Faithfulness vs. Futility—The Quest for One’s Insignificance

Have you embraced your insignificance? 

Until you do, you’ll always feel second-rate, second-best—forever measuring yourself against others and forever coming up short. 

Think of your chosen field, whether it be career, sports, the arts, or more vocationally driven pursuits like politics, teaching, or ministry. 

Now think of how far you’ve come and consider this: someone out there—let’s call them “X”—has done it better. Yep, your success is nothing compared to X’s and probably never will be. Your impact is nothing. Your skill is nothing. You are, in fact, like a five-year old playing at doctors in the waiting room of a doctors’ clinic with actual doctors in the next room (that was a lot of doctors in one sentence but hopefully you get the point). 

X is more proficient than you, more polished, more prolific.

I used to play in a band where I became frustrated by band mate’s lack of commitment. When I pressed him, he shrugged and said, “What’s the point when there’s Jimmy Page?” It stuck with me. The incomplete sentence. The absurd logic of it. He loved music, but the existence of someone better robbed him of the will to take it seriously, limiting his potential, his individuality, and ultimately—his joy.

I left behind my music aspirations years ago, but at times—especially on Sunday evenings sitting exhausted after leading two services and bracing for another work week—the old impulse to reach for significance returns. 

My wife and I pastor a small church in a town in south-western Australia, alongside a fledgling church plant hanging in there by a few threads of grace and grit. I teach High School, play gigs, study, and lead a family of six. I preach about fifteen sermons a year (most of them pieced together after work, between kids’ sports and weekend errands) drawn from study, prayer, doubts, frustration, reflection, struggle, the odd moment of inspiration and clarity, and a dash of holy hope that somehow what I’m doing matters. 

Sometimes I think it’s enough. It has to be. It’s all I can do.

But then I think of the likes of Martin Luther, who preached some 4,000 sermons and published 600 books in a time before electric lights were invented (did he have more daylight hours?!). Or John Wesley, who in the 18th century rode some 400,000 kilometres on horseback preaching some 7,000 sermons—up to 4 or 5 per day! Or Charles Spurgeon who preached some 3,600 sermons to about 10,000 people per week!

So I think: why bother? What’s the point? Why hang on to my own small efforts—that seem to cost me so dearly—in the face of such towering legacies? 

And yet… Jesus said something that flips the whole thing on its head (as he had an irritating habit of doing!)

“Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master’s happiness” (Matthew 25:21). 

It’s not about how much. It’s not about how far. It’s about faithfulness with what you’ve been given. 

Jesus doesn’t hand out medals for productivity. He delights in faithfulness. Even in insignificance. Perhaps especially so. 

With Jesus the ordinary becomes extraordinary and the extraordinary ordinary. 

He doesn’t measure success by size or fame or influence. He himself only preached for some three years and travelled within a 100km (or so) radius. He went after the few, the insignificant, the small in stature. He rejoiced in the one. Still does. He wasn’t chasing followers from the other side of the world, he was serving those around him—of whom there was never a shortage!

And so maybe the goal isn’t to become a Wesley or a Spurgeon. 

Maybe the goal is to plant yourself deeply in the soil where God has placed you and tend it with open hands and an open mind, seeing who God sends along.

Maybe faithfulness looks like “hanging on in quiet desperation,” as Roger Waters once put it, over “plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines.”

Maybe for me, faithfulness looks like unfinished projects, less-than-great sermons, or a wish-list of ministry ideas that I will never get around to. Maybe these things that keep me awake at night are really just indicators that the only thing I have failed to do is to embrace my own insignificance. 

Until you embrace your insignificance, you will live a life of futility. 

You’ll strive, endlessly. Measure, constantly. Compare, bitterly. 

You’ll chase the next thing—achievement, recognition, status—thinking it will finally silence that quiet voice inside whispering you’re not enough. But it never does, because there will always be X—the finish line moves every time you get close. 

