dance of the doorkeeper

“I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God . . .”

I read Psalm 84 just a few days ago, and wondered as I read the above line whether this was really true of me. So far, my faith in Christ has not cost me much in terms of social status or peer recognition. Although working as a high school teacher was by no means a prestigious or lucrative vocation, many people that I interacted with saw it as a respectable, perhaps even humanitarian endeavor. And now that I am serving the Church full time in a foreign context, I still don’t have much prestige or make much money. But, I continue to enjoy some level of respect and occasionally admiration among those who consider themselves followers of Christ and participants in His kingdom. That is to say, most of the folks that I associate with recognize some significant value both in what I used to do for a living and in what I presently do. And this, to a certain extent, can help make up for the fact that I’m not among the growing number of millionaires and cultural phenoms in their 30s.

But Psalm 84 is written by someone whose love for the presence of God seems to deliver him from the need, not just for prestige or money, but even for the respect and recognition of his peers. A doorkeeper is wallpaper. A doorkeeper is merely one of many minor components that together point to the glory and majesty of the temple. The unique characteristics of the doorkeeper’s personality, his gifts and talents, his life experiences, his previous accomplishments are irrelevant. He is easily dispensable, and doorkeepers in general are readily interchangeable. In fact, chances are good that if he were sick one day and replaced by someone else in the role of doorkeeper, no one would notice the difference. No one tells a doorkeeper what a good job he is doing keeping the door. No one thanks a doorkeeper for keeping the door. Depending on where he is located and what is expected of him, it is quite possible that a stone statue could do his job.

In light of that image, I know for certain that I am unable at present to declare with the sons of Korah, “I would rather be a doorkeeper.” I consistently find myself wondering what my unique contribution will be in any number of areas. Though I may not verbalize it, I regularly sense a pressing need to distinguish myself from the crowd somehow. What will make me stand out? What will I be remembered for? And my own concern in this regard relates not so much to the immediate: what will make me stand out tonight at this gathering I will be attending? Rather, it is more long term: what will cause people to look back at the life I have lived and conclude that I have lived well and have made a difference somehow in the world?

Not long ago, I watched Brad Pitt play the role of Achilles in the movie Troy. Although the degree to which he was consumed with his own legacy could easily be considered extreme, I sensed traces of a similar hunger lurking within my own heart. A hunger to be remembered for something. A hunger to leave my mark on this age. A hunger to stand out among the members of my generation.

I could easily blame others for this craving. For many years, people have suggested to me that I would really do something with my life. They have compared me to recognized names who have gone before me in ministry. And although, in the moment, I have in feigned humility laughed off the comparison, I would by lying if I said there weren’t some hint of longing for such recognition lingering within my soul. Maybe even more than just a hint.

But Achilles was clearly a miserable man (at least, that’s how Brad Pitt portrayed him). And I am becoming convinced that the pursuit of a legacy, of a name, whether it be in the business world or in the arts or academics, or even in the Church (perhaps especially in the Church) provides fertile ground in the heart for the choking weeds of pride and selfish ambition to grow and squeeze out all joy-giving spiritual life. Men and women intent on making a name for themselves have no place in the dance of the kingdom. The awkward weight of their ambition makes limbo dancing impossible. They can’t lower themselves for fear that they might drop their dreams, lose their legacy, miss out on their life mission.

And so I return to the doorkeeper. This particular doorkeeper, or maybe aspiring doorkeeper, in Psalm 84 is clearly dancing. Listen to the song he is dancing to:

For a day in your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
Than dwell in the tents of wickedness.
For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord bestows favor and honor.
No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly.
O Lord of hosts, blessed is the one who trusts in you!

Something tells me that this aspiring doorkeeper gets it. He doesn’t just understand that the favor of the Lord is superior to the favor of men. Unlike many of us it seems, he really believes it! He has become convinced of the paradox described in my previous posting: that the way down is the way up, that to be low is to be high . . . that to have nothing is to possess all.

Oh, I’m so far from this. Lord, please cause me to be revolted by my own pride and selfish ambition. Please teach me the dance of lowliness, the dance of the doorkeeper. I’m no good at this dance. I’m carrying too much cumbersome garbage. Strip me of these hindrances I pray, and clothe me in the simplicity and humility of the kingdom.

Limbo Lines

A few lines of lowliness from Arthur Bennet's collection of Puritan prayers and devotions, The Valley of Vision:

LORD, HIGH AND HOLY, MEEK AND LOWLY,
Thou hast brought me to the valley of vision,
where I live in the depths but see thee in the heights;
hemmed in by mountains of sin I behold thy glory.

Let me learn by paradox
that the way down is the way up,
that to be low is to be high,
that the broken heart is the healed heart,
that the contrite spirit is the rejoicing spirit,
that the repenting soul is the victorious soul
that to have nothing is to possess all,
that to bear the cross is to wear the crown,
that to give is to receive,
that the valley is the place of vision.

Lord, in the daytime stars can be seen from the deepest wells,
and the deeper the wells the brighter thy stars shine;
Let me find thy light in my darkness,
thy life in my death,
thy joy in my sorrow,
thy grace in my sin,
thy riches in my poverty,
thy glory in my valley.

dancing at home

For several months now, life circumstances have provided me with a lot of time at home. My wife and I have three young children, so this is a good season of life for a “tag-team.” Annie and I do a lot of trading off in order to allow each other time for various pursuits, like devotions, exercise, cleaning, and any number of other tasks. As much as I would like to say that I have loved every moment of it, I can’t . . . because I haven’t. This arrangement has been very challenging at times. On any given day, I will find myself washing dishes, cleaning floors, making beds, picking up toys, changing dirty diapers and soiled clothing (sometimes for the same child within the same half-hour). I am faced with the persistent plea, “daddy, will you play with me,” which any parent knows is excruciatingly painful to turn down. The action and the noise and the needs are unrelenting. And although I love my children and thoroughly enjoy spending time with them, living continually in their presence can be exhausting. At the very least, this time has served to deepen my appreciation for the high calling of any parent who chooses to make their children their life vocation. Marketplace employment is far less demanding!

