Who Is This For?

by Jessica Fields | Oct 14, 2026 | Life and Faith, The Church Defined

We’ve all done it. We hold the door for a stranger, they walk through without a word, and something petty inside us mutters, “You’re WELCOME.” That may slide at a gas station, but it loses its humor when it follows us into church.

Who is this for? We find out the moment nobody notices. If we quit the minute we go unthanked, we were never serving Jesus. We were serving our need to be seen, and Jesus happened to be nearby. If we only show up for the people we like, we’ve made ourselves the head and asked Him to bless our guest list. And if we’ll only serve where there’s a microphone, a title, or a shout-out in the announcements, we’re not offering Him anything. We’re auditioning.

The church already has a head, and the position is filled. “He is also the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything” (Colossians 1:18, CSB). First place in everything. Not first place after the pastor’s approval, our own preferences, and whether anybody said thank you.

Serving Him frees us from all of that. “For God is not unjust; he will not forget your work and the love you demonstrated for his name by serving the saints—and by continuing to serve them” (Hebrews 6:10, CSB). The love is for His name. The saints are just where it lands. Nobody saw us stack the chairs? He did. Nobody noticed the meal we dropped off? He did. No one saw us get to church early to put out parking signs? He did. And He keeps better records than the church office, I promise.

Which makes the least glamorous jobs in the church some of the purest. Nobody gets famous holding a door. There’s no fan club for the person who shows up with a box of muffins, and nobody livestreams the handful of people praying over an empty room before the first song. Those jobs come with almost no applause, so they’re very hard to do for the wrong reasons. All that’s left is doing them for Him.

He takes every one personally, in the best way. “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25:40, CSB). The door held, the muffins delivered, the prayer nobody else heard. Jesus doesn’t count those as “close enough.” He counts them as done for Him.

So Paul’s ask makes sense. “Therefore, brothers and sisters, in view of the mercies of God, I urge you to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God; this is your true worship” (Romans 12:1, CSB). A living sacrifice doesn’t check the room for applause first. It’s already been given away, and it knows to Whom.

So we serve. Thanked or unthanked, noticed or invisible, for the people we like and the ones who make us mutter at gas stations. It’s for Him. Jesus is the head of His church, He sees every bit of it, and He is worth it.

No Title Required

by Jessica Fields | Oct 7, 2026 | Life and Faith, The Church Defined

We’ve built an entire vocabulary around “ministry” that has almost nothing to do with what the word actually means. Say “ministry” and most of us picture a stage, a microphone, a title with “pastor” or “director” somewhere in it. Say “I’m in ministry” and people assume you work for a church. That’s not biblical ministry. That’s just employment with a worship band.

The actual definition isn’t complicated: ministry is service. Not “ministry involves service.” Ministry is service. Full stop. If what you’re doing isn’t serving someone, it’s something else wearing ministry’s name tag.

Jesus said this about as plainly as He ever said anything: “For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45, CSB). The actual King of the universe, the one every throne in heaven answers to, did not come to earth to be waited on. He came to do the waiting. If the single most qualified, most powerful, most deserving-of-service person who ever lived operated that way, where did we get the idea that we’re the exception?

Jesus wasn’t subtle about the reversal. He tells His disciples flatly that the world’s version of greatness — lording your position over people, letting everyone know who’s in charge — isn’t how this works among His people. “Whoever wants to become great among you will be your servant, and whoever wants to be first among you will be a slave to all” (Mark 10:43-44, CSB). Want to matter in God’s kingdom? Go find the most overlooked job in the room and do it without being asked.

But I don’t think the goal is just being nicer to people. Serving someone a casserole or a ride to the airport is kind. It’s good. But kindness by itself isn’t the point of ministry — it’s the vehicle. What we’re actually after is the person on the other end walking away closer to God because you showed up. If your kindness never points anywhere, it’s just niceness with good PR. Ministry has a direction. It’s supposed to move somebody.

That’s what Peter means when he says, “just as each one has received a gift, use it to serve others, as good stewards of the varied grace of God” (1 Peter 4:10, CSB). Each one. Not each pastor. Not each worship leader. Each one of us, serving others with whatever grace landed in our hands, with eternity in view.

