Called to Service

by Diane Marten

Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the father, so we too might walk in newness of life. Romans 6:3-4

The church is glowing with yellow light during evening Lenten services. The hymns are in minor keys with words of confession and sorrow. I love Lent because you have permission not to be perky. My sisters and brothers and parents share the pew with me. I am part of this family and part of God’s family. I am in seventh grade, and I cry because it’s so beautiful. I have a sense of God’s presence, as though one of us, at least, should give our life to ministry. Could it be me?

I decided to become a deaconess for two silly reasons. One is because of the Lenten tears. The other is because a mission pastor came through our little town one day and told our class that the Lord had need for pastors, teachers, missionaries, and deaconesses. He said a word I had never heard before: deaconess. Years later, because I "accidentally" went to a university that had a training program for church workers, I fell in with deaconess students and was inspired by these bright, passionate, committed young women. I understood that being a deaconess would be a lifetime commitment. I prayed and walked a lot that year.

I leaned toward the sense of baptismal calling that God had begun in me. I made the commitment. I wanted to be part of God’s team for doing good in the world. Again the tears came, tears of joy, and I was personally at peace.

How do you discern God’s call? Are you inspired by others? Do your tears speak your heart? Does someone point out your gifts?

Baptized in Christ Jesus
Living wet is the only way to go. I have my daily struggles with the saint-and-sinner part of myself — the sinking and the swimming. But the splash of servanthood continues to delight me. I love this life. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

There is a fountain of flowing water in a garden behind a church building in northern California. The youth group dreamed it up after some grumpy old men on the property committee complained that the teenagers weren’t helping at church. The youth adopted that plot of ground as a confrontational response. They sweated on Saturdays to clear the brush and rubbish; they hoed and raked, and then they invited people to plant flowers. The garden took shape miraculously quickly. A father offered to pour a concrete slab so we could have benches. The most memorable youth activity that summer was a three-hour conversation while we waited for the cement to dry. We agreed that some water would be significant. Eventually, a widow donated her husband’s fountain, an act of love and letting go. We cried as a group the day it was installed. A few weeks later, two teenagers were baptized in that particular fountain, in a Dream Garden built by many hands and hearts.

Not all servanthood is done at church, you know. Most of it happens quite by accident, I think. I like to be well-organized. I’m good at making forms and file folders and being focused on task. This, I truly believe, is faithful service both to God and to the mission of the agency. At the same time, when a co-worker approaches your desk and says softly, "Today is the anniversary of my little brother’s death," you simply stop what you’re doing and listen. Maybe our best ministry happens in the interruptions.

Baptized into death
Once I worked as an intake counselor for an agency that serves people with developmental disabilities. I interviewed a family who had a three-year-old boy with a diagnosis of autism. He could scream; he could run; he could throw things. But he could not communicate; he could not tolerate cuddling; he could not calm himself down. One night, during a bath, his father left the room for a moment, only a moment, and that boy quietly slipped under the water, and he died. His parents were heartbroken.

I went to the funeral and wondered why I heard pigeons cooing. I thought God was clever to send such a lovely angel-sound at such a sad time. But there were no pigeons. It was the boy’s mother, weeping. I know that God cries, too. I thought about how baptism is a way that we slip into the water and die with Christ. And like this little boy, we will rise with Christ, too. Does God cry at our baptisms even as God welcomes us into the family?

For a while, I felt dead tired and restless, working too hard, spinning my wheels. Change was nagging at me, a change that would mean a cross-country move, the abandonment of life as I had known it. Lingering in the warm shower was a way to pamper myself. And there, I heard a voice. Well, you might as well go. You’ve already died. The water.

The word. The call to a new kind of service. I realized that I have already died. That’s what baptism is about. Dying with Christ, and rising to new life. Through tears and a shower, I affirmed the call, and started over to work with the Lutheran Deaconess Association. How does baptism wash over you, day by day? In the shower? Doing the laundry? Standing in the rain? Does God have a voice in your head? What does it sound like?

