Growing up in the 60s and early 70s, we lived in a little crackerbox house—three tiny bedrooms and one bath, bought for under $11,000 in the early 1950s. We had no air-conditioning, just a big attic fan in the hall that sucked air through the open windows. It didn’t cool anything, but it made summer tolerable.
In the front room, my brothers and I had a 13-inch TV my parents bought for us—probably so my dad could watch what he wanted on the “big” 19-inch black-and-white set in their bedroom without hearing our complaints. Watching from ten feet away felt normal. To someone used to today’s 65-inch ultra-high-def screens, it would feel ridiculous, but to us it was just how things were. And across those ten feet, one show captured my imagination like no other.
Mission: Impossible grabbed me week after week—the team taking down dictators and mafia bosses with complicated plots and cleverly designed technology. I was especially drawn to Rollin Hand, played by Martin Landau, who could transform himself into just about anybody with lifelike masks and makeup, and then mimic their voices perfectly.
Looking back, it seems ridiculous that I believed a mask could truly hide someone’s identity so perfectly. But I didn’t realize then that the show was performing the exact same magic with its locations—transforming ordinary backlots and California streets into exotic worlds half a globe away.
Years later, watching on a bigger color screen, I started noticing the seams in that magic. Characters would stroll through the streets of a “small foreign country” and suddenly pass familiar storefronts, like Floyd’s Barbershop from The Andy Griffith Show—its sign still plain as day, but on screen so briefly most viewers never noticed.
To me, entertainment was better when I was young and didn’t know how the tricks were done. But sometimes, taking the illusion too seriously could be dangerous.
In the late 70s, the Superman movie was advertised with the line: “You will believe a man can fly.” The effects were so convincing that some children believed them—climbed onto roofs, and leapt. Instead of “up, up, and away,” they sometimes landed in the emergency room with broken bones.
Using special effects and façades for escapism is fine. The trouble comes when they’re used to sell you a bold lie as the truth.
Today, we see this technology used for all kinds of evil. AI voice cloning now allows scammers to target the elderly, convincing them their grandchild is in jail in some foreign city and needs money desperately.
But the number of people caught in these scams is small compared to the millions caught up in the façade that says the “good life” comes from having a lot. So strong is this illusion that people push themselves to work long hours to afford things that bring no lasting satisfaction. They bury themselves in debt, mortgaging their future for what falsely promises to be the “best life now.” Month after month, the weight of those payments strains families and slowly robs people of their peace. One day they realize they’re stuck—and there’s no easy way out.
And that pressure doesn’t wait until adulthood; it starts shaping hearts and habits when kids are still walking the school halls.
When I was a new teacher, I had a freshman student covered head-to-toe in Tommy Hilfiger clothing. Shirt, belt, jeans, socks—even his pencil pouch. We were discussing how trends are driven by relentless advertising.
“Young man,” I asked, “do you think your desire to wear so much Tommy Hilfiger was influenced by advertising?”
He hesitated, then said with total sincerity, “I’ve never seen a Tommy Hilfiger ad.”
“The whole school is a walking ad campaign,” I told him. “Every logo and label is preaching one word: ‘Conform.’”
We used to call that “keeping up with the Joneses.” We don’t use the term much anymore, but the behavior hasn’t changed.
Some of you might wonder how I can write this when I talk about taking cruises, enjoying my big-screen TV, and eating out. My answer is this: God gave us good things to use and enjoy. When you do that with gratitude, you are confirming the benefits God provided. They are wonderful pastimes—just like Mission: Impossible was for me.
The problem isn’t the things themselves; it’s when we make them the ultimate thing. Money, homes, and vacations are fine, but when we treat them as most important, we twist them into something they were never meant to be. We were made to worship, but we cannot worship the created in place of the Creator and expect to find the satisfaction only He can provide.
That’s the danger of the illusion: it promises life in what we own, while quietly pulling our worship away from the One who gives life.
Speaking to the people, Jesus went on, “Take care! Protect yourself against the least bit of greed. Life is not defined by what you have, even when you have a lot.” (Luke 12:15 MSG)