But when you embrace your insignificance, you are freed from the crushing burden of mattering. 

The weight lifts. You are released to simply be faithful with what’s in front you without worrying so much about the outcome. With that attitude, you’ll enjoy it more and probably end up better at it anyway. Less pressure, more joy. Who knows where that might lead you?

Or maybe you'll realise it's time for a something different and you'll happily let it go because it doesn't define you—you've no longer given it the power of providing you with significance.

Perhaps “being faithful with a few things” is more about attending well to life’s simple matters: loving your children, cleaning your home, and filing your tax returns. Perhaps it’s the ordinary and the mundane that truly matters and that has the power to truly change the world.

When you embrace your own insignificance and follow Christ, you'll be given a significance that far exceeds anything the world can offer.

But, as usual, it’s just my two-bob’s worth.

Bounded Freedom: To Free, or Not To Free

Wars are fought for it, civilisations rise and fall because of it, and history itself shifts in its pursuit—what am I talking about? 

It was the last word William Wallace screamed in 1305, defying the English crown in his precious last moments before the executioner’s axe fell—immortalised in Mel Gibson’s epic Braveheart. It’s the ideal undergirding the American constitution in 1787, that every human being has the “inalienable right the life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”; and it’s the spirit Frank Sinatra belted out in ‘68 triumphantly declaring “I did it myyyyy way!”

Freedom.

The ability to choose one’s own path. To throw off the manacles of oppression and carve out an existence of one’s choosing—these are considered in our western psyche to be inalienable rights. You don’t come across the word ‘alienable’ too often these days; you’re not likely to trip over it reading your news feed on the way to work or hunting for dopamine on marketplace. 

Funnily enough though, that’s exactly where you would have come across it in days of old—the marketplace. It describes something that can be transferred or surrendered to another party. To say that life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are inalienable, is to claim that these things can’t be bought, sold, or taken away. Liberty—being made free— was so highly prized (and still is) that it was regarded as an unquestionable part of human existence!

Ironic given that for most of human history this has not been the case, and even in the American West at the time, slaves were still a commodity to be bought and sold. Then again the same constitution declared slaves to be only three-fifths of a person—and so the same rights didn’t apply to them(!) History surely is stranger than science fiction! 

Passion for freedom has never been in short supply, even if consistency has.

Our modern culture has become obsessed with the idea of personal freedom. Classic liberalism championed the principle of “do as you wish provided your actions don’t infringe on the freedoms of others”. Today’s rallying cry, however, is, “I’ll do as I wish, and if that tramples on your freedoms so be it!” We have shifted from fighting for emancipation from oppressive institutions to the paradox of institutionalising freedom itself.

In contrast to the world’s power struggles over freedom, Jesus promised a different kind of freedom—one that transcends the shifting sands of this age, because its source lies in something far more steadfast. The freedoms we chase in life can shift or be taken away, but the freedom Jesus offers is secure and unshakable because it’s grounded in the truth of God’s unshakable love and His plan for us. 

Unlike the promises of the American Constitution freedom in Christ is given to all who choose to follow Him. There is a difference however, a paradox to contend with: freedom in Christ is not boundless freedom, to the contrary it comes with boundaries. 

When Jesus said, “you will know the truth and the truth will set you free,” that was actually the result of a condition that came before it: “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples.” The whole statement is: “If you hold to my teaching, then you really are my disciples. Then you will know the truth and the truth will make you free” John 8:31-32.

Let’s work from the end back to the start. 

·      You will be free once you know the truth. 

·      You will know the truth if you are disciples of Jesus. 

·      You will be disciples of Jesus if you hold to (obey) his instructions. 

Just as a country’s borders give it security, so do limits give us freedom. To limit the scope of a thing is to unlock its depth. This is true of the microscope, which limits your field of vision but magnifies a depth otherwise impossible to perceive. It is true of the specialist who limits her field of study in order to plumb its depths; and looking to nature, it is true of the riverbank, which limits the water’s path but gives it direction and force.

