Work That Makes a Difference

I once had a job I hated. Day after day I sat in a windowless basement office surrounded by hot, noisy computers. Day after day nothing happened. I had no major projects to inspire me, no big goals to work toward, no clear mission to fulfill. It was a bland and boring existence down there, just waiting for something interesting to happen. But nothing ever did, at least until the day came when they laid me off. I hated that job. I hated going to that office. The eventual pink slip, though intimidating and humiliating, was also something of a relief because at least it promised an end to those days.

I have thought about that job many times as the years have passed. Sometimes it is in the context of periods when the job I do now, a job I love, seems dull and insignificant, when pastoring involves more paperwork than people. Sometimes it is in talking to Aileen who often struggles with the humdrum nature of the work she does in keeping house and raising family. Sometimes it is in talking to other people who feel their skills exceed their opportunities, or who believe their training ought to take them beyond the tasks that consume their working hours.

And then I think back to that job in network administration, to the grumbling and discouragement, and in retrospect, and upon further reflection, I have to own my guilt in it. What I see more than anything, and what concerns me more than anything, was my utter lack of joy in what I was doing. I fully believe that job was my calling, my vocation, at that time in life, and yet I did it without any passion, any drive. I did it without any joy. I failed at my calling in that time and in that place. I deserved to be laid off!

But the job wasn’t the problem. I was the problem because I refused to attach any significance to the work I was doing. The work was boring and mundane, dull and tedious, because I allowed it to be that way. I wasn’t thinking Christianly about that job or the work I was meant to do there. My lack of joy in doing my job was a direct result of the lack of significance I attached to it.

Here’s the thing I had to see, and the thing I still need to call to mind: Work is not significant only when it utilizes my full capacity or full capabilities. Work is not significant only when it offers unusual challenge or special opportunity. Work is not significant only when it is measurable in dollars and cents or praise and compliments. Work has intrinsic significance because it gives me the opportunity to do something with joy—with joy in the Lord. I can do my work in such a way that it glorifies God, or I can do it in such a way that it dishonors him. Anything I can do to God’s glory has significance. It has great significance!

How do I do my work to the glory of God? I embrace that task, no matter how menial or insignificant it may seem. I do it when I’m told to do it, I do it to completion, and I do it with joy. When I do it this way, I am glorifying God.

I think of Jesus the carpenter. The Son of God had created humanity, he had created the earth, he had created the cosmos, and for most of his life on earth he created household furniture. But I don’t think he grumbled about it. I think he did it to the glory of God.

I think of Paul, the great intellectual, the brilliant scholar, the pastor and church planter, who was content to stitch together tents. I don’t think he grumbled about it either. He did it to the glory of God.

I think of that same Apostle writing to slaves in Colosse and telling them, “Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward. You are serving the Lord Christ.” By definition such people were unpaid and disrespected, and yet Paul could tell them that their work was full of significance because it gave them the opportunity to serve and glorify God.

Every day and every moment I have the choice before me: Will I do my work in such a way that it glorifies God? Or will I do my work in such a way that it dishonors and displeases him? In the face of such questions, I know my work matters. No matter what my work is, it matters. It matters because my work is a stage to bring glory to my God. “And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.”

What Makes You Proudest of Your Children?

My son Reilly, 8, plays in little league. He drove a ball into the outfield last week. But what delighted me most was when he, playing third base, congratulated an opponent for knocking a ball into the outfield. In like manner I’ve been to Maili’s recitals and come away impressed. Erin Claire has her mom’s flair for crafts and for cleaning. Delaney has an obvious aptitude for photography. Campbell is both a great athlete and student. Darby has been blessed with the strengths of both her mother and me. And Donovan, soon to be 4, is just too cute for words.

Because those in the world are so quick to live vicariously through their children, to catalog their successes in conversation and on social media, we Christians are tempted to follow suit. We want to show the world that our following in the pathway of Christ doesn’t make us losers, but that in fact we are empowered for even greater successes. We Christians herald our outspoken athletes and our teenage pop stars and in turn highlight whatever headlines our own children garner.

Our standards, however, ought to be different. Our faith isn’t a better path to a better life, as the world defines it. It is instead a different path, a different life, and a different understanding of what we mean by better. We cherish academic success, but smart, I’m sorry to report, is not listed among the fruit of the Spirit. Neither is pretty, wealthy, athletic, musical. There is nothing wrong with those things, nothing wrong with excelling in those things. They are not, however, the goal. They are not the measure of success for those called to pick up their cross and follow Him.

Which brings me to my children. What I am most proud of in them is how lovingly they treat the “least of these.” I am proud of my children because they diligently serve the weak, the endangered, the neglected, the fragile. Such may be the fruit of having one so weak in their own family. Our Shannon required a great deal of care and time. She not only had to be fed, but special meals had to be prepared for her. She could not use the bathroom, nor could she give herself a bath. Wherever she went she had to be helped, carried, pushed, and with her went assorted tools for her care which likewise had to be carried. Never, in her entire fifteen years, did I hear my children complain about Shannon’s care. Better still, all of them, took pleasure in meeting her needs. Even Donovan, as a toddler, when Shannon was in her special chair, her feeding tube connected to a pump, would gladly retrieve her dropped toys. Reilly would cheerfully give up his balloons, because they meant so much to her.

My children are sinners. They caught the disease from their dad. But by His grace, they are sinners who have been blessed with compassion and diligence. For that, I give thanks. For that, I am proud.