Luke 10:38-42, NIV
As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet listening to what he said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” “Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”
When it dropped, I binged the first season of Chef’s Table. And then I watched it again.
And again.
My obsession blossomed from several roots—the cinematography stirred me, and the chefs themselves intrigued me, but mostly I recognized something familiar in the stress and precision of a Michelin starred restaurant, something familiar from countless weekends leading worship and front of house production on a tight budget at a quickly growing church. It wasn’t exactly the same (I can cook a good steak, a solid pancake breakfast, and not much else), but I knew there was something I could learn from the chefs trying to make something from almost nothing, whether through their failures or their achievements.
I have to carry all of my experience in a backpack called “co-laborer with Christ,” lest I think more highly of myself than I ought. God, forgive my self-consumed nature.
But sometime later I realized what I did on Sundays shouldn’t feel like that at all. Not only is church not a Michelin starred restaurant; the church’s purpose is wholly different. Gathering around the Lord’s table isn’t about anyone competing for clout to earn fame or make something so perfect that it’s lauded with arbitrary stars. The Lord’s table holds a family meal.
The diners are both poor and rich, healthy, and sick, weeping and rejoicing. Many who were invited did not come, and so the Master has grabbed anyone off the street who would fill their bellies and drink his wine. He longs to be with his people, and those of us who prepare the table bring our best, but “best” is relative. Some will have just learned how to cook or bake; others will have years of experience with the ability to craft meals that are truly remarkable, but all nourishes.
I lead my teams by a particular rule: if someone can do something 70% as well as I can, I let them serve. That’s not to say that I’m the best at every production role on any particular weekend, but I know that people mostly want to be a part of what God is doing and my role isn’t so much to give him a “perfect” offering as it is to welcome his people into serving and help them succeed in the process. If we’re honest, the truer offering is brought by the most novice among us, not unlike a boy bringing his salted fish and dried-out loaves to Jesus, a seemingly unworthy offering in light of the hunger of 5,000 people. Jesus only cares about our tricked-out light shows and intricate camerawork insomuch as the heart behind the offering is in the right place.
And If I’m honest with you, my heart loses its place all too often. I find weedy pride, self-righteousness, and a chippy shoulder creeping their tendrils around the tender roots of humble service the Lord has worked so hard to plant in my heart. I pull those weeds weekly, if not daily. I have to carry all of my experience in a backpack called “co-laborer with Christ,” lest I think more highly of myself than I ought. God, forgive my self-consumed nature.
Christ, go before us in our serving.
Spirit, move from within us to the hearts that are serving, to bind up their broken places and strengthen their feeble knees. Keep us centered on the good work you’ve set before us, on the people you’ve entrusted to our care, that they might know you, the true and living God, and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent.
