Serving Where Nobody Knows Your Name

I inhaled deeply and stepped into the church foyer. I moved along with the strangers also making their way toward the sanctuary door, comfortable beneath my cloak of anonymity. Men and women I did not know threw me nods, smiles, and “good mornings.” They didn’t know my name, nor could they see the shame I bore, yet I clutched my Bible tight against my chest as if to hide a scarlet letter.

A short and perpetually smiling woman just outside the door handed me a bulletin and since this was my second month attending the church, I was no longer surprised when she tackled me with a bear hug. In fact the embrace was like balm to my wounded spirit. Non-judgmental arms wrapped around a repentant soul. Thank You, Lord, for leading me here.

It was strange being unknown. In my old place of worship I had the notoriety of Norm on Cheers; yes, everybody knew my name. One couldn’t read through the bulletin without seeing it many times: For more information, contact Janet Rubin, See Janet Rubin regarding library donations, Chairperson: Janet Rubin… That was me—religious super-woman, loved an admired by all.

Until I fell.

So here I was, stripped of my choir robe, my titles, and my pride. Only wanting healing, understanding I was no longer good enough to serve. Still bleeding from my self-inflicted wounds as well as the ones left by people I’d called friends. The music, already playing, swept over me as I entered. A young man sang into the microphone—words that seemed written for me: All who are thirsty, all who are weak, come to the fountain, dip your heart in the stream of life…

And I found myself in front of the only person whose name I knew. Steve. Bare feet, long hair, and dangling earring. He looked more like a club bouncer than an associate pastor, but he’d been the first person I met when searching out a new flock to hang with, and his friendly manner had quenched most of the fear that came with venturing into a new flock. It had been Steve who’d answered the phone when I called, Steve who’d sent me pamphlets and a sermon tape in the mail, Steve who greeted with the warmest of smiles and hugs each week.

And today he did more than that. He bent his hulking frame over so his voice could be heard over the music. “Janet, can you do me a favor and help pass out communion today?”

I froze in my tracks. Pass out communion? That was a job for men, not women. Men in suits with titles like deacon or elder. Who was I to pass out the elements? Especially me. I probably shouldn’t even be participating.

I rose up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “I would like to. I really would...”

Apparently, thinking I was finished, he slapped me on the shoulder. “Cool. Thanks.”

I shook my head. “No, I mean you guys don’t really know me, Steve. I’ve really screwed up. Sinned big time…”

He looked at me with what seemed amusement. “We all have, sister. That’s what Jesus died for.”

I hesitated. “You’re sure it’s okay? You don’t know what I did.”
He nodded. “It’s all about grace.”

The sincerity in his expression convinced me he really had no qualms about delegating the sacred task to me. Something in my spirit stirred, excited at the idea that I was not truly useless in the kingdom.

Two hours later I made my way down the aisle, passing a plate of broken crackers to men, women and children—strangers yet family. Me serving the Lord. And it felt okay. It felt better than okay. There was no glory for me. I was still unknown. And all at once I understood that serving was a gift.

When I was done with passing out the little cups of grape juice, I took some for myself. And when the pastor gave the go ahead, I ate my cracker, drank my juice, understanding for the first time what the point of it was—He bled, He died because I needed saving. Chiefly because I wasn’t good enough or clean enough.


And by His stripes my healing began.