Thank God that you don’t know me. I don’t mean that I’m some sort of monster, and you shouldn’t know me. But if you’re reading this, you likely saw the name “Alex Sosler” and thought, “Huh, never heard of him.” I am largely an unknown nobody.
I used to think that my obscurity was some sort of burden to overcome. I had aspirations, after all. My ambition saw my privacy as an obstacle to conquer in order to be known in the wider world. It’s primal, this ambition. Ever since the Greeks and Romans, honor and glory have been the great achievement of life. Immortality came through having a lasting name and legacy. Surely, the Sosler name could live on by being known. Maybe not through my heroic acts but I have something to offer. Right?
If I was known, if I wasn’t a nobody, then I would be happy.
A few times, I was close. I met the right people. I made the right connections. I almost got that internship that would surely launch me into a “platform.” But that never happened. You don’t know me. I am platform-less.
I remember when friends would visit me early in my ministry days. They came from bigger churches or were finding success in their chosen career. They would pop in to the usual student ministry meeting while they were in town. Four students came to the weekly gathering. Compared to their successes, I felt like such a failure — like an utter loser. This is my fame.
Or I recall spending hours preparing a rich, substantive, engaging message for students—a message that would surely start a revival across the land. Then, two kids showed up. One was picking his nose.
Aren’t I worth more? Was I wasting my talent? Surely, an audience needed me. I didn’t want obscurity. I wanted fame. I’m thankful that God did not give me what I wanted.
First, I’m deeply insecure. I didn’t think I was, but I am. I thought I had my generic messages for a generic audience. This stuff could work on anyone. I’ve since learned otherwise. I now have the opportunity to speak at a college or a church group at their invitation. There’s no other time when my anxiety runs higher. I have no idea how I will be received because I don’t know who they are — their hurts, struggles, questions, issues. I’ve never felt anxiety or insecurity preaching at my church or teaching students I know. Not knowing if they like my message, and therefore me (my concern here is mostly me) leaves me feel really, deeply insecure.
It turns out that I’m not satisfied with generic messages to generic people. For me, preaching and teaching requires particularity in relationship. Anything else is a canned platitude.
Second, I fear virtual fans. I’ve seen responses to “famous” people. People are crazy. I don’t want the mob to pile on me for a tweet they didn’t like. To be known today, to have a “platform” is almost exclusively online. Plus, you don’t get to choose your fans. They could be anyone. And once a crowd start gathering, you have to keep them. Because…
Third, when you have a shtick, you must stick with it. The last few years have seen many people I used to respect lose their minds. And I wonder: “How did he or she get here?” Well, they follow the party line into absurdity. They become habituated to being liked. They got the platform. They need to be liked by these faceless people. They take up the group consciousness and begin to neglect their own conscience. When you’re known as a pot-stir-er, the pot continually needs to be stirred (all to the sound of applause from your “platform.”) If your fans are conservative, you need to stay within party lines. And vice-versa. People want to be liked, after all.
One of the beauties of people who know me is its embodiment, it’s locality. I’m not known in the wider world, so I can resist shouting into the void. I imagine particular people in my head rather than talking points to score or “own the libs” (whoever they are).
This brings me to the last reason: I don’t trust my motives. Even now, I am writing. To write is to desire someone else to read it. As much as I appreciate my mom faithfully reading along, it would be great if she wasn’t the only one who read my articles or books. It would be much simpler to write her letters.
Now, I just said I don’t want to be known – but I want to be read. I could justify this by saying, “You know, I am helpful. This brings God glory by my being helpful. So, this is good.” But Eric Schumacher notes how crafty fame creeps into our best motives. There tends to be an insidious weaving of God’s glory with my own. I don’t trust myself to be known.
Jake Meador recently reflected on the current state of evangelical fracturing. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the movement is not in a great spot. One of the factors that Meador notes is that the generational leaders — John Piper and Tim Keller — arrived at notoriety later in their careers. Meanwhile, the next generation—the Mark Driscolls and Matt Chandlers — were thrust into fame relatively early. These were the model leaders I wanted to be: young, hip, passionate. I didn’t like slow. I didn’t like patience. I don’t like waiting. But here’s the thing about a spiritually mature life: it needs slowness and patience and waiting.
