“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.
1 comment:
Ode to George:
I have known a doorkeeper in my life. His name was George, and he was memorable I am sure simply because I was young, newly married, newly mothering, and perhaps the years may enlarge things a bit as well. But even now, 33 year later, I still recall the weekly emotion of walking up to the door of the church and seeing him extending his hand and introducing himself simply as "George". He had been pretty severely injured while serving in the military in World War II, and had been disabled for many years, physically very limited in what he was able to do. But there wasn't anyone who didn't know George, no last name required. Each week he would meet us at the door with a smile, a handshake and he would say right out loud how good it was to see us. Of course, it wasn't just us, was it?? But then at the time and even now, that matters less than the fact that it was about us then. The thing about him was he took door keeping to be serious business. I share this not to set some impossible standard for someone else to measure up to, but simply because it meant so much to me then and now. Once every week, for us it was Thursday mornings, George would place a brief telephone call to say that this morning was the time that he would be praying for our family. By the time he would hang up a minute or two later I was encouraged, strengthened, and more hopeful in my mothering, my marriage, and my life. Doorkeepers understand something that many of us miss along the way as we strive and struggle to find meaning in our lives. I suppose it must be the faithfulness, it silently and relentlessly screams...
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