Thanks for Helping

The work that really matters

A couple of years ago I was walking through the foyer at Seacoast Church during our annual women’s conference, which we call Chosen. I serve as the Creative Director at Seacoast and Chosen is one of the most labor-intensive events my team is a part of. It’s one of the few things we work on almost year-round. As I was walking down the hall, an attendee passed me. I saw her look at my shirt, which all the staff and volunteers wear during the conference. She smiled and said, “Thanks for helping.”

I appreciated her words and was also somewhat amused. She saw my shirt and just assumed I was one of many volunteers, here to do assorted odd jobs. She didn’t know that I led the team who made the design assets, decor installations, videos, and more. I realize that sounds like I had a “do you know who I am” reaction, but it isn’t. Once the conference actually starts, I’m pretty useless.

As I kept walking, I decided that she was right. A “helper” is what I was, and really nothing more. I don’t just mean in the sense that my team could do what they do without me (though I think they could!). What I mean is that we’re all just helpers¹ in the end.

I often describe Seacoast Church as a church that is staffed by people who are kind of suspicious of megachurches. It’s funny, but also very true! Sometimes I’ll read accounts of other large churches that have blown up for one reason or another, and the descriptions of how their staff behaves (especially how they treat volunteers) always baffles me. I can’t imagine Seacoast staff acting that way, not because we’re such good people, but because if anyone acted even remotely similarly, the rest of us would roast them so hard. So, when someone treats me like just another volunteer, that feels appropriate.

Last week I was in conversation with a friend who talked about the struggle he has with a desire to make a name for himself. I think that’s a very common desire, particularly among men. I also don’t think it’s wrong. There are certainly plenty of people who only work out of self-interest and selfish ambition, but most of the time, the desire to make a name for ourselves is just an expression of wanting to make a difference in a way that matters.

Why do we want to make a name for ourselves? The short answer is, “because we’re going to die.” Making a name for ourselves, doing something that will last beyond our own lives, is way of making sure that death is not the end. There’s nothing wrong with that. I think we *should* strive for greatness in that sense, as long as it doesn’t consume us and we neglect other important things.

I also think it’s good to remember that almost no one’s “name” is great enough to last very long after they die.

Here’s an exercise: How many people do you think you could list who are alive right now? A lot, I’m sure. What about people who were alive 200 years ago? Probably more than we think, if we took the time to really concentrate, but far fewer than the first list. Ok, what about people who were alive 4,000 years ago? What if we did 4,000 years ago and I told you that you couldn’t use the Bible? A handful of names, at most.

Even those of us who are history buffs probably wouldn’t have combined lists totaling more than a few hundred names, though perhaps some of us would get to a thousand. And that would be out of the billions of people who have ever lived. I don’t say that to be depressing, but to offer perspective. Even men and women who achieve what we would consider greatness will soon be forgotten. If you disagree, I wonder how many government buildings, high schools, and shopping plazas, both in Washington DC and in your own town, bear names that you recognize.

Photo by Joel Muniz on Unsplash

The reason I appreciated that woman in the hallway who thanked me for “helping” is that she understood my role. My titles might include “pastor” or “Creative Director,” but the way in which I truly have an impact is as a helper. When I see myself that way, I don’t need to be recognized, to feel important, or to have some sort of grand vision for my work. The woman who thanked me was grateful for the *way* in which I was a part of the conference, and her gratitude didn’t require knowing a single concrete thing I actually did.

The people I serve alongside are all extremely talented and capable, but they understand that they’re just helpers too. That’s good, because I’m the same as anyone else in wanting to do something that will last beyond my lifetime, and they help me remember to be content as a helper. Besides, if I ever start taking myself too seriously, they will absolutely be the first in line to take me down a peg.

1. I realize that for any Fletchers reading today’s post, “helpers” refers to something very specific. Just to be clear, this post is not about that.