Why have so many of the non-readers at my high school read Twilight?  How come the aprons in the 1800s were all made from calico prints? Why do some Christians believe that Obama is the anti-Christ?

In his bestselling book The Tipping Point (2000), Malcolm Gladwell explores the parallels between ideas and viruses. He uses an epidemiological motif to promote his thesis—that human behavior is shaped suddenly and powerfully by viral influences in their communities. If ideas are viruses, then my proximity to both Christian skepticism and Christian trendiness is bringing me dangerously close to getting the flu.

I’m going to admit something very honest. My Christian faith has suffered from my chronic reading, interfacing, and networking this past year. I'm rather shocked by this. I thought I was doing myself some good by jumping into the conversation. I’m not talking about the good and beautiful result of knowing all sorts of people. I’m not talking about exposure to new ideas, or being challenged to examine the credibility of my beliefs. But I’m suffering from some information inflammation—the relentless sound bytes, articles, videos, jokes, books, concepts, marketing, and opinions that my spiritual antibodies must filter every day. I don’t think my soul was designed for this much discernment.

Henry David Thoreau, a pantheist of sorts who became transcendentalism’s greatest disciple, did have some cool things to say about simplicity. After living in the woods for two years, it was Thoreau who determined that "a man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can let alone."  It used to be that I was able to read the Bible by itself. Now, I have grown accustomed to seeing what ten other people have to say about the Bible first. I used to trust my circle of mentors to help me discern truth from error, but now I can access the anonymous advice of my Facebook friends, bloggers, radio hosts, political pundits, and celebrities. It’s screwing up my immune system.

The more sources I consult, the more likely that Gladwell’s lightning-fast social epidemics will influence my thinking. I’ve heard from and read about all kinds of faith-labels this year: mystics, postmoderns, charismatics, seekers, emergents, traditionalists, culture warriors, apologists and more. I used to think I was educating myself, but now it’s beginning to feel a little absurd. Why would a healthy person kiss every contagious person in the room? My information might be outpacing my application—I mean, do I have any idea how to apply all the things I’ve learned?

I’m positioned awkwardly between two generations, separated by a semi-permeable wall called the Internet. I am old enough to remember the way my grandmother lived. As a simple European immigrant, she never read a daily newspaper or drove a car, nor did she have a college education. She read the Bible, listened to a few radio preachers, and dreamed of being a missionary. She told everyone she knew about the Jesus who changed her life. She was hopelessly out-of-touch and uninformed. While her isolation was sometimes maddening to a young girl who tried to be culturally in-the-know, I also loved the simplicity of her faith. When she found a piece of the Good News, she would camp on for a long time, not looking to find a better insight to replace it too quickly.

You might have been scrolling around the Internet, and you happened to find this little posting. If you did, I’m going to say something counterintuitive for a writer looking for an audience. Try the old-fashioned quarantine approach, when momma locked you in your room with a good book when sister had the measles. Run away from all the voices and hunker down with the Bible for a while. When you’re done, pray for discernment. It’ll be the simplest—and healthiest—thing you’ve done in a long time.