrupted and generally unreachable).

Partly it's my intended mode of presence on Twitter: Be myself; don't argue about serious things with strangers; only argue at all if the other person is game, the topic is interesting, and the conversation is pleasant or edifying or fun; always think, "Would my wife or dad or best friend or pastor or dean or the Lord Jesus himself approve of this tweet?" (that does away with a lot of stupidity, meanness, and self-aggrandizement fast). As a rule, I would like for people who "meet" me on Twitter to meet me in person and find the two wholly consonant. Further, I try hard never to "dunk" on anyone. Twitter wants us to be cruel to one another: why give in?

I limit my follows fairly severely: only people I know personally, or read often, or admire, or learn something from, or take joy in following. For as long as I'm on Twitter I would like to keep my follows between 400 and 500 (kept low through annual culling). The moment someone who follows me acts cruelly or becomes a distraction, to myself or others, I immediately mute them (blocks are reserved, for now, for obvious bots). I don't feel compelled to respond to every reply. And I tend to "interface" with Twitter not through THE SCROLL but through about a dozen bookmarked profiles of people, usually writers or fellow academics, who always have interesting things to say or post links worth saving for later. All in all, I try to limit my daily time on Twitter to 10-30 minutes, less on Saturdays and (ordinarily, or aspirationally) zero on Sundays—at least so long as the kids are awake.

So much for my rules. What benefits have resulted from being on Twitter?

First, it appears that I have what can only be called a readership. Even if said readership comprises "only" a few hundred folks (I have just over a thousand followers), that number is greater than zero, which until very recently was the number of my readers not related to me by blood. And until such time (which will be no time) that I have thousands upon tens of thousands of readers—nay, in the millions!—it is rewarding and meaningful to interact with people who take the time to read, support, share, and comment on my work.

(That raises the question: Should the time actually come, and I'm sure that it will, when I am bombarded by trolls and the rank wickedness that erupts from the bowels of Twitter Hell for so many people? I will take one of two courses of action. I will adopt the policy of not reading my replies, as wise Public People do. But if that's not good enough, that will be the day, the very day, that I quit Twitter for good. And perhaps Lawson and Jacobs both arrived at that point long ago, which launched them off the platform. If so, good for them.)

Additionally, I have made contacts with a host of people across the country (and the world) with whom I share some common interest, not least within the theological academy. Some of these have become, or are fast becoming, genuine friendships. And because we theologians find reasons to gather together each year (AAR/SBL, SCE, CSC, etc.), budding online friendships actually generate in-person meetings and hangouts. Real life facilitated by the internet! Who would've thought?

I have also received multiple writing opportunities simply in virtue of being on Twitter. Those opportunities came directly or indirectly from embedding myself, even if (to my mind) invisibly, in networks of writers, editors, publishers, and the like. (I literally signed a book contract last week based on an email from an editor who found me on Twitter based on some writing and tweeting I'd done.) As I've always said, academic epistemology is grounded in gossip, and gossip (of the non-pejorative kind) depends entirely on who you know. The same goes for the world of publishing. And since writers and editors love Twitter—doubtless to their detriment—Twitter's the place to be to "hang around" and "hear" stuff, and eventually be noticed by one or two fine folks, and be welcomed into the conversation. That's happened to me already, in mostly small ways; but they add up.

So that's it, give or take. On a given week, I average 60-90 minutes on Twitter spread across 5-6 days, mostly during lunch or early evening hours, on my laptop, never on my phone, typically checking just a handful of folks' profiles, sending off a tweet or two myself, never battling, never feeding the trolls, saving my time and energy for real life (home, kids, church, friends) and for periods of sustained, undistracted attention at work, whether reading or writing.

Having said that, if I were a betting man, I would hazard a guess that I'll be off Twitter within five years, or that the site will no longer exist in anything like its current form. My time on Twitter is unrepresentative, and probably can't last. But so long as it does, and the benefits remain, I'll "be" there, and I think the reasons I've offered are sufficient to justify the decision.

