HALIFAX, Nova Scotia, September 2, 2026 – I had the opportunity recently to join a “by invitation only mind-body-soul recharge retreat” that promised I’d achieve my “best possible me” if I’d only fork over $42,000 for a six-week program. I’m not sure how I got on the invitation list, but the information session was free and offered refreshments, so I was in (at least for the refreshments). I arrived at the hotel ballroom to find a lavish spread hovered over by an army of such impeccably groomed and impeccably professional servers that I thought at first they might not be real. By “not real” I mean I thought they might be the latest version of those made-in-China A.I. humanoid robots I’d been reading about (I’m still kind of thinking they were). Munching a handful of tiny round crustless sandwiches and wondering how the heck I ended up there, I settled into a cushy banquet chair to listen to the sales pitch.

There were at least a hundred of us in the ballroom, not counting the maybe-robots and the “team” giving the presentation. Most of the invitees were carefully coifed women of a certain age and of a certain wealth, and most had that slightly bored air of females who’d never had to worry a day in their lives about money or men or really anything at all. Again, I’m not sure how I got on the invitation list (woman of a certain age, check; woman of a certain wealth, uncheck), but there I was sitting among them like the “before” to their “after” version of a Stepford wife. Still, someone must have thought I’d want to become my best possible me enough to send me an e-vite.

Or they’d sent it to the wrong email address.

During the course of the presentation, it was confirmed that the $42,000 price tag for the six-week program was in American dollars, not Canadian, and that the price did not include transportation to and from the retreat (a tropical island halfway around the world), additional recommended onsite amenities, and other out-of-pocket expenses. The unofficial total hovered around $100 grand (CAD), leaving me fully out of contention. I sighed, shook my head, downed the last of my last tiny sandwich, and prepared to leave.  A program mentor (one of several stationed strategically around the room like butlers) who’d been monitoring the attendees for just such a reaction, glided discretely over to me. “There are grants”, he breathed deep into my ear, “that you can apply for to cover your costs. We can talk about it later….” I sensed rather than saw his lingering smile as he leaned into me from behind. His aftershave smelled edible and his tone had the kind of measured seductiveness that came from years of practice. I wagered he’d whispered that tone into many an ear after first perfecting it to his satisfaction on a recording device in front of a mirror.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted. Who wouldn’t want to be their best possible mind-body-soul me while there was still time for such a thing to matter, and all for free? I looked at the servers. I looked at the “team”. I even snuck a quick peek at my mentor-butler, erect and alert as a sentry. What exactly was I being offered, and by whom?

When the presentation moved onto the Q & A portion, I ran what I knew so far about the program through the what-did-Jesus-do filter that I run all my considerations through. Did Jesus, during his ministry years, want to be his “best possible me”? I believe he did. Would he have paid strangers big bucks to help him achieve that? Not a chance. What if the fees were waived? I’m listening….

But Jesus did in fact do an approximately six-week mind-body-soul retreat, just before he started his ministry, though no swanky sales presentation preceded it and it didn’t cost a dime. He knew even before God’s Spirit drove him into the wilderness that he’d be facing 40 grueling days and nights of cold, thirst, hunger, isolation, and sleeping rough, all topped off with temptations so satanically personalized that nearly everyone falls for them 100% of the time. But he also knew that through it all he would be watched over and protected not only by a host of heavenly angels, but also by God himself, none of whom (I’m pretty sure) he suspected might be A.I. robots.

I’m happy to report that I ultimately resisted the ballroom temptation. Not that I don’t want to be my best possible me; of course I do. I just didn’t want to be the version they wanted to sell me. I didn’t want to “unlock my financial freedom”. I didn’t want to “maintain a youthful appearance”. I didn’t want to “captivate every room I walked into”. And I didn’t want “guaranteed success” no matter what I did. And why didn’t I want those things that seemingly everyone else in the world wants? Because I’m happily bornagain, which means I’m happy with whatever God gives me, happy to look my age, happy to be a wallflower (unless God himself shines a spotlight on me), and happy with only the success I’ve earned, not “success” that’s “guaranteed” simply for existing.

I admit that I was initially curious about whether I could be a child of God and still go on such a worldly retreat, but while I was mulling it over, God reminded me of Lazarus – the poor one covered in sores, not the other one Jesus raised from the dead. Jesus described the poor Lazarus as patiently enduring all the crap dumped on him during his time here on Earth, after which he was richly rewarded in Heaven, while the rich guy, who knew Lazarus only as a wretched lump lying outside his front gate, dined sumptuously (on tiny round crustless sandwiches?) before ending up someplace decidedly hotter than Heaven.

I don’t want to be that guy. I don’t want to burn for all eternity. Mind you, I also didn’t at first want to be Lazarus (I mean, who jumps at the opportunity to be destitute and covered in sores?). But if I have to choose between the two based on their eternal rewards (and we all have to make that choice, just like Jesus did in the wilderness), it’s Lazarus or bust.

Our time here is short. What we make of it is up to us. But if we choose options that are outside the will of God (that is, outside our best spiritual interests), we compromise our hereafter as well as our here and now. Being the best possible me in the eyes of the world is not the same as being the best possible me in the eyes of God. The two versions can sometimes not be farther apart.

We need reminding of this every now and then. And when we do, it usually comes in the strangest of places.