True freedom is not the absence of limits, but the presence of the right ones. Bounded freedom is not a contradiction—it’s the only kind that leads to flourishing. Unbounded freedom, on the other hand, leads to chaos. 

I watched my daughter’s basketball grand final on the weekend, and those kids were ferocious! Without rules to the game, the court would have been a blood bath. The presence of fouls forces players to develop the skills necessary to avoid them—and this gives them far more scope to excel and refine their technique. By learning to navigate the game within the boundaries of its rules, players cultivate strategic thinking, precision, and adaptability. Instead of relying on brute force or reckless play, they hone their capability to anticipate opponent’s moves, improve their footwork, and master control over their actions. In this way, fouls don’t just restrict play; they shape it.

The boundaries Jesus puts around your life are there to protect you and to allow you to flourish. Jesus calls us to forgive others (Matthew 18:21-22), not just for their sake, but to free us of resentment and bitterness. He calls us to honesty and integrity (Matthew 5:37), because living truthfully protects us from the stress and consequences of deceit, allowing us to build relationships based on trust. He calls us to love and pray for our enemies (Luke 6:27-28), because this protects us from a cycle of hatred and allows us to live with peace rather than being consumed by anger. He calls us to faithfulness in marriage (Matthew 19:4-6), because this fosters trust, security and deep intimacy, protecting relationships from the pain of betrayal and broken trust.

Following Jesus, while putting some boundaries in your life, narrows your focus and brings clarity, peace, and purpose. Speaking of limits bringing depth of clarity, Dallas Willard was able to distil this whole idea into just three words: "obedience equals abundance." I have discovered that the more I live within those limits, the more I experience the fullness of life that Jesus promised (John 10:10). 

But hey, it’s just my two bob’s worth.

Standing in the Gap: The Joys and Sorrows of Ministry

 

Pastoring gives rise to both the most rewarding and the most defeating moments one can experience. 

Peter, one of Jesus’ first disciples, writes, ‘But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of the darkness into his marvellous light’ (1 Peter 2:9). 

What a grand verse! What lofty enthusiasm! What delicious rhetoric! Out of the darkness into his marvellous light. 

I feel it in my very bones to be true, and my spirit soars at such powerful proclamation. 

This is the glorious part of ministry: standing on stage with outstretched arms proclaiming the excellencies (note plural!) of God, seeing—almost feeling!—pulses  quicken in the room as people realise we are dealing not with trivial philosophical matters but with life’s ultimate and unalterable realities.

But then… there’s the other side. The church politics, the senseless infighting, the brutal betrayals—all of which go with the territory. My hunch is that if you can survive five years in ministry you’ll be fine for another fifty. The real pain isn’t in those things—traumatic as they are. It's the death-by-a-thousand-cuts you have to watch out for. 

From my last few years it's the apathy of the occasional pew-sitter for whom the message only ever sinks epidermis deep—we might see you again at Easter, or when the surf's down, or when the kids don't have a game on. They smile and nod in all the right places and might even come for prayer. They get the message but don’t see a need to prioritise God in their lives; they have just enough of all that Jesus-stuff thank-you-very-much. The odd Sunday, (preferably somewhere that serves good coffee and takes the kids off their hands for a while), does just the trick. Church will be squeezed in occasionally or it won't...either way it doesn't really matter to them. Let's call them the cultural Christians. 

On the other end of the passion scale, the gate-keeping doctrinaires who know just enough theology to be dangerous, obstinately clinging to tired, uninspiring, and (often) unexamined beliefs out of fear and ignorance while ostracising those of a more... expansive... disposition. They're the one's who like their atonement with a double-shot of wrath (to go thanks!), a preacher who screams at them like a drill sergeant (an alpha-male of course), and a church that stares down it's long gnarly nose at a sinful hell-bent world. This is a bunker, protected from the enemy (thought, nuance, reason) while firing pot shots at the world at large. Let's call them the fundamentalists.