My technology habits

Developing good technology habits is one of the driving motivations of my daily life. Particularly since I surrendered and got a smart phone (only three years ago), combined with having children (the oldest is six) and getting a job (now in my second year), the possibility for the internet and screens to overtake my every waking moment has never been greater. A little less than two years ago I read Andy Crouch's The Tech-Wise Family, which galvanized and organized my approach to disciplining technology's role in my life. Here's where things stand at the moment.

Phone

I still have an iPhone, though an older and increasingly outdated model. When I read Crouch I realized I was spending more than 2 hours a day on my phone (adolescents average 3-6 hours—some of my students more than that!), and I followed his lead in downloading the Moment app to monitor my usage. Since then I've cut down my daily screen time on my phone to ~45 minutes: 10 or so minutes checking email, 10-20 or so minutes texting/WhatsApp, another 20-30 minutes reading articles I've saved to Instapaper.

I changed my screen settings to black and white, which diminishes the appeal of the phone's image (the eyes like color). My home screen consists of Gmail, Safari, Messages, WhatsApp, Calendar, Photos, Camera, Settings, Weather, Google Maps, and FaceTime. That's it. I have no social media apps. On the next screen I have, e.g., the OED, BibleGateway, Instapaper, Podcasts, Amazon, Fandango, and Freedom (which helps to manage and block access to certain websites or apps).

When we moved to Abilene in June 2016, we instituted a digital sabbath on Sundays: no TV (for kids or us), and minimal phone usage. Elaborating on the latter: I leave my phone in the car during church, and try to leave my phone plugged into the charger in the bedroom or away from living areas during the day. Not to say that we've been perfectly consistent with either of these practices, but for the most part, they've been life-giving and refreshing.

Oh, and our children do not have their own phones or tablets, and they do not use or play on ours, at home or in public. (Our oldest is just now experimenting with doing an educational app on our iPad instead of TV time. We'll see how that goes.)

Social Media

Currently the only social media that I am on and regularly use is Twitter. I was on Facebook for years, but last month I deactivated my account. I'm giving it a waiting period, but after Easter, or thereabouts, unless something has changed my mind, I am going to delete my account permanently. (Reading Jaron Lanier's most recent book had something to do with this decision.) I don't use, and I cannot imagine ever creating an account for, any other social media.

Why Twitter? Well, on the one hand, it has proved to be an extraordinarily helpful and beneficial means of networking, both personally and professionally. I've done my best to cultivate a level-headed, sane, honest, and friendly presence on it, and the results have so far wildly exceeded my expectations. Thus, on the other hand, I have yet to experience Twitter as the nightmare I know it is and can be for so many. Part of that is my approach to using it, but I know that the clock is ticking on my first truly negative experience—getting rolled or trolled or otherwise abused. What will I do then? My hope is that I will simply not read my mentions and avoid getting sucked into the Darkest Twitter Timeline whose vortex has claimed so many others. But if it starts affecting my actual psyche—if I start anxiously thinking about it throughout the day—if my writing or teaching starts anticipating, reactively, the negative responses Twitter is designed algorithmically to generate: then I will seriously consider deactivating or deleting my account.

How do I manage Twitter usage? First, since it's not on my phone, unless I'm in front of my own laptop, I can't access it, or at least not in a user friendly way. (Besides, I mostly use Twitter as I once did checking blogs: I go to individual accounts' home pages daily or every other day, rather than spend time scrolling or refreshing my timeline.) Second, I use Freedom to block Twitter on both my laptop and my phone for extended periods during the day (e.g., when writing or grading or returning emails), so I simply can't access it. Third, my aim is for two or three 5-10 minute "check-ins": once or twice at work, once in the evening. If I spend more than 20 or 30 minutes a day on Twitter, that day is a failure.

Laptop

I have four children, six and under, at home, so being on my laptop at home isn't exactly a realistic persistent temptation. They've got to be in bed, and unless I need to work, I'm not going to sit there scrolling around online indefinitely. I've got better things to do.

