on holding the door
A couple of weeks ago Jen and I were running errands and anxiously enjoying our last night as a household of two. We couldn't decide where to eat dinner and I had a craving for steak. I probably shouldn't have been surprised at the 30 minute wait at Longhorn on a Friday night, but it was an inconvenience nonetheless.
With the waiting area overflowing with other hungry waiting patrons, we were face with the unenviable task of finding a place to stand and wait. I twas unseasonably cold that particular day and Jen's short sleeves and my brilliant decision to wear shorts and sandals ruled out taking this party outside to the waiting benches. We were resigned to stand in the "holding tank" between the entry door and the door into the restaurant.
Pretty soon it became apparent that this was Grand Central Station--there were people constantly going in and out. Those coming out were sure not to return, but the new party coming in would soon be making an exit, once they surveyed the sea of humanity inside.
Standing awkwardly against the wall, I soon felt compelled to hold the door for folks coming in and going out. Once you've done this for one person, the guilt settles in and it quickly becomes apparent that this would be my chosen occupation--the somewhat involuntary doorman.
Don't get me wrong, doing something nice for people is simple courtesy, even an act of love, but it was not, I must confess my first instinct. Well, maybe it was, but I wasn't feeling so good about the decision after I'd broken off conversation with Jen yet again, only to open the door for the fiftieth time, 10 of which were for two children who were apparently beyond parental eyeshot.
After awhile I thought "this is uncomfortable, but a little funny." I felt like I should have a uniform and white gloves, like the doormen in New York in the movies always have. And that's when Scripture creeps into your mind--when you're daydreaming.
Psalm 84 says it this way:
Better is one day in your courts
than a thousand elsewhere;
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
than dwell in the tents of the wicked.
It's still hard for me to think of that passage without the song automatically playing on the jukebox of my brain.
I realized that when you're a doorkeeper, you miss out on the party. Every one else is eating, drinking, laughing and having a good time. You just get to smile at them as they leave with their bellies full. It is a relatively thankless job (1 out of 5, tops).
The Psalmist claims that being a doorkeeper at the house of God is better than living it up with the wicked. I'm no hedonist, but after 30 glorious minutes as an involuntary doorman, I'd take the tents of the wicked for a seat and a cold sweet tea.
At our church volunteers do most everything. On any given Sunday, there's folks teaching Sunday School, making coffee, running records back and forth, ushering, collecting the offering, praying during the service, reading Scripture or leading music. Every once in awhile when the youth ensemble performs someone working in the nursery's extended session will say "Can I find someone to take my shift for ten minutes so I can see my son do their song?"
As the now parent of a three-year old, and all the challenges that come with it, I have renewed respect for the two ladies who teach his Sunday School Class who have both been at it for over ten years together. It is more than just service, it's a calling.
Sometimes it takes being an unpaid doorman to make you realize the work of the people around you.
And that may just be the best kind of liturgy.
