I was browsing the listings on Blogs 4 God today, and some thoughts came together with a conversation I had with some friends last weekend. The vast majority of the personal blogs were self-described epic journeys of faith, lives of saints, chronicles of trials and tribulations. My friends and I — thirty-something now — were talking about how our life goals were turning out. The buddy whose ambition was sainthood is an English prof, and the theology student is a drywaller, and they both seemed faintly bitter. I must admit I got a little mad. “Maybe God thinks you’re a good influence on those college kids,” I said. “And maybe God thinks that smiling at your wife today when you got home all covered in plaster dust was an act as full as merit as any sermon ever preached.”
Why is it that Evangelicals must all be Saints, mystics and paladins? Notice the capital letters — I know we’re all á¼Î³Î¹Î¿Î¹, but in the circles I grew up in, and mostly still hang around (that’s a story for another day :-) the expectation is that one must be “on fire for the Lord,” that one’s purpose in life is to “do great things for the Kingdom.” If you’re not involved in some kind of formal ministry — “you could at least teach Sunday School” — you’re a second-class citizen.
Why is it that we are all expected to become heroes of the faith? Is my faith still legitimate if it’s a quiet pool rather than a bonfire? Are there degrees of good works? If I go to work every day, am courteous and willing to listen to my colleagues, if I have a few good friends I call regularly to say “Hello, how are things?,” if I am (someday, perhaps) a loving husband and father, this makes me less of a Christian than if I don’t spend another twenty hours a week saving souls.
I suspect it’s because it is Type A personalities who go into positions of public ministry and teaching, and they think that everyone has their level of passion and drive. But quite frankly, I don’t have the energy. I read my Bible and say my prayers every day, and it gives me satisfaction and insight, but because I’m not immediately transported to the third heaven I’m somehow missing out.
We read the Acts of the Apostles to be inspired by the heroes, but we ignore the fact that for every apostle there were hundreds, nay, thousands of ordinary folk who in their quiet and unrecorded lives went to work, loved their spouses and kids, baked cookies for after church, helped repair a neighbor’s garden shed, gave cheerfully at collection time, put up the wandering missionary or baked a casserole for those who did, hugged a crying friend or helped change an oil filter.
Why are they less worthy?