Which means some of the most overlooked ministry in this building isn’t happening on a Sunday morning at all. Henry Tolbert, a church growth consultant, posted something recently that I haven’t been able to shake:

“You want to actually help your pastor? Here is a job at your church that nobody has claimed. It takes twenty minutes a week and a legal pad.

Somebody in your church has been gone six weeks and nobody has called them.

Now before you get to feeling some kind of way about your pastor, let me show you how that happens.

Your church runs about 60 on a Sunday. Been 60 for two years. Except it ain’t the same 60. It’s about 140 people taking turns. Everybody shows up once every three weeks or so.

Which means nobody is ever gone long enough to be missed. Sister Johnson missing three Sundays looks exactly like Sister Johnson’s regular rhythm. So nobody calls. And two months later she’s gone for good and the whole church is surprised.

The shepherd in Luke 15 knew one was missing because he was counting names, not just looking out at a crowd. Ninety-nine was still a good day. He went anyway.

Here’s the honest truth. Your pastor cannot hold 140 names in his head while he’s preparing a sermon, sitting in the hospital, and working a full-time job. That is not a caring problem. That is a capacity problem.

But church, you could do this.

You don’t need a title. You don’t need a budget. You need a legal pad and about twenty minutes a week.

Write down who was there. Compare it to last week. When a name hasn’t shown up in three weeks, send a text. Not a guilt text. Not a ‘we missed you in service’ form letter. Just, ‘Hey, I haven’t seen you in a while. You good?’

That’s the whole job. That’s it.

And then go tell your pastor, ‘I got this one. I’ll let you know who needs a call from you.’

Do you know what that does for a leader? It hands them back the one thing they can’t buy more of. It lets them shepherd instead of guess.

Somebody in your church is one text away from coming back. And it does not have to be the pastor who sends it.

So who have you not seen in three weeks? Go get your phone.”

That’s not a committee. That’s not a program. That’s one person deciding to notice.

That’s what serving with a motive actually looks like — not organizing an event, not a title, not a platform. A text message sent because you noticed, with the real hope that it pulls someone a step closer to the God who already noticed them first.

So who have you not seen in three weeks? Jesus didn’t wait for an assignment to go after the one who was missing. He went and found them. That’s the whole model. You don’t need a title to do the same thing. You need a phone and the willingness to actually use it.

Leave the Drawer

by Jessica Fields | Sep 30, 2026 | Life and Faith, The Church Defined

Growing up, my mom was an elementary music teacher. She shared the role with two other women, and between the three of them they split up the whole school — each taking two grades, ten to twelve classes per grade. That meant my mom taught anywhere from 600 to 720 kids a year, plus a 60-person chorus. And one of my favorite weeks of the year was the week before Christmas, when she’d start bringing home the teacher gifts.

I’d sit on the living room floor and help her open every single one. This was the 90s, so gift cards weren’t really a thing yet (side note: parents, teachers really like gift cards!), so instead we got a wildly assorted haul. I was always hunting for the candy and the baked goods. But there was a category of gift that showed up every single year without fail: coffee mugs, candles, picture frames, and those little bath kits with the soap and lotion and potpourri. My mother does not drink coffee or tea. Not once. Every year, more mugs.

With great appreciation for the thought behind every single one, those gifts all ended up in the same place: the bottom drawer of a chest of drawers, otherwise known as the re-gifting drawer. Need a last-minute gift for a party? Re-gifting drawer. Housewarming present? Re-gifting drawer. Christmas gift for one of my own teachers? Re-gifting drawer. That drawer was like Mary Poppins’ bag — never seemed to hit bottom, and right about the time it did, Christmas would roll back around and restock it. She was grateful for every gift. It’s just that a person can only use so much lotion. We’re not all Queen Esther, who spent a year getting oil treatments before she ever met the king (go read the book of Esther, it’s a whole thing).

Some gifts are made to be used immediately, and some just… aren’t. A gift card to a store nowhere near you. A candle you’re saving for a special occasion that never quite arrives. A gift that’s real, and kind, and appreciated — and still ends up in a drawer, doing nothing for anybody.

I wonder how many of us are doing that with the gifts God actually gave us.

In Ephesians 4, Paul says God gave gifts to people — apostles, prophets, evangelists, pastors, teachers — “to equip the saints for the work of ministry, to build up the body of Christ” (Ephesians 4:12, CSB). Equip sounds like a nice churchy word. Hand someone a Bible, call it equipped, move along.