As Christ was raised
I was interrupted again a year ago when the voice in my head said, Love your neighbor as yourself. "And who is my neighbor?" I challenged. You might guess what happened next. Around the corner, a family shelter was opening. The program director called on me to start a visitation program. "We need a hostess," he said. I got to know my new neighbors by meeting with them in the common room at the shelter. In order to sustain this commitment, I asked some church friends to join me, and so I got to know those neighbors better, too. In fact, the six of us have meetings each month at a local restaurant after work. I know that the shelter residents appreciate our attention, but it’s a mutually satisfying relationship all around.

There are many ways to live out a baptismal calling to servanthood. I am moved by those unnamed servants who work during the night, at hospitals, at gas stations, at toll booths. I recognize the servant heart of parents of young children, and grown children who care for their aging parents. What about you? How do you live your new life in Christ?

We walk in newness of life
I wash feet—not for a living, but as a tangible reminder that servant ministry is about getting on your knees to do sometimes-lowly tasks.

For a few days last July, I helped some deaconesses wash feet at a national youth gathering. About 35,000 kids were there, and 200 found their way to our booth each day. Teenagers, youth leaders, pastors, and assorted staff people waited their turn in long lines. "How can we wash them all," we’d worry. Well, we couldn’t. But we did what we could. The towels lasted about six hours. Then we stopped for the day.

I sat cross-legged on a cement floor for those hours. My back was so stiff I’d have to roll over to my hands and knees before standing up. I needed a pretty good reason to go through all that effort. In a way, I was grateful for my stiffness. I believe that God locked me into position so that I wouldn’t run away. It helped with my commitment to the task.

The question people asked most was: "What’s a deaconess?" (We get asked that a lot.) Our answer changes, depending on the person who asks and the place. At the youth gathering, our answer was "We are women who serve people in need. Just as Jesus washed his disciples’ feet, we are willing to serve in places that are not very glamorous.

They’d ask lots of other questions: "How did you learn to massage feet?" "Did you have to go to college to learn how?" "How much do people usually pay?" "Do you do this for a living?"

I’d answer, "No, it’s just a symbol. Washing your feet is a symbol of the way Jesus served. We have lots of other ways of serving people."

By that time, their eyes would roll and they’d be so relaxed that conversation was irrelevant. They’d sigh. They’d smile. And then the foot-washing wasn’t just a symbol any more. It was the most important thing I could be doing for that person at that moment.

One woman’s feet and ankles were really tense when she sat down. I invited her to relax, and she started to cry. Big tears rolled down her face. She was exhausted from trying to keep up with her teenagers. She was amazed that someone would actually rub her feet for free. She was under stress at home and at work, and she couldn’t hide it anymore. She just sobbed.

I spent a long time working on her feet. I dried them carefully. I dried until her tears dried, too. After a while, she asked if she could learn how to wash feet, and I said she probably could. That’s how the gospel affects us, you know. It turns us into servants.

I washed with my deaconess sisters. I overheard their conversations and I liked how they were ministering to other feet. Sometimes, a deaconess who was a youth leader at the gathering came by and took my place. Sometimes college students helped. We all took turns.

I loved washing the feet of pastors. I thought about all the pastors I worked with, who served me communion, who stood by me in times of crisis or celebration. I thought how pastors get stuck in the authority position so often, and how they need a little loving care, too.

The feet I washed came in many shapes and sizes and colors and with accessories. Tattoos. Toe rings. Nail polish. Blisters. I’d take a good assessment as I washed, remembering to offer Band-Aids for owies.

Sometimes, kids would say, "Oooh. Isn’t it gross?" I’d say, "No, actually it’s a pleasure to be with you." And it was. It was a joy. And that was a surprise.

And that is how walking wet makes sense, day by day. You lose yourself in service to others.

Deaconess Diane Marten is the director of education and formation for the Lutheran Deaconess Association in Valparaiso, Indiana.

Learn more about foot-washing and read other brief devotions in Best of DeacPost, available from the Lutheran Deaconess Association (www.valpo.edu/lda)