When I was a Curate at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Bartlesville, America, I had one of the greatest mentors of my life. The Rev. Dr. Lee T. Stephens was (and is) everything I wanted to be as a priest. He is kind, pastoral, and magnetic. He has a sense about him that oozes care and concern when appropriate, and an energy that is infectious and inviting during other times. His preaching is deeply rooted in scripture, yet I always felt like he was talking directly to me—a feeling that many others share in as I began to know the congregation.
It was common for me to Kramer my way into his office unexpectedly throughout the day. The light sounds of classical music emanated from a peaceful surrounding and then BOOM, a mid-thirties priest-puppy exploded into the serenity and plopped down on the couch, wagging his eager (and ill-timed) proverbial tail. “Whatcha dooooin?” was usually my beginning assault. He’d just smile lightly and push away from his desk, fold his hands, and respond with the same word. His deep baritone resonated in his office like a command that everything should be still. One word: “Yes?”. And yet in that one drawn-out word, a whole litany of questions and statements loomed. What do you need? What are you doing? Why doesn’t my assistant ever stop you? And yet, that gaze and that word always held kindness.
It was in one of these encounters that I learned about a particularly curious item that hung on the wall behind his chair: a foot-long silver-painted ceramic spoon. In an office decorated with books and boasting degrees I could only hope to earn, this strange object dominated its small corner of that world. And it felt so out of place. So, I finally asked about it.
It turns out, as with most peculiar objects, this spoon had a story behind it. When Fr. Lee was a young priest, his mentor had this very spoon hanging in his office. Young Fr. Lee was tenacious; he had all the gifts in the world and his mentor knew he’d do great things. I’m shortening this story a bit because to tell the whole tale would take more time than you probably have to read, today. But, when Fr. Lee had been called to a new church, that spoon had been left on his desk with a note that read something along the lines of, “Lee, remember that you have all the talent you need to do ministry. You came into this world with a silver spoon in your mouth, so to speak, and your struggles have been much less than others. Remember where you came from, and remember that without work and dedication, that ‘spoon’ will only take you so far. Let this funny object be a reminder to you to remain humble, and to do the work.”
A couple of years later, Fr. Lee retired officially after 46 years of ministry. I was to take his place at St. Luke’s while they searched for a new Rector. When I moved into his office, the spoon lie. Alongside it, a simple note that read, “Sean, remember where you came from. Do the work.”
Sometimes, we forget whom we serve. Our ministry turns into one that is self-focused or self-serving, if we allow it. What starts out as reverence and humility quickly turns into power and authority misplaced. In my life, it’s during those times that I see that spoon that hangs on my wall, and I remember. I remember that God uses all of us, each with our unique gifts, to further His mission. That none of us is greater, and that it takes all of us to do this work. None of us can do it alone, and the work isn’t about us, ever. I hope that you have something that reminds you who you serve. And why you serve. Some of you may never need that reminder, and I thank God for you. Yet, if you’re like me, then sometimes you need a reminder. Remember whom we serve. Remember why we serve. And remember that the work is never done, and that we’re not the only ones who can ‘do it right’. It doesn’t start with us, nor does it end with us, we’re simply workers in a long line of love that stretches back to the one who started it: A man hanging on a cross.
So, as the spoon hangs on my wall, Christ hangs in my heart. And I am grateful for that reminder, every day.
Faithfully,
Fr. Sean