Finally there are those who are simply too content with their lot—let's call them the consumer Christian. Of the three, it's actually this lot that really burn my bacon. The other two are relatively toothless, but these guys do subtle damage both within and outside the church. They have the air of commitment but without any skin in the game, quick to criticise the short-comings of the church without realising the self-defeating nature of their own statements. After all the church is not bricks and mortar but flesh and blood (theirs). 

Am I too harsh on these guys? Probably, but the church is about participation not performance.

Performance changes nothing, participation changes people—people change the world. 

The long-suffering contradiction of consumer Christianity—the tension between a God who saves us to serve (and be the church) and those who seek a church to serve them—is a dissonance difficult to ignore. The inability to drop one’s own agenda and cultivate a servant heart of Christ may just remain the final frontier for some. 

These are of course caricatures, and we probably all dip a toe into one or more at some time in our journey of faith. That's okay, just don't stay there. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not worried about the church missing out—God’s bride is never neglected—rather, I am grieved about them missing out on the freedom that God holds out, imploring, patiently, for them to receive. They're so close, yet so far. It’s like watching someone drown who won’t take a life-raft; seeing a starving person push away a feast laid out before them; or holding out a hand to someone in a burning house but they won’t come out. 

What can I do? Seemingly, nothing. My own inadequacy stares me in the face. The gap feels unbridgeable.

But then we are called to be a 'royal priesthood'. Priests in the Old Testament straddled two worlds, standing in the uncomfortable gap between heaven and earth, interceding, imploring, drawing them together. I sometimes feel like I have earth in one hand and heaven in the other and my grip is slipping. I can barely hold on let along draw them together. 

But maybe that’s all we are called to do? To stand, and to hold, arms stretched out—vulnerable, shaking, poured out. 

Perhaps pastoring is more about patient perseverance than powerful proclamations.

Both require outstretched hands. It’s an image of a crucified Messiah, suffering for the sins of the world, uttering the unutterable ‘my God my God why have you forsaken me?’ just before all the sin and darkness in the world is utterly and ultimately defeated.

I’m starting to think perhaps this is real ministry after all.

Because then, oh God then (and this happened all in space of the last few weeks) a perplexed young visitor at church genuinely asks me ‘why is everyone so nice here?’; a group of men spanning sixty years in age pouring out their hearts in prayer over each other, a young lady asking in wide-eyed wonder if she too can know this Jesus fella we’ve been talking about, a random teenager walking in the door asking ‘is it okay if I join you guys?’, baptising a gentleman in his twilight years who rises tearfully rejoicing from the water, and just to top it all off, one of my daughters giving me an unexpected hug after the service and telling me she loves me…and for each of these seemingly insignificant moments, I felt like I am born again again. That’s not an error. I am born again a second time, a third time, every time the gap is closed, I am renewed, redeemed, restored, all over again, and it's all worthwhile.

These are small insignificant things, you might say, but you have to take notice. The enemy's voice is loud and proud, God's voice is quiet and insistent. If you don't tune into it you'll be crushed. 

The gap persists but that's precisely where His power is the most potent.

In those moments, the pitch-fork wielding nay-sayers, the self-appointed sooth-sayers, and the self-serving church-players all fade into the background. I am swept along with God’s joy, filled with His Spirit, animated by His love, speaking for Him, wielded by Him, poured out for Him, all of this in spite of my own faults and failures. 

Serving the Living God is surely the greatest thing in the world. 

‘Why do you do it?’ People often ask me, usually when I'm looking worn and weary on a Monday morning.

And I reflect on those God-moments, and I don’t quite know how to say, ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ in a way that makes sense.  

But hey, it’s just my two-bob worth.

Are you a Human Being or a Human Doing?

I came across a reel on Instagram yesterday that went something like this: "Just remember: the amount of money you've spent on buying guitars is nothing compared to the amount you haven't!"

