I’ve created a new space on this site that was really what this page was originally about: a place to write anything. I’m calling it the “wanderlog.” This ultimately is a category to protect me from me, to give me permission to write anything without purpose, without apology. Of course, I very much hope that it’s not useless, but I’m giving myself permission to be useless.

And really, that’s an important value to protect. Usefulness is good, but the world pushes you to make it ultimate. I may have shared this before (maybe I should give myself permission to be repetitive, too!) but I really connected with something I heard on Peter Bregman’s leadership podcast years ago. He said he has a tendency to turn his hobbies into projects, and almost without meaning to, he would find that he keeps repeating this cycle of professionalizing.

You may laugh and wonder how I relate to that since I currently walk around with an imaginary “master of none” sign on my back. He does it better, don’t get me wrong. But I feel the same pull to take something I enjoy and professionalize it. I can’t just journal; I feel compelled to write books, to improve in the craft, hone a message, build an audience, and find a publisher. I can’t just build a loft bed for my son; I feel compelled to practice, refine, get better tools, build better things, maybe start selling some of them. I can’t just write songs; I have to record them, produce them, refine, share, monetize, etc. I can’t simply teach; I want to be a teacher. I can’t simply learn; I want to be a scholar. I can’t simply counsel; I want to be a counselor.

I imagine this is just part of living in 21st century America. Technology and social media have given us the tools to access vast amounts of knowledge, to DIY anything, to monetize anything, build your own brand. There’s an invitation—for anything you want to do—to do it better, do it for money, and find your identity in it.

My problem is not lack of interest or lack of aptitude, but lack of focus. But I’ll save that thought for another day.

Casting aside the details, my first blog very gradually turned into a professional online presence. So I created a second one. And that one gradually turned into a different kind of professional online presence. This is partly because there is a pressure—often self-imposed—to curate your online image, to carry yourself a certain way. And this is probably more true in some disciplines than others. But whether on the altar of professionalism or to some other god, “just write” eventually gets sacrificed to “just write something amazing.” And what counts as amazing? Well, it sure isn’t useless!

Don’t get me wrong. Usefulness is great. Everything has a purpose, and without purpose, I don’t know that anything could exist. Even our most useless moments are made possible by thousands of useful components.

I want to be useful. I find joy in serving others. We also play a role in God’s plan that lends itself to talk of being “used by” Him. It comes up when Paul talks about being clay in the Potter’s hand, crafted for one purpose or another. It comes up in images of the church, where a part contributes to the body, or a living stone contributes to the greater structure.

Further, God gives us spiritual gifts so that we can help one another. We are to use them for each other, and by extension make ourselves useful in these ways.

Usefulness is good. Isn’t it?

I was recently trying to explain to a friend my beef with Pragmatism. It’s not that being useful is bad. It’s not that being better is bad. The problems arise when you look at “to what end?” and “in what context?”

All things being equal, it’s better to help more people than fewer. All things being equal, it’s better to do something well than to do it poorly. All things being equal, it’s better to be efficient rather than wasteful. All things being equal, it’s better to fit the medium to the message. All things being equal, it’s better to to maximize impact.

But all things are never equal. Ever. It’s a thought experiment. It’s an imagined world. In the real world, there is always a context, and in that context, bigger may not be better, efficient may not be better, polished may not be better, and, paradoxically, better may not be better. There’s the cost of resources to do the thing, whether time, money, etc. There’s the potential for your thing to compete with other goods, not just in production but in the life of the consumer. There’s the unintended consequences of attributing value to one thing and, by implication, devaluing whatever is not being emphasized. There’s human nature, there’s the cost of amplifying a mistake, etc., etc.

These costs don’t mean “stop trying to be better!” They just need to be factored in. Sometimes slower is better, fewer is better, messy is better. The first problem of Pragmatism is that we tend to take the one thing we’re trying to improve and make it ultimate. Then more and more things become instrumentalized toward one end. And the more we emphasize their usefulness toward that end, the more we endanger their inherent worth and their role in other systems toward other goods.

And then of course, there is the more basic problem of “what are you chasing?” Is what you think is good really, actually good? Do you really need fame? Do you really need membership in that club? Do you really need more people than you can serve at your current capacity? So there are good things that become corrupt by being made ultimate, and there are sketchy things that we chase that really aren’t worth our time. I’m sure there are better examples, but for now, let’s move on.