For most of my adult life, I wanted life to speed up. Get done with school. Leave this town. Marry. Have kids. Move. Go to the next thing. Now, all I desire is to slow down. Savor. Rest.
For many in the modern age, we think our desire will make us happy. Once I leave this job for another job, I will be happy. Once I have a platform, I will be happy. Once people know me (and like me), then I will be happy. Whatever choice I make that leads to the least suffering: that will make me happy.
Christianity beats a different proverbial drum. It goes something like this: you are not your own. You were bought with a price. Your life is taken up into the crucified God. God’s desire will make you happy, even if that may mean suffering or hardship or the dreaded obscurity.
The Lutheran catechism begins this way, which reframes my ambition.
Question: What is your only comfort in life and death?
Answer: That I am not my own, but belong — body and soul, in life and in death — to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ. He has fully paid for all my sins with his precious blood, and has delivered me from the tyranny of the devil. He also watches over me in such a way that not a hair can fall from my head without the will of my Father in heaven; in fact, all things must work together for my salvation. Because I belong to him, Christ, by his Holy Spirit, also assures me of eternal life and makes me wholeheartedly willing and ready from now on to live for him.
The good life, then, is not the manufactured life. It’s not the celebrity life of my choosing or my making. It’s the given life. The life I don’t deserve is the life I’m living right now — and it just happens to be one full of joys, disappointments, and all the unexpected graces that make life better than I could have imagined.
I don’t have to make anything of my life. I don’t have to make all the right choices that lead to the most options or the biggest platform. I don’t have to be known. My honor will not outlast me. I am not my own. I belong to Christ, which means I can rest.
So, I can say (mostly) with a straight face: You don’t know me. And I’m really glad you don’t.
COMMENTS
11 responses to “The Glories of Being a Nobody”
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From one eternally-significant nobody to another, thank you for this.
Thank you for this invitation to abandon “kleos” (glory) for the abundant (and often anonymous) life that Jesus promises His disciples. Like a good wizard, your essay arrived precisely when it needed to for this reader. Grateful.
Didn’t someone somewhere say that fame was meant for no man? Thanks Alex, from one average dude to another.
Just FYI, your Dad also reads your stuff. Love you.
Thanks for this article. It resonated with the many conversations I’ve had in my own mind about fame vs helpfulness. Sometimes it’s nice just to know we’re not alone in the struggles.
Really empowering thoughts! Equipping us to live (and serve) for a secret audience of One!
“But you, when you pray go into your inner room…and pray to your Father who is in secret, and your Father who sees what is done in secret will reward you.” Matt 6:6
love this so much. and hey, from one fellow christian nobody to another wrestling with the same stuff, I wrote a similar piece over at Faith+Lead last fall. 🙂
https://faithlead.org/blog/the-wisdom-in-being-a-nobody/
Generic messages to generic people…particularity in relationship…is how I think you put it…like that a lot…my understanding is that the Jews who wrote the scriptures regularly and openly discussed what they meant together…one way preaching seems to me anymore to be running on a flat tire…no chance to be challenged or questions asked…and worse no chance for connection…very good thank you…you nobody! 🙂 I promise not to remember your name…
Alex – There’s a reason you’re getting more replies – wonderful replies – than I’ve ever seen before in response to a Mockingbird article! Bravo! ( And I love your dad’s reply.)
Thanks for these sane thoughts. Raised with high expectations, I long ago gave myself permission to be “ordinary”—and what a relief. But now I’ve written a novel, and the bar for public exposure/marketing is rocketing ever-higher. (Make a trailer about it?? Seriously???) It’s comforting to know others struggle with this issue.
[…] Over at Mockingbird, I talk about my young struggles to be known and how lucky I am that no one knows me (with a little help from the Heidelberg Catechism. […]