Even though my wife found this less amusing than I and didn't accept it as a solid premise for the procurement of another 6-string (sigh), it did get me thinking: What if we approach life the same way?

My first thought as I crawled over the finish line of 2024 and entered the new year gasping for air was: My house is a mess and I failed to complete those writing and recording goals. 

Being wired as 'task-oriented', I started the year with a list of projects that I felt were important. You know, small things, like recording an album and working on a novel, and completing a master's degree—full time pursuits in themselves! 

I do take some comfort in (but annually forget) the wisdom shared by one of my lecturers Brain Harris, who said (something like) "we constantly overestimate what we can achieve in one year, and underestimate what we can achieve in ten."

Yet the feeling of failure persisted, despite it being perhaps the busiest year of my life. 

Last year I became a church leader, preached a whopping twenty-five sermons, planted (and ran) a second church, performed marriage ceremonies, attended networking events, baptised, prayed with, and ministered to people—you know, pastor-stuff. I completed training to run prison ministry programs and knocked off another unit in my theological degree. And most of that was on a voluntary basis, so I also taught four days a week in a local high school, along with all that goes with it: planning and preparation, marking, after-school events, PDs, reading and research—which is a relatively new role for me.

As a musician I played a dozen local gigs, taught a couple of students the guitar, and led a 9-piece band in a large-scale public performance at the end of the year. 

In my spare time (!) I wrote some BLOGS (not enough!) and a short-story which achieved first place in a competition (but not my novel!). 

At home I am a husband and father of four children. I coached my daughter's basketball team, drove my kids to and from various places a thousand times a week, kept (just) a household running, cut lawns (sometimes), tried (at least) to maintain relationships with my extended family, and spent quality time with my wife and kids (but not enough). 

As you can see, it's not like I did nothing! Yet the feeling persists.

I don't say any of this to brag or high-five myself, but to point out my own folly. And yes, I am aware of (and working on) some of my own issues that lead me to think this way. 

What I am interested in asking myself (and you!) however is this: What if we do the same thing with God? What if we focus on the things God hasn't done—heal a disease, fix our finances, prevent a situation of abuse, stop world hunger—and fail to see the things he has. 

God gives us life, oxygen, a rich and diverse natural world to steward and enjoy, family and friends, and (for most people in my community) put roofs over our heads, food in our bellies, free will in our hearts, and loved ones in our care. 

According to the Bible, we are not mere accidents, but are fearfully and wonderfully and lovingly made.

God gives us every opportunity to know himself, each of these things having an imprint of his nature and wisdom and love. He has blessed us with every good thing, and for those who follow Jesus he has gone the extra step and filled them with his own Spirit—His presence to love, heal, guide, comfort.

Jesus said that if you seek first the kingdom of God, all else will be added to you. I suspect this was intended to be practical not philosophical. For many of us much of the time (myself included) we do this the opposite way. We seek first our own kingdom (our own desires and will) and then try to add God. By doing so, we miss out on a heart of gratitude, wonder, and awe, and the joy of allowing God to guide our path. 

With that in mind, how should we measure our lives? I am doubting that my rather secular approach of aiming for boxes ticked (I blame the 7-Habits guy and his ilk) is rather deficient. I won't ever—to be honest—shed it altogether, it's just the way I'm wired, but my emphasis needs to shift from doing to being. 

We are, after all, human beings, not human doings, and I suspect that Jesus' advice points us in this direction: to rest in God's presence and love first, and do second. I'm sure then we get some stuff done too, but important stuff. God-directed stuff. After all, "The Lord directs the steps of the godly. He delights in every detail of their lives" Psalm 37:23 (NLT).

So our measure of success at the end of the year should not be "did I achieve x, y and x?" but "did I seek God first? Did I rest in God?"

Being before doing. 

I'm going to have a crack at that this year, and who knows, I might even get more stuff done?!

But hey, it's just my two-bob's worth as usual.