I was on the longest solo road trip of my 35 years. I’d spent roughly seven hours driving when the first glimpse of the Smoky Mountains appeared. I was almost giddy, to be honest. I kept up a running commentary with each sharp curve and steep grade, equally excited to be driving through the mountains and terrified that a big truck was going to push me over the side of a cliff.
It was a beautiful drive, and when I turned around a bend that provided a sweeping view across the expanse of blue, hazy mountains, I felt tears well up in my eyes.
Yes, I actually cried.
You have to understand. Though I grew up in Tennessee, I now live in some of the flattest terrain I’ve ever seen. Miles and miles of flat, uninterrupted farm land surround the town where I live in Missouri. While I’ve grown to appreciate the fact that you can see the sunset from pretty much anywhere, it isn’t lost on me that my kids don’t know what hills are.
The mountains were at their autumn peak, bursting with orange and yellow, red and green, and boldly pushing through their misty, blue covering. What also welled up in me (in addition to those surprising tears) was praise. Not for the mountains themselves, but for the hands that made them, the voice that spoke them into being, the One who thought them up in the first place. The expanse of mountains are His footstool, and they drew me to worship the King whose feet rest upon them. They were fulfilling their purpose.
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I was traveling to North Carolina for a writing workshop. It was my first big commitment to bettering my craft and honing my message as a writer, and even though I’ve now been home for a couple of days, I still find myself wondering if my gifts are really that necessary.
You know what I mean, right?
Your friends have remarked that you’re so gifted in serving, or teaching, or helping. Your family sees that you have the gift of encouragement, or discernment, or wisdom. Your pastor or mentor from church has pointed out the areas where God has clearly equipped you to serve. They’ve tried to give you a gentle push to use those gifts.
But.
In your head is a voice that wants to be louder than the rest of them. “Too risky,” it says. “You’ll be opening yourself up to criticism. Nobody needs what you have to offer.” If you listen, it requires less of you. “It’s safer to hide.” There’s no risk involved if you squelch down the desire to do what you see God has equipped you to do. If you ignore the compelling urge of the Holy Spirit to tell the truth about who God is, then you don’t have to worry about what might happen.
What if I draw attention to myself?
What if people don’t like how I {insert usage of gift}?
What if I fail?
But maybe the bigger question is–what if you don’t obey?
I’ve lived a lot of years pushing down the urges to put pen to paper, fingers to two sets of keys, words to ears. I’ve asked myself those questions so much that they’ve become the mantra that helps me hide. But the people in my life who know me well have urged and encouraged toward my doing, pushed and remonstrated against my hiding.
As a Christ-follower, my purpose is to proclaim the good news of Jesus Christ to any and all who might listen. And if you’re a Jesus-follower, then your purpose is exactly the same as mine.
What’s different, though, is how we carry out our one calling. God has uniquely gifted His children with different talents and tendencies. Some gifts are public, others are more behind-the-scenes. But all are valuable and necessary for the Church to function as the Body of Christ. Some gifts are easy to locate in singers or speakers or writers. Just as important are the administrators and caretakers, organizers and pray-ers. Each one is needed.
But when one of us starts to stuff down his or her gifts because they may not utilize them perfectly or they may feel funny stepping forward to serve, then the whole Body loses out on what God gave that believer to encourage and exhort the rest of the Church. We all need one another to walk fully in freedom when it comes to our gifts.
The thing is, though—we don’t. We hide. We argue that we’re not that good at XYZ, we don’t have enough time, passion, or energy. We don’t want to risk doing something poorly, so we don’t do it at all. We think it’s humility, but it’s selfishness. We confuse the two and miss the mark of pointing people to Christ in the way that He has equipped us to do so. It’s not humble to swallow the gift God has given you and keep it to yourself. It’s selfish. Humility doesn’t mean hiding. Humility means acknowledging that everything you have is from God. Why would you want to hide what He’s given you?
Christians, our purpose is to serve as a giant arrow pointing to Jesus so others will know Him and believe. But when we fool ourselves into thinking our job in the Kingdom isn’t all that much and doesn’t really matter, we’re robbing Jesus of glory and ourselves of the joy found in making Him known. Who are we to decide what is or isn’t that much? We didn’t make the mountains or appoint gifts to each believer. It’s not ours to decide what gifts are worth exercising.
In our wake is a vast expanse of mountains crying out for the world to know its Creator, to see the purpose in His creation, to know that there is more and it’s found in Jesus. The mountains do it because we aren’t doing it.
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On my way home from my writing workshop, I was already feeling tempted to back down from the plans I’d made to further my message through writing. “Can I really do this?” I asked myself while driving down I-26. “Does it really matter so much whether I finish what I started? Do I really have anything to say about Jesus that a thousand others haven’t already said a million times better?”
While the questions tangled themselves up in my head, I saw a haze of blue in the distance. In one moment, all my doubts fled while I again beheld the beauty and majesty of these up-croppings of rock and trees.
It’s just stone and earth, just trees and grass, but I couldn’t help but see the hands that formed it. Tears streamed down my cheeks while I made each harrowing turn. The wonder misting the valleys and peaks filled me up with feelings of adoration for my Savior. I can’t explain it other than that the mountains were crying out the glory of God because that is what they were created to do.
They have to, they have to—because I am too afraid to.
My gifts can’t hold a candle to the awe that surrounds God’s handiwork in nature. But the message He has entrusted to me—and you, Christian—is even more important than the highest, most glorious mountain peak. Creation can tell half the story, but we hold the rest of it. His name is Jesus, and I’m urging you right now to feel safe in flinging off your doubts, fear of failure, and uncertainties when it comes to proclaiming the name of Christ in the way God created you to do it.
I need you to use your gifts, and you need me to use mine.
Let’s not let the mountains steal the show with their half-story.
We have the whole gospel. Let’s fill ourselves up with it and pour it out lavishly. There’s soul-safety in obedience, and there’s joy in making known the One who loved us and gave Himself for us.
It’s why we’re here.
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The heavens declare the glory of God,and the sky above proclaims his handiwork. (Psalm 19:1)
Thus says the Lord: “Heaven is my throne,and the earth is my footstool; what is the house that you would build for me,and what is the place of my rest? All these things My hand has made,and so all these things came to be, declares the Lord. But this is the one to whom I will look: he who is humble and contrite in spirit and trembles at my word.” (Isaiah 66:1-2)
As [Jesus] was drawing near—already on the way down the Mount of Olives—the whole multitude of His disciples began to rejoice and praise God with a loud voice for all the mighty works that they had seen, saying, “Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!” And some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to Him, “Teacher, rebuke Your disciples.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out.” (Luke 19:37-40)
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.
This is fabulous. I needed this and will be saving it for future I-wanna-quit moments of doubt. Keep writing, friend. The body of Christ needs your voice!
I had so many similar feelings and experiences as you at the workshop and on the drive there and back. Thanks for writing.
Once again, your words paint a beautiful picture for those of us who wish we had your gift. But thanks for reminding us, Glenna, that the body of Christ is not complete if we are not using our own gifts.
Glenna, I so needed to read this! Your words are so encouraging to me. I so often struggle with the very thoughts you mentioned. Your picture of the mountains crying out is touching. The Tennessee mountains and all of Appalachia are so special to me and I always feel the same when I go there. The beauty is breathtaking and the mountains do cry out. I’m printing this one out and filing it with those things I keep that will encourage me to keep going when I’m struggling with the fear factor in writing. It’s huge. I needed this. Thank you!