At work, my goal is to avoid being on my laptop as much as possible. Unless I need to be on it—in order to write, email, or prepare for class—I keep it closed. In fact, I have a few tricks for resisting the temptation to open it and get sucked in. I'll use Freedom to start a session blocking the internet for a few hours. Or I begin the day with reading (say, 8:00-11:00), then open the laptop to check stuff while eating an early lunch. Or I will physically put the laptop in an annoying place in my office: high on a shelf, or in a drawer. Human psychology's a fickle thing, but this sort of practice actually decreases the psychic desire to take a break from reading or other work by opening the laptop; and I know if I open it, Twitter or Feedly or Instapaper or the NYT or whatever will draw me in and take more time from me than I had planned or wanted.

[Insert: I neglected to mention that one way I try to read at least some of the innumerable excellent articles and essays published online is, first, to save them to Instapaper then, second, to print out the longest or most interesting ones (usually all together, once or twice a month). I print them front and back, two sides to a page, and put them in a folder to read in the evening or throughout the week. This can't work for everyone, but since I work in an office with a mega-printer that doesn't cost me anything, it's a nice way to "read online" without actually being online.]

One of my goals for the new year has been to get back into blogging—or as I've termed it, mezzo-blogging—which is really just an excuse to force myself to write for 15-30 minutes each day. That's proved to require even more hacks to keep me from going down rabbit holes online, since the laptop obviously has to be open to write a blog post. So I'll use Freedom to block "Distractions," i.e., websites I've designated as ones that distract me from productive work, like Twitter or Google.

I've yet to figure out a good approach with email, since I don't like replying to emails throughout the day, though sometimes my students do need a swifter answer than I'd prefer to give. Friday afternoons usually end up my catch-up day.

I should add that I am a binge writer (and editor): so if I have the time, and I have something to write, I'll go for three or six or even nine or more hours hammering away. But when I'm in the groove like that, the distractions are easy to avoid.

Oh, and as for work on the weekends: I typically limit myself to (at most) Saturday afternoon, while the younger kids nap and the older kids rest, and Sunday evening, after the kids go to bed. That way I take most or all of the weekend off, and even if I have work to do, I take 24+ hours off from work (Sat 5pm–Sun 7pm).

TV

In many ways my worst technology habits have to do with TV. Over many years my mind and body have been trained to think of work (teaching and reading and writing) as the sort of thing I do during the day, and rest from work after dinner (or the kids go to bed) means watching television. That can be nice, either as a respite from mentally challenging labor, or as a way to spend time with my wife. But it also implies a profoundly attenuated imagination: relaxation = vegging out. Most of the last three years have been a sustained, ongoing attempt at retraining my brain to resist its vegging-out desires once the last child falls asleep. Instead, to read a novel, to catch up with my wife, to clean up, to grab drinks with friends, to get to bed early—whatever.

If my goal is less than 1 hour per day on my phone, and only as much time on my laptop as is necessary (which could be as little as 30 minutes or as much as 4+ hours), my goal is six (or fewer) hours per week of TV time. That includes sports, which as a result has gone way down, and movies (whether with the kids or my wife). Reasonable exceptions allowed: our 5-month-old often has trouble getting down early or easily, and my wife and I will put on some mindless episode of comedy—current favorite: Brooklyn 99—while taking turns holding and bouncing her to sleep. But otherwise, my current #1 goal is as little TV as possible; and if it's on, something well worth watching.

Video games

I don't have video games, and haven't played them since high school. We'll see if this re-enters our life when our kids get older.

Pedagogy

I've written elsewhere about the principles that inform my so-called Luddite pedagogy. But truly, my goal in my classes is to banish technology from the classroom, and from in front of my students' faces, as much as is within my power. The only real uses I have for it is PowerPoint presentations (for larger lecture courses to freshmen) and YouTube clips (for a certain section of my January intensive course on Christianity and Culture). Otherwise, it's faces looking at faces, ears listening to spoken words, me at the table with the students or up scribbling on the white board. For 80 minutes at a time, I want my students to know what it's like not to constantly be scratching that itch.

Spiritual disciplines

All of this is useless without spiritual disciplines encompassing, governing, and replacing the time I'd otherwise be devoting to technology. I note that here as a placeholder, since that's not what this post is about; perhaps in another post I'll discuss my devotional regimen (which makes it sound far more rigorous than my floundering attempts in fact amount to).

I have been helped so much by learning what others do in order to curb and control their relationship to technology. I hope this might be helpful to others in a similar way.