This one’s for you, hero.
You, who lovingly dust pianos and portraits of missionaries. You, who give of your afternoons or evenings sweeping carpet dusty from the feet of those who need Jesus. You, who move tables and chairs and find missing things. You, with the opportunity to lovingly touch each seat that will hold a soul. You, with echoing quiet in the church to pray over those who will fill these rooms come Sunday.
This one’s for you, showing up early week in and week out to turn dials and knobs and click slides during church. You, who receives no honor when things go well. You, who will scramble and sweat to support the one who is speaking the Gospel over the people you – yes, you – are called to. This one’s for you, who removes distractions and turns up the microphone so the sweet message of Jesus can fill the hearts of those you serve.
This one’s for you, tucked away into a room with children week after week. You, whose name is sometimes forgotten by the parents you serve. You, who will not see the benefits of the sound system or get to hear the carefully crafted sermon series, but who will wipe nose after nose and pull up wrinkled tights. You, who will wiggle your fingers and march around the room to make real the stories of a living God to the ones who will someday preach it.
This one’s for you who will carry a bronze plate or a velvet bag or a plastic bucket to the front of the church this Sunday. You who smile at the sinner and the saint, you who carry our offerings with such care. You, who stand at the door and shake cold hands that have not been touched by another human in too long. You, who smile at us through our harried Sunday morning fog and you who welcome us in as if we are coming home.
This one’s for you, unjamming the printer each week so your people can invite their friends to an event. You, who spend your Saturday in a quiet office printing copy after copy of information. You, who fold and distribute and endure paper cuts and frustration. You, who make it possible for the community to hear about an event that might just change the course of their eternity forever.
This one’s for you, bus driver. You who pick up loud children and adults without cars and some of them don’t know how to behave. You who brave the cold and the heat to bring in those who desperately need life in Jesus. You who drive into neighborhoods riddled with drugs or hollers riddled with alcoholism. You who gather together our long-lost brothers and sisters and bring them home.
This one’s for you, hero. And while sometimes you may feel forgotten, you are as called into ministry as the one up front with the microphone. And you will reach people they – I – cannot. And you are the ones with the machetes and the bulldozers, paving the way and laying the path for the Gospel to be shouted from the mountaintop. And these things that you feel are the least are actually the greatest, because they are God’s plan for you, and your own part in this global Church and this eternal plan of God. And you show up, and you show up, and you show up again, and you are faithful to that which you are called.
Stay faithful, hero.