If something is worth doing, it’s worth doing well. It’s worth doing poorly, too, but (all things being equal!) do it well if you can. If you can’t, there are probably times you need to stop. But why assume that you should? Let’s say making food is worth doing, but you can’t do it well. Would you starve because someone else does it better? Of course, you don’t want to poison anyone, and maybe you shouldn’t set up a stand by the roadside, but if it’s worth doing, do it! Dare to be less than the best.

But I would challenge you to more than that. Don’t content yourself with simply being bad at something. Dare to be useless. Dare to leave money on the table, potential untapped.

Why? Well, there are all the concerns I mentioned above about context and pursuing bad ends or making the wrong thing ultimate. But I believe it goes deeper than that. I think our interest in usefulness is itself a good thing that has become twisted by being made ultimate. We so quickly move from wanting to help to being seen as a helper, then to finding our identity in helping, then to feeling lost when we can’t help. We so quickly move from valuing someone to valuing their contribution, then to measuring them by their contribution, then to writing them off when they don’t contribute enough. So whether we are measuring ourselves or someone else, who we are and whether we are loveable comes down to a measure of utility.

Dare to be useless. Dare to love the useless. Not as an excuse to be lazy or apathetic or in any other way to promote some alternative destructive value. We need to recognize that some things have value not because they do something but because they simply are.

Consider the idea of rest. I have a tenuous relationship with rest. It seems wasteful. “Sleep is for the weak.” Rest is for people who aren’t determined enough, who are content with less. I have gotten better at this as an adult as I realize I need rest in order to be restored, and that this is a good gift from God and not merely a form of coddling.

But so far, my idea of rest is still tied to its utility. When God rested on the seventh day, it did Him no good. It was a good thing, don’t get me wrong, but because He did not exhaust Himself, it wasn’t restorative. You might reply that He used it to set an example, and I’ll grant this. He is wise and has His reasons. But the example He sets is one that need not be restorative. It may be ceasing for its own sake. It may just be without accomplishing one agenda or another. It comes with permission for dignified uselessness.

Now, I realize I risk stepping on toes here. Some traditions take Sabbath very seriously, and I don’t mean to say that it shouldn’t be an opportunity for worship or that it precludes the possibility of doing something else that is somehow restful in a different way. I don’t mean to empty Sabbath rest of any of these good things. I simply want to make the case that there may be room in the Sabbath for dignified uselessness. Maybe, just maybe, one day a week can be free from the very idea of accomplishment. It can just be without any consideration of being for.

This is why I think we should dare to be useless. Because the very thought of uselessness seems like heresy, like wickedness, like debauchery. But as Christians, we know that there are some people whose usefulness is very difficult to measure, but their value remains untarnished. We know that an unborn baby is valuable not because it has potential or because it makes her parents feel good, but simply because she is. Value without use. We know that someone at the end of life may have lost physical and mental faculties, even to the point of being unresponsive, and yet their value is not indexed to inability. He is valuable not because of legacy or independence, but simply because he is. Not because he is for. The same can be said for people in the middle of life who are unable by one measure or another. Is their utility hampered? Maybe. Their value? Not on your life.

Dare to be useless, to love useless things, to break the tie between value and impact, worth and work, praiseworthiness and potential.

Now, you might say, (and I confess, I hope you would), “Josh, that was a helpful thing you just said.” Does that undermine the point? Aren’t useful blog posts better than useless ones? Contexts and ends, my friend. Contexts and ends. In this case, it is only because I was willing to risk uselessness that I even started typing.

“Aha!” you say, “so uselessness is a useful idea!” Well, I suppose it was today. I don’t think my point requires uselessness to persist in itself or to become a dominant value. I simply need to accept it as part of life, and accept the possibility that actual uselessness need not be a threat or a sin. Maybe it’s not possible for any good or true idea to be completely fruitless; but I suspect it’s not necessary for the content of the idea to somehow govern the nature or quality of the idea itself. I’ll save that debate for another time. For now I’m content to simply push back against the cult of pragmatism and leave it at that.

I have two blogs and rarely contribute to either one. Why is that?

It’s because I’m a writer. That’s what I do when I have time to myself. It’s what I do because I have no other choice. It’s how I see myself and how I want to be seen.

Of course, I want to be seen as more than that. I don’t want to be mistaken for some caricature. So I have a YouTube space so I can share educational videos, and I have a SoundCloud account so I can share music and sermons, and I have an Instagram account so I can share pictures. I enjoy these things. I enjoy making these things. I want others to see me as someone competent in these areas, too.

But I rarely contribute to any of these venues. Why is that?

Did I stop writing music? No. I stopped performing music in public, but I still make music for my kids and I on any given day you may catch me recording a voice memo of some new idea for a hook or a lyric.