Except that’s not what the word means at all. In the culture this letter was written to, this exact word got used for setting a broken bone back into place. Mending a torn fishing net. Not handing someone a tool, it meant fixing something so it can actually do what it was made to do. It changes the question — it’s not “what’s my spiritual gift,” like a personality quiz result you frame and forget. It’s “what was I mended for, and who exactly am I still withholding it from?”

Your gift was never for you. Does that bother you? Good. Peter says it plainly — “just as each one has received a gift, use it to serve others” (1 Peter 4:10, CSB). Not develop it privately. Not admire it from the drawer. Serve others with it. If you’re sitting on something God fixed in you and calling that humility, I need to lovingly tell you that’s not humility. That’s a mended net hanging on the wall, catching nothing.

And look — I get the excuses, because I’ve used them. “That’s not really my calling.” “Someone more qualified should do that.” “I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.” Half the time what we’re actually saying is I’d rather stay comfortable than find out I’m needed. Comfortable is safer. Comfortable doesn’t require you to show up early, or sit with someone who’s struggling, or teach a room full of eight-year-olds who will absolutely test whether you actually believe what you say you believe. But comfortable also doesn’t build anybody up. It just sits in the drawer.

Paul’s not asking for some of us to do this. He says the body grows and builds itself up “by the proper working of each individual part” (Ephesians 4:16, CSB). Each. Not the staff. Not the people with microphones. Not the ones who seem naturally gifted at people-ing. Each individual part. If you’ve been quietly assuming someone more qualified will handle it, here’s your uncomfortable truth for the week: you’re the someone.

And while I’m out here making you uncomfortable, let me add: being knit together with actual people means dealing with actual people — the ones who don’t think like you, who irritate you in ways that are somehow always slightly beneath the dignity of an actual conflict. The wrong song. The wrong seating chart. The thing they said in the group chat that you’re still thinking about at 11pm. Paul doesn’t pretend that away either — he says to bear with one another in love, making every effort to keep unity (Ephesians 4:2-3). Effort. Not vibes. Not “I’ll get along with people who are basically like me.” Effort, aimed at people who are not like you at all.

That’s the actual cost of being mended into a body instead of staying a spare part in a drawer. You don’t get to pick who you’re knit to. You just get to decide whether you’ll actually show up as the mended thing you were made to be, or keep the gift wrapped and call it modesty.

So here’s the ask, and it’s not a gentle one: stop waiting to feel qualified. Stop waiting for someone to tap you on the shoulder with an official title. You were mended for something specific. Maybe it’s the text you send today instead of just thinking about that person. Maybe it’s finally saying yes to the ministry you’ve been quietly avoiding. Maybe it’s showing up to something you’re only 60% sure you’re good at. It’s your gift — one that was never meant to live in a drawer. Otherwise, it’s just wasted.

“I’m Okay” (and Other Lies I Tell My Friends)

by Jessica Fields | Sep 23, 2026 | Life and Faith, The Church Defined

Confession: I lie to my friends. Repeatedly. To their faces.

It usually sounds harmless. “It’s really not a big deal.” “No worries, I’ve got it.” “This is about it.” And my personal favorite: “I’m okay.” I’ve said some version of these to people more times than I can count. One of my finest performances took place at a conference.

It was the last day, and I’d been working on the registration team, which meant it was pack-up time. If you’ve ever worked registration, you know it’s never just a couple of boxes. It’s boxes, printers, reams of paper, folding tables, bins of lanyards nobody wants to count or untangle, plus my own luggage and random stuff I’d collected over the retreat. So in and out of the dormitory I went, arms loaded, making trip after trip to my car.

Just a few feet from my car stood two friends, chatting about the conference and life. Every time I passed with my arms full, they asked, “Need some help?” And every time, I gave them the same line: “Oh, no, I’ve got it. This is about it.”

It was NOT about it. I’d walk back inside and there’d be another pile. So out I’d come again, arms full, and they’d ask again. “Nope, I’m okay! Almost done!” Trip after trip. Lie after lie. I was gaslighting two genuinely good friends just so I wouldn’t have to receive a little help.

By the final trip, they’d had enough. They turned to force their help on me, and of course, this time I was actually done. Lovingly annoyed, they gave me the obligatory hard time while I shut the car door with the satisfaction of someone who had Done It All By Herself. 

