The Hamptons Need Jesus

These people—some of the world’s wealthiest—are living unhappy, insecure lives.

I just spent a few days in the Hamptons for business.

The towns are truly idyllic, with pink and blue hydrangeas bordering the cedar-paneled homes like thickly piped cake frosting. The shops are filled with vintage European designer brands, $90 coffee table books that are bought based on their covers, and porch signs that read, NO CRYING ON THE YACHT.

In Southampton, next to the picture-perfect Ralph Lauren store, sits the town’s art center, where they were displaying works of Schiaparelli, which, until yesterday, I thought was a pasta shape, not a designer. I walked in to check out the art, and upon entering, the museum worker informed me that the art teacher who was doing a workshop (something she thought I had signed up for, I guess) would be late due to an anxiety attack. I said I understood completely, then exited the building out of respect for the stressed-out worker—and Schiaparelli’s work, which did not deserve that emotional distress.

As I walked up Main Street, I was behind three blonde ladies in the thick of menopause talking about their girlfriend’s divorce, saying they were happy for her freedom and that she gets the home in Aspen.

At dinner, I sat outside across from a middle-aged couple with thick New York City accents. The husband was wearing a silver Rolex but was talking about how his friend Brad just got a “beautiful rose gold watch.” He told his wife it would be $40,000, and she said (I wish this was a joke, but it’s 100% verbatim what she said), “Well, if Brad has one, then you need one too.”

After dinner, I went to an Italian restaurant and bar for an espresso. I sat next to a ~70-year-old at the bar who was drinking white wine. I asked him if he was a frequent at this joint, and he said, shortly, that he was. I then followed up and asked him how long he’d summer in the Hamptons, and he asked, flustered, “Why are you asking me these questions?”

I told him I was from out of town and wanted to learn more about the community. He rolled his eyes and didn’t respond. It was a clear answer to my inquiry.

And it solidified my belief that the Hamptons need Jesus. Badly.

The one church I saw in Southampton was a Methodist church with pride flags, whose reader board read: WE STAND FOR JUSTICE AND AGAINST HATE.

I’m sure there are Christians in the Hamptons who have fidelity to Scripture. But the overarching spiritual air of the swanky area felt adrift.

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I left the Hamptons less jealous of rich people and their nice homes than when I arrived. These people—some of the world’s wealthiest—are living unhappy, insecure lives. Their countenances, gray and forlorn, belied the summer glory that defines the Hamptons.

And it seems they're in denial of how short life is. They have everything materially, a lot less relationally, far less emotionally, and pretty much nothing spiritually—unless you count the $50 hot yoga classes.

It reminded me of two important things:

I would rather make $30,000 a year and have a joy-filled heart and a secure identity than $30 million with a bitter heart and an identity contingent on Brad’s watch collection.

And secondly, we are all truly the same. We all die. And you won’t get the house in Aspen after the body’s divorce from earth.

We will all show up before the Lord Almighty, where He will ask us to give an account for our lives—not view our bank accounts. We’ll either be covered by the blood of Christ and enter into an eternal paradise that makes the Hamptons seem like trailer trash, or we will be covered with the blood of the sins we’ve committed against each other and God, which will direct us to an eternity of pain.

To the seemingly Christ-less people I met in the Hamptons, may I recommend you acquiesce? Lay your burdens down at the foot of the cross. That is the good life. That is eternal life.