Did I stop taking pictures? No. Now that I have kids, I take more pictures than ever. I never get tired of trying to capture a beautiful moment in nature, hoping to savor it beyond its given window of time.

Did I stop making videos? Well, I only ever do that in professional contexts. I make them for other people, not so much for my own purposes.

I could never stop creating. (Feel free to type me under your personality profile of choice. You’re probably not far off.)

So why do all of these accounts remain unused? Because of fear.

You see, right now I can enjoy the process of creating with little risk. I can enjoy the spark of discovery, the delight of insight, the turn of a rhythmic phrase as it dances with an image, and honor it for what it is. And I know God sees these things and delights in them, too. Occasionally I will share one with the kids or with my wife. Very rarely with a close friend.

But in so doing I content myself with a lesser joy. My passion has been to share these things with other people. In preaching, I can say “look at this amazing thing in the text!” In teaching, I can say “watch the unique way this idea flies back to its nest!” I write and speak because I want to share these treasures.

This is why I have always struggled with music. It is a deep passion, but I can’t separate myself from the work. I don’t know how to say “listen to this wonderful lyric!” without meaning in my heart “listen to my wonderful lyric!” I have been trying to work through this, and maybe it’s part of the answer to my larger problem.

By the “larger problem,” I simply mean the fear I mentioned before. I love to share, but. But. What if you don’t see the beauty? I’m so convinced it’s beautiful, so sure that if you saw what I saw, you would wonder at it, too, that it can only mean that I have failed to present it properly.

I have been losing my audience. People I used to count as friends have drifted away as the cultural currents push and pull. The same holds true for my seminary classmates, as politics has charged divisions that once posed no threat. And after leaving a church and leaving a job, after isolations and deconstructions, I want more than ever to share good, beautiful things. But I don’t want to stutter. I don’t want to trip. I don’t want to be the reason you miss the thing.

So somewhere along the way, I started writing for my critics. Because some days friends and critics are indistinguishable.

At first, I thought writing for my critics would make me better at this. But the truth turns out to be something I’ve known for a very long time: if you’re committed enough to your position, there is always a way to maintain it.

For a while I was searching for the right starting place. I wanted common ground that we could build from. If I could just establish that space and build from there, then maybe you could see the beauty of the thing. Or at very least maybe we could learn to talk with respect again.

But I found myself walking a path I’ve read about and never wanted to visit. I found myself knocking on the door of Descartes, thinking if I could just hold enough things at arms length conceptually, I could make peace and invite them all back afterward. But of course that’s not how it goes or how it could go.

No! That’s the way of the weak. I will try harder. I’ll find the answers and vindicate myself! I will tear and ball and pitch every idea with vigorous animosity toward its imperfections. I. will. share. nothing. Not until I’m sure it will be good enough.

This is how you remain silent for months. Be content to write for yourself, and kill anything that dares to recommend itself to others.

I can’t write for my critics by becoming someone they would approve of. I used to believe in common ground, but now I can no longer conjure the thought. It feels exhausted. Where you are, I cannot be. Where I am, you may not wish to be. Perhaps isolation was inevitable, with or without the pandemic.

I am only lately admitting to myself that trying to find the right starting point is a misguided quest. (Perhaps someone will say there is a way. Good! Let him take it.) Where was I going? I just wanted to share something of worth, something beautiful that struck me. I wanted to share it in a way that guaranteed you saw it, too. But of course that’s a fool’s errand. I can’t make you see. (I wrote that in a song over 20 years ago. Apparently even if you see, you may forget.)

So I want to go back to sharing. And I want to renounce the thought of seeking some artificial quarters from which to write.

Some will say it takes courage to share your writing, but I don’t want to risk cheapening the word. But sharing anything in public means you can’t control the way it is received. It may be ignored, unappreciated, misunderstood, or condemned. And perhaps you may be, too, by extension. But I have to believe that if something is worthy of sharing, it’s also worthy of the risk involved.

And what are the risks, really? That all my friends should prove to be critics? I don’t really fear that, and only by confronting the possibility can I put it to bed. That writing in an unscholarly way might bar me from a chance to do something more rigorous? That would be an odd punishment for so little a crime. That my convictions prove a clumsy fit to any community that I would want to join? Well, let’s just say if we can’t learn to live together, we’re going to die alone. (Thanks, Jack.)

So I’m going to try and go back to writing in public more often and with less calculation, to “say something true in public every day.” Then what will be, will be.

And what you will see, you will see.