One other effect of this extended time at home relates to the dance of lowliness. I’m starting to think that home may be the hardest place to perform this dance well. Limbo dancing is easier for me, I think, among strangers or mere acquaintances than it is among my loved ones. For some reason, it can be really hard to humble myself in service of my wife and of my kids. Although at times it can be joyful to do so, I find that often it requires an act of the will that goes contrary to what I really want in the moment. I can find myself mentally asserting my rights, and recounting the list of “good deeds” I have already performed on behalf of the family. I may weigh out in my head a measure of the time I have spent with the kids in a particular week in comparison with the time my wife has spent with them (by the way, if I am honest, she has always spent far more).

An analogy that Annie and I have discussed on several occasions involves two people riding a tandem bike. If you have ever ridden a tandem bike for any extended distance, particularly if you have ridden in front, you know how easy it is to become convinced that YOU are doing all the work. You can’t see behind you, and it can easily feel like the person back there isn’t peddling at all. This is especially true when trying to work your way up hill. In fact, on the few occasions that I have ridden a tandem bike up hill with someone else, I have found myself getting ticked off inside at the laziness of my riding partner . . . even though I really have no idea how hard they are peddling. It was revealing to me, after the first time that Annie and I rode a tandem together, when she explained that she had felt the same way about me. So, here we both are, peddling as hard as we can, and thinking that the other person is just sitting back and enjoying the ride.

Living family life together as parents of three can be just like that! I think I’m doing all the work, and she thinks she’s doing all the work; and we both end up frustrated that the other person isn’t pulling their fair share. And this is where the dance of lowliness kicks in. The moment I decide to keep peddling no matter how hard she is peddling; the moment I decide to keep serving no matter how hard she is serving; the moment I decide to keep loving no matter how much love I feel coming my way, I have shifted from a stressful labor to a joyful dance. And the longer this season at home lasts for me, the more I am learning about turning labor to dancing with the help of humility.

dancing in fear

I read this passage in Psalm 33 a few days ago:

From heaven the Lord looks down and sees all mankind;
from his dwelling place he watches all who live on earth -
he who forms the hearts of all,
who considers everything they do.
No king is saved by the size of his army;
no warrior escapes by his great strength.
a horse is a vain hope for deliverance;
despite all its great strength it cannot save.
But the eyes of the Lord are on those who fear him,
on those whose hope is in his unfailing love,

In him our hearts rejoice,
for we trust in his holy name.
May your unfailing love rest upon us, O Lord,
even as we put our hope in you.


In my first entry, I acknowledged my fear of being considered a failure (I used the term “loser”) and suggested that this fear may hinder my ability to walk in the way of the kingdom. One way I typically respond to this fear is to put my strengths on display and to keep my weakness under the bed as much as possible. I want others to recognize the best aspects of who I am, and may even exaggerate these when the opportunity presents itself. And, I want others to miss the worst parts, the things of which I am ashamed or about which I feel insecure. Often, I do this without even consciously deciding to. It is so natural for me; an impulse that acts on its own without requiring any thought or direction.

But, this need to convince others of my value and keep them blinded to my limitations is really a form of slavery in my life. It exercises influence over so much of what I say and do that, at times, it is difficult to tell what actions and words are really coming from my genuine self. Did that statement really reflect who I am, or was it a projection of what I would like others to think about me? Did I do that because I really wanted to, or was that action driven by some sense of expectation or some inclination to confirm or correct another person’s perception about me? It is not hard to see why a life lived in this kind of captivity could so easily be void of real satisfaction.

And I think this is one reason why I am so drawn to the way of the kingdom. Walking in the kingdom way requires a person to be more true to themselves, to who God made them to be, and less controlled by the opinions and expectations of others. Whenever I catch glimpses of this in the lives of saints who have walked before me, or in a few who live this way today, something within me stirs in recognition of the obvious freedom that they seem to enjoy.

The kingdom way invites folks to do the opposite of what they are predisposed to do; to boast in weakness and consider as garbage those “strengths” that they once boasted in. As the Psalm says, the size of the king’s army and the strength of the soldier are of no use to him when he stands beneath the watchful gaze of the all-powerful God. In a society that is so consumed with size, and strength, and beauty, and riches, and fame, and visible forms of success, our greatest hope is that others would notice any evidence of these in our lives. But the one who walks in the way of the kingdom rejoices in the absence of these things in his life experience, knowing that they are fools gold.

I am amazed at how concerned I can be about the opinions of men, when these opinions shift so quickly and are rooted in false values and empty ideals. But the kingdom invites me to change the stage upon which I perform. Much of my life has been lived on the stage of public opinion, being fed by the cheers of the audience and starved by their boos (or even worse, their disinterest). The kingdom invites me to a new stage for an audience of one: from heaven the Lord looks down and sees . . . he watches . . . he considers everything I do. The Psalm tells me that “the eyes of the Lord are on those who fear him, on those who hope in his unfailing love.”

And so I find myself dancing in a new kind of fear. I once danced in the fear of a fickle crowd of men and women whose satisfaction with my performance never lasted long. That dance was an attempt to display the best of what I had to offer; to reach heights of achievement that might inspire awe in those who observed me. This new dance requires that I abandon the best of my old repertoire. It is a dance of lowliness requiring an entirely different technique. It is a dance best performed away from the spotlight. It is a dance that often leaves me flat on my back. And yet, I’m finding already that there is joy in this dance of an entirely different kind.