Pretty Purposeless

A pastor’s wife I know made a post a couple years ago. It was a PSA of sorts, and it was impactful enough that I wrote it down in my notes.

It was one of those public service announcements that probably made perfect sense in the moment, but the longer I thought about it, the stranger it became.

She was talking about kitchen towels and throw pillows.

Not bathroom towels. Not dish rags. Not cleaning cloths.

The pretty towels.

The ones hanging perfectly from the oven door. The ones folded just right on the counter. The ones that match the season, the wall color, the rug, and whatever version of farmhouse-modern-transitional-cozy we are all supposed to be aiming for this month.

Her announcement was simple:

These items are not for use.

The towels are not for drying your hands. They are not for wiping up spills. They are not for cleaning a counter. They are not for catching the mess that happens when real people live in a real house.

They are simply there to be pretty.

The same went for the throw pillows.

They are not for laying on. They are not for comfort. They are not for supporting your back after a long day. They are not for anything that might wrinkle, flatten, stain, or disturb them.

They exist to be seen.

And honestly, I laughed.

Because there are only two types of married men in the world: those who use decorative towels and throw pillows in a manner that angers their wives, and liars.

Every married man knows this world.

There is the towel you can use, and then there is the towel that is apparently a visual aid.

There is the pillow you can lay on, and then there is the pillow that was not purchased for your comfort, but for the completion of a vision.

There are chairs you can sit in, and there are chairs that seem to exist mainly to remind you that company might come over one day.

I understand it. I really do.

We all have those things in our house. The towels nobody is supposed to touch. The pillows nobody is supposed to use. The room that is clean because nobody is allowed to live in it.

I get annoyed when people are coming over. Less so now in Bonham, Texas, because we live in an actual barn, so it is never going to look magazine perfect. But back in Alabama, in the middle of remodeling, I was expected to find creative ways to hide or conceal the work in progress if guests were coming over, because apparently warning people that we were in the middle of a remodel was not an acceptable strategy.

I never understood that.

Just tell them.

We are remodeling.

Be amazed we invited you anyway.

Throw a sheet over it. Turn the lamp low. Call it rustic.

I do not know what that pastor’s wife’s husband did that day, but I laughed about it.

And then I kept thinking about it.

Because there is something strange about an item that looks like it has a purpose, is shaped like it has a purpose, is named like it has a purpose, and yet the one thing it must never do is fulfill that purpose.

A towel that cannot dry.

A pillow that cannot comfort.

A room that cannot welcome.

Pretty, but purposeless.

And the longer I sat with that thought, the more it bothered me.

Because it is one thing when it is a hand towel in your kitchen. It is another thing when it starts describing our lives.

I wonder how much of our lives can become that way.

We can learn how to look right. We can arrange our lives so they appear clean, matching, and carefully placed. We can know the language. We can build the image. We can curate the room.

We can know how to sound spiritual. We can know when to say amen. We can know how to post the verse. We can know how to carry the look. We can know how to maintain the aesthetic.

But at some point, purpose has to matter more than presentation.

Jesus did not call His people to be decorative.

He called us salt.

He called us light.

He called us witnesses.

He called us servants.

He called us a city set on a hill.

None of those images are passive. None of them exist merely to be admired.

Salt preserves. Light shines. Witnesses speak. Servants serve. A city gives direction. A lamp gives light to everyone in the house.

Every image Jesus used had function attached to it.

That is what stands out to me.

Jesus never said, “You are a beautiful centerpiece.”

He never said, “You are tasteful décor.”

He never said, “You are a carefully arranged room no one is allowed to disturb.”

The images He used all involved effect.

If salt is real salt, it changes what it touches. If light is real light, it affects the darkness around it. If a witness is a real witness, they say something. If a servant is a real servant, they do something.

So the issue is not whether it looks right from a distance.

The issue is whether it is doing what it was made to do.

And to be clear, the danger is not beauty itself. God is not against beauty.

Scripture is full of beauty. Creation is beautiful. The tabernacle was beautiful. Worship can be beautiful. Holiness has beauty. The church can have beauty. God’s people can be beautiful.

Well, except me.

I have been referred to as a lot of things. There are many adjectives and descriptive words you could use to describe me, but if you tried to direct a stranger over to me by saying, “Go talk to the beautiful man over there,” they are not walking up to me.

Beauty is not the problem.

God has always cared about beauty. He filled the world with it. He designed it into creation. He gave Israel patterns, colors, stones, garments, music, and craftsmanship.

God is not allergic to what is lovely.

But beauty does not equal purpose. And beauty cannot replace purpose.

A thing can be beautiful and still fail its reason for existing.

A church can be polished and still be powerless. A ministry can be impressive and still be ineffective. A Christian can know how to look faithful while quietly avoiding the mess of actual ministry.

And I think that is part of why this matters so much.

Because presentation is easier than purpose.

Presentation can be managed. Purpose costs something.

Presentation can be staged. Purpose has to be lived.

Presentation can be protected. Purpose usually gets messy.

If a towel does what towels are made to do, it may get stained. It may get wet. It may get dirty.

If a pillow gives comfort, it may lose its shape.

If a home welcomes people, it will not look untouched.

If a church reaches people, things will not always stay tidy.

And if a Christian actually follows Jesus, there will be moments when life does not stay perfectly arranged.

You may have to carry somebody else’s burden. You may have to pray when you are tired. You may have to answer the phone when it is inconvenient. You may have to forgive when it costs you something. You may have to love people who do not make your life easier.

You may have to walk with somebody through grief, confusion, weakness, repentance, restoration, and all the holy mess that comes with people being made whole.

That cannot be staged.

It cannot be made pretty.

You cannot put a filter on real burden. You cannot make disciples at a distance and stay clean the whole time. You cannot serve people and remain emotionally untouched forever. You cannot reach the hurting and never be inconvenienced.

Purpose will wrinkle you.

Purpose will stretch you.

Purpose will interrupt you.

Purpose will call on you at bad times.

Purpose will involve other people’s pain.

Purpose will mess up your schedule.

Purpose will wear on your emotions.

Purpose will make you pray longer than you planned.

Purpose will make you care when caring would have been easier to avoid.

But it is still purpose.

And that is the part I do not want to miss.

The towel was made to dry. The pillow was made to comfort. The church was made to reach. The believer was made to reflect Christ.

There is something deeply wrong with becoming so protective of appearance that we avoid usefulness.

There is something deeply wrong with becoming so carefully arranged that nobody can lean on us.

There is something deeply wrong with building a faith that hangs beautifully in public but cannot absorb any real mess.

I do not want a faith that only looks good hanging on display.

I do not want a Christianity that photographs well and serves poorly.

I do not want a life that appears polished but avoids costly obedience.

I want a faith that can handle the mess.

I want a life that is useful in the hands of God.

I want to be willing to be wrinkled, stretched, interrupted, and poured out if it means someone else can see Jesus more clearly.

Because at the end of the day, the question is not just whether our lives look good.

The question is whether they are fulfilling the purpose for which God made them.

Not whether we impressed people. Not whether we looked put together. Not whether we kept the room untouched. Not whether we maintained the image.

But whether we actually did what He called us to do.

Did we shine?

Did we serve?

Did we preserve?

Did we speak?

Did we comfort?

Did we welcome?

Did we carry anything of Christ into the lives of other people?

Pretty is fine.

But pretty without purpose is a tragedy.

So maybe the prayer is simple:

God, do not let me become decorative.

Do not let me settle for looking right while avoiding what You made me for.

Make my life useful in Your hands.

If it means I get wrinkled, stretched, interrupted, or poured out, let it be for Your purpose.