(This story appeared in issue two of the Restoration Project Small Batch Journal)


I’ve been teaching myself new skills lately: Electrical. Welding. Painting. And soon I’ll be learning how to drive a stick. Every few days I run into a new challenge or discover I did something wrong and have to take it apart and redo it. But it is coming together. The process has been frustrating at times, but ultimately, it’s been fun. Slowly, I’m creating something that will hopefully lead to even more enjoyment. But restoring a 1948 Willys Jeep CJ2A almost didn’t happen. 

My wife and I grew up in families that had enough to take care of us, but there was little room for excess. Spending money or time on things that weren’t practical or responsible was generally out of the question. After college and marriage, we carried this scarcity mentality into a low-paying ministry job, where it served us well. We were responsible and wise. I morphed my “hobbies” to be practical, requiring them to have a return on investment. We left little space for money to be used for enjoyment.

I was a freshman at a college retreat when I felt like I heard God say, “Don’t waste your life”. Coming home from that trip, I did 3 big things: I changed my major to something that was close to ministry, I started dating my wife (who was a 24-year old college grad and ready for a serious relationship), and I decided to sell my 1996 Jeep Cherokee. 

I bought the Jeep Cherokee for its cargo space. I wanted a vehicle that would allow me to haul lots of people and things around to help with the Young Life ministry I was a part of in high school. But along the way I developed a love for 4-wheel drive. In time, I installed a 3-inch lift, bigger tires, skid plates, bumpers, and the other modifications that allowed me weekends and evenings of adventurous freedom from the confines of roads. I have glorious memories of climbing the icy mountains in parking lots and pulling cars out of ditches during the largest snowfall in my memory. And I may have wandered onto a construction site or farm or two to rescue some fellow off-roader friends. It became my escape from the structures and rules that otherwise boxed me in.

As I tried to live out God’s don’t waste your life message, owning the Jeep felt irresponsible: It didn’t get good gas mileage; Adventurous driving through the woods was impractical; No, I was now supposed to be laying down my life and dying to self. I even had “To live is Christ, to die is gain” tattooed on my upper back, across my shoulders - right where the weight of a heavy squat bar might sit.

In hindsight, I think evil was out to steal my joy, masquerading as “duty to God”. 

I still miss that Jeep. 

Fast forward to this past summer: My wife and I had half-seriously, half-jokingly kicked around getting an antique vehicle for years. I’ve always had a soft spot for old trucks and muscle cars. We had our eyes on an antique Willys Truck, but due to some weird circumstances, we weren’t able to make that happen. But as I was searching online marketplaces for Willys, an old post-war jeep popped up locally. As the story goes, a previous owner had started the process of restoring it, but never finished. The motor and transmission were rebuilt, the body patched and painted nicely, brand new tires, and a frame so clean you could lick it. But no cooling system, no exhaust, no brakes, no gas tank or lines, no seats, and no wiring at all. And it was purple, which is a perfectly fine color for my daughter’s future car, but I’m not driving a purple vehicle. 

It was the perfect project for me, a beginner not ready for hard-core engine work. And it was cool. The original civilian-model, flat-fender jeep, post WWII. An antique, four-wheel-drive convertible. What wasn’t to fall in love with?

Questions raced through my head. Could I actually do this? Not from a practical standpoint, but philosophically? Could I let myself do this? It wouldn’t be responsible, afterall. It would be purely for pleasure, for fun. And that isn’t very practical. There’s no return on investment for fun. 

Or is there?

A few years ago I started to realize just how much that weight of responsibility was crushing me. I was having gut issues that stemmed from anxiety, stress, and trauma. Everything, from my marriage to my work to my relationship with God was built on duty and obligation. It was about this same time that something changed in my approach to meeting new people. Rather than asking the typical questions of “Where are you from?” and “What do you do for a career?”, I started asking a new one: “What do you do for fun?” 

People are totally taken off guard by this question. I usually get one of two responses: either they stare blankly, the corner of their mouth turned down sadly, as they try to remember what hobbies they used to have, or their eyes twinkle and their smile grows as they start to talk about something that brings them life. This question gets to the heart of who a person is and gives you a glimpse into their story much faster than the standard demographic questions. 

And, as I’ve asked that question, it's become increasingly clear that I have not been the only one whose heart has been dying under the weight of duty and responsibility, of being a “good” Christian man. More often than not, I get the blank stare, or even a mournful acknowledgment of the loss of such fun. And I submit to you that this is actually one of the great battlegrounds of our time, and the enemy is winning. 

Yes, there are men who worship their hobbies because they don’t truly know the Inventor of Fun. But in my experience, most Christian men have been taught that hobbies are vain and selfish and therefore wrong. We are anchored by what I have termed “dad-guilt” over doing anything fun that might take us away from our responsibilities or families, even for a few hours. Even if we can get ourselves to pull away, we ruin it by feeling bad about leaving our wives alone to deal with the kids and house. Those hours that were supposed to be enjoyable and renewing are not. These extremes of hobby-worship and dad-guilt are both sinful and pull us away from the very heart of our Creator. 

When you imagine God, the Inventor of Fun, creating a duck-billed platypus, do you imagine an engineer behind a desk creating the specs for a complex organism, or do you imagine a 7-year old with some crayons and an attitude of, “This will throw them off and be weird. Let’s do it!” Or how about rainbows or sunsets? Those aren’t practical at all! Flowers are super practical, but they don't need to be beautiful to be functional. And laughter isn’t “responsible” but it is one of the healthiest things we can do.

There is something in the idea of a hobby that is worth fighting for. 

Hobbies are a way to connect with the heart of God and others that cannot explicitly be done through our work. A hobby can be practical in that it can create income or be otherwise helpful, but it is not something that is done for that purpose. A hobby is something you would do for free, for the pure pleasure it brings you to exercise your God-given creativity and generativity. We were made to cultivate, and some of that cultivation needs to happen in low-pressure environments so that our joy can blossom without the weight of responsibility. That is why the benefit of a hobby cannot be achieved through one’s career. 

Our wife needs us to have hearts that are alive. Our kids need to see us finding joy in hobbies. Our workplace needs us to commune with God in his creativity through recreation. Our church needs us to experience the pleasure of God in leisure. Evil wants to keep our hearts locked up and at bay under the crushing weight of duty. A man fully alive is most dangerous for the Kingdom.

Could I take that stand and say yes to the jeep?

It felt like a huge leap, but it also felt like a radical step was necessary to start breaking free from the heavy burden I had been carrying. After sleeping on it and talking about it for over a week with my wife, we decided to pull the trigger. I spent more money on mere fun than I ever have. It is coming together. And yet, it is still a challenge. I am constantly needing to give myself permission to buy the necessary tools or parts. I find myself looking for ways to justify it through my old “responsibility lenses”. But still, I am practicing a union with the Inventor of Fun in ways I have not since driving through the woods as a senior in high school in that old Jeep Cherokee. 

So I’ll ask you: What do you do for fun? How does the idea of intentionally pursuing a hobby strike you? Does it feel out of reach and thwarted? Like a long-lost part of you that is difficult to remember? Or do your eyes light up because you have met the Inventor of Fun and reclaimed part of your heart through the power of hobby? 

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Cody Buriff, Chief of Resources and Experiences