I recently celebrated a birthday.

Normally, my relationship with social media is complicated—but on my birthday, it feels fun. Messages, pictures, and love pour in, thanks partly to Facebook’s reminders and ready-made greetings that make kindness as easy as a click.

The morning after my birthday, as I scrolled, I was reminded of social media’s complexity—the constant juxtaposition. My feed was full of all the early June things: end-of-the-school-year milestones: last days, graduations, and celebrations. Memories cataloged alongside ads for swimsuits, commentary on the feud between Musk and Trump, and nasty comments below the local minor league baseball team’s post about their pride night.

I found myself asking: What would Jesus post? 

My hunch? Nothing. Jesus would likely stay off social media completely—or at the very least, unlike me, wouldn’t override the daily time limits set up to keep him accountable.

Internet usage wasn’t exactly covered in the Sermon on the Mount, but I imagine Jesus would be feeding the poor, visiting widows, ministering to those in prison, welcoming the immigrant—or even out fishing with his friends—far more often than posting about it.

I’m praying alongside of Nadia Bolz-Weber who recently shared her “Prayer For Staying Off the Internet More”: 

Almighty God,
Creator of all things, including all those Spring flowers that I haven’t spent enough time appreciating because I think for some reason that doom-scrolling is a better use of my time,
I’ve cut down some, but it doesn’t seem to be enough, so I beseech thee to grant me the will to get off the internet more. You and I both know that the last thing I need is to watch another inane video, read another hot take, or buy any more s$@! I absolutely do not need.
In your infinite mercy, guide me away:
…from the virtual and into the actual
…from feared tomorrows into this only now
…from what I see on a screen to what I behold in my life
…from what I am manipulated to desire to what I am content to have.
When my “will power” fails me yet again, may the strength of your hand keep my own from mindlessly picking up my phone or opening my laptop.
Guide me to what is most real, because you know, O Lord, how unsuited my heart is for the artificial.
And finally, in your infinite mercy, forgive me for the hypocrisy of posting this online.
Amen.

It’s easy to justify my time on social media. As a writer, it’s not just encouraged—it’s often expected. My publisher and agent hope I’ll stay active, and truthfully, I see the value, too. It’s a way to share my work and connect with readers.

But it’s a battle: to stay balanced, to resist trading time actually writing for the performance of being a writer. To avoid the sliminess of self-promotion while still trying to share in a way that feels genuine and inviting. To resist the dopamine rush of likes and the discomfort of silence when things go quiet.

In my personal life, I like to preserve memories—I love when old photos pop up and bring back moments like the kids laughing in the garden hose spray or the anniversary of a family trip Up North. Sharing these glimpses of life helps us stay connected. I enjoy seeing a friend’s hike through Spain or a snapshot of last night’s sunset over the lake.

But there’s plenty of ugly underbelly, too: the shininess of a curated life, the comparison, the inability to pay attention to the current moment due to the fixation on capturing it. And as a former middle school teacher, I always think about the kid not in the picture, the kid not invited, the kid standing outside of the frame. 

Layer on the sheer amount of news and information constantly inundating our feeds, the tempers that flare (emboldened by anonymity) in the comments, and the relentless barrage of advertisements vying for our attention, and it quickly becomes clear that social media is not just a harmless distraction.

– – – – 

A few weeks ago, during the memory-sharing that happened after my father-in-law’s funeral, an old friend, Bruce, recounted their time together in a Rotisserie baseball league, the precursor to modern fantasy sports. Their baseball league was called the “Spud League,” and 10 guys would show up to draft day with a potato in one hand and a stack of scouting notes on players in the other. They’d draft players, auction-style, for hours and hours.

During this era, there were no daily internet stats to check—no app to tap for instant standings. Instead, my father-in-law, the commissioner, would spend hours poring over the USA Today, tabulating stats by hand. Once a month, he’d mail a packet of stats and updated standings to each member of the league.

I find something beautiful about this story, not just the care and attention to this hobby,  but also the patience of it. The lack of instant gratification. The investment.

Bruce said, “I remember for years on Sundays, during our pastor’s weekly prayer of confession, I’d ask God to clear baseball from my mind so I could concentrate on the sermon.”

My own prayer of confession: When I’m a passenger in the car, I forget to look out the window because the internet is in my hand. When I’m out for dinner with my husband, my cell phone sits beside my fork. When I’ve got an extra minute, and I pick up my phone, sometimes I find myself scrolling before I’ve even consciously made the decision to do so. 

It’s not who I want to be. It’s not who I feel called to be. As Nadia Bolz-Weber prayed, I don’t want to trade the actual for the virtual. 

If my relationship to social media is indeed complicated and tangled, the answer likely isn’t to pull tighter.

Back in January, I chose the word “gentle” to guide my year. I wrote that my intention was to approach 2025 not focused on achieving, grinding, and hustling, but instead with gentleness for myself and others.

As summer begins, I’m recommitting. Maybe this blog post is my way of asking for a little accountability. In a world saturated with news and constant awareness, the sheer volume of information can leave us feeling not activated, but profoundly hopeless. 

Gentleness can mean expecting less of ourselves—but it can also mean choosing better, moving toward wisdom rather than impulse. It can look like setting the phone down, posting less, judging less, nudging less, and keeping up less. It can look like moving slower, and more intentionally, like baseball stats that arrive via snail mail rather than through a buzzing notification. 

Gentleness can mean doing what doesn’t come naturally: stepping outside instead of scrolling, unplugging instead of numbing. Choosing what sustains rather than what distracts. Shifting from paralysis to purpose, and allowing our actions to stem from hope, not despair.

On second thought, Jesus may not have had the internet,  but he did say a few things about where we put our attention—about chasing what dazzles but ultimately diminishes. The things that turn to dust. The things that don’t feed our hearts or souls. Or the hearts and souls of others. 

So I think I’ll log off, go for a walk, and consider that.

Header photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash
Tangled photo by Greg Rosenke on Unsplash