Are bloggers narcissists?

My favorite professor at Moody Bible Institute recently presented a compelling critique of the "clamoring, competing autobiographies" which plague the Internet.  I listened, spellbound, furiously scribbling notes and prayerfully examining my heart.  Questions flooded my mind.  Why do I blog?  Who am I attempting to impress?  Is my little web page of autobiography a petty invention, a misguided outlet of my creativity?  Most importantly, does it glorify my God?

Those who keep diaries and scrapbooks are rarely accused of self-absorption.  However, these creative disciplines are generally kept private, perhaps even sacred, laid inconspicuously on a bedside table.  Blogging is a less graceful art.  We craft our posts and edit our photographs, meticulously preparing ourselves for the public eye, and we cast our lines as fishermen, hoping to "hook" more readers who will stroke our egos with gushing comments.  (These comments consistently include adjectives such as "lovely" and "delightful," words dreadfully overused by the women of Blogger-land.)

Fellow bloggers, we must, we must re-examine our motives for blogging.  Despite our innocent desire to inspire others, our posts often do nothing more than propagate the self.  Through blogging we can find our very identities re-molded and neurotically maintained, all for the admiration of followers.

How can this be avoided?  We must prayerfully examine our hearts.  Mine is ridden with pride.  I want people to read about me, to admire me, to think that I am creative and beautiful, to believe that my life in Chicago is perpetually  marvelous.  I am the star of this little website, and the influx of comments boost my ego.

This is foolishness.  Oh, that I would write and photograph in order to glorify my God, in order to serve my smattering of readers!  I must speak of him more honestly, and the "little things" photographed must not be posted for the preservation of my image, but for the humble purpose of inspiring and delighting others with the beauty of the ordinary.

Ah, this, this sort of creativity produces a joyous optimism. It is the healthy outflow of a grateful heart, a heart which recognizes its own unworthiness of anything good.  Despite my wretched pride, my gracious God patiently prods me to repentance, and I can set about my daily doings with renewed vigor.  His existence defines all that I do and all that I am.  It is my goal that this "clamoring autobiography" will strike my readers with beauty.  Beauty not of myself, but of my God.