Car loaded. Pride intact. Help successfully avoided. I had earned a break. A well-done, I’m-an-independent-woman, look-what-I-did-all-by-myself break. So I strutted back inside, spotted the couch, and plopped down like a queen claiming her throne.

For about three seconds, life was good. Then the throne… shifted.

Getting up to investigate, I found the culprit: the back foot, a known problem child, wasn’t screwed in properly. Easy fix. The only issue was I couldn’t lift the couch and put the foot in at the same time. Hmm. Think, think, think. How do you lift a heavy couch and keep both hands free?

I know! I’ll wiggle underneath, hold the couch up with my back, and pop the foot in. So I got down on the floor, scooted under the couch, and started pushing up. And it was working! Yay! Make a plan, work the plan! Somewhere, Rosie the Riveter was flexing in solidarity. I could do it!

(Editor’s note: Rosie’s poster actually says “WE Can Do It!” The author failed to read the fine print. More on that later.)

Just then, the couch shifted again. The weight came down on my hip at exactly the wrong angle, and I couldn’t get a knee, an elbow, or any other body part under me to push back up.

I was stuck. Under a couch. Wicked Witch of the East style. Half my body pinned beneath a giant, pink, grandma’s-living-room couch, with my legs sticking out from the calves down.  All I was missing was the ruby slippers.

And there I was. I needed help. The same help I’d been dodging for the past half hour was now the only way out.

After a few more minutes of think-think-thinking, I remembered Siri could call my friend, who was, of course, standing right outside. So after a few more minutes fighting the embarrassment of what they were about to walk into, I made the call: “Hey, can you come inside? I do need your help.”

I heard them walk in, and as expected, they had no idea where I was. So I took one more hit to the pride: “Over here… under the couch.”

There was some laughter. Honestly, I’d have laughed too. But more than that, there was pity and grace, as the two of them lifted that pink monster off of me. And then, rightfully, they let me know the whole thing could have been avoided if I’d just let them in a whole lot sooner.

We’ve been talking about what the Church actually is. The word is ekklesia, the called-out ones, an assembly gathered for a purpose. And part of that purpose, it turns out, is making sure nobody ends up pinned under the couch alone.

Paul puts it plainly: “Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2). Then just three verses later, he says, “each person will have to carry his own load” (Galatians 6:5). Wait, what!?! Which is it, Paul?

Word nerd moment. In verse 5, “load” is the Greek word phortion, a word used for a soldier’s pack. Daily gear. The stuff that’s truly yours to carry, like your choices, your obedience, and your own walk with Jesus. But in verse 2, “burdens” is barē, a heavy, crushing weight. The kind that pins you to the floor and won’t let you up.

So yes, I can carry a printer. But a couch on my hip? That’s barē. I’d been turning down help with the backpack stuff for so long that by the time the crushing stuff landed, I’d trained myself not to ask.

I don’t think I’m the only one. We say “I’m okay” long after it stopped being true. Sometimes it’s pride. Sometimes it’s not wanting to be a bother. But when we keep people at arm’s length during the easy trips, they’re not close enough to lift when it gets heavy.

Paul says the whole body grows and builds “itself up in love by the proper working of each individual part” (Ephesians 4:16). Each part. Sometimes our part is being the friend by the car who keeps asking. And sometimes our part, the harder one, is actually saying yes. Turns out Rosie had it right all along. WE can do it. Emphasis on the we. 

I wish I could tell you that day under the couch was my final lesson in lying to my friends, that I walked away fully humbled and never said “I’ve got it” again. Sadly, no. I still feel the pull to carry things on my own. But more and more, I’m finding that when I trust others to help carry the load, the load isn’t nearly as hard to carry.

And when the lesson takes longer than God is willing to wait, He’s kind enough to bring a certain picture to mind: me, flat on the floor, legs sticking out from under a giant pink couch. And He asks, “Do you need something bigger to fall on you this time?” It’s the gentle shove He so often gives, for my good.

So this week, let’s practice both. If we see someone hauling more than they’re letting on, let’s keep offering, even after the third “I’m okay.” And if we’re the ones making trip after trip, let’s try saying the words that would’ve saved me a bruised hip and ego: “Actually, yes. I do need your help.”

Because the Church was never meant to be a bunch of strong people making every trip alone. We were called out, called together, and called to carry. Preferably before anyone ends up under the couch.