Might it not be that the effectiveness of sermons depends as much upon the prayers of the unseen saints as the preparation and delivery of even the greatest preachers? Might it not be that true power comes not from the one standing on the stage but the one kneeling behind it? Might it not be that the most essential role on any Sunday morning is that undertaken by the bedridden saint who cannot attend but who commits herself to simple, humble, heartfelt intercession? Wouldn’t this be consistent with the way God has ordered his kingdom in which the greatest are so often those who are accounted least?

I’m convinced we’re prone to make entirely too much of the most public gifts and entirely too little of the most private. We laud those who stand at the event podiums to preach the Word. We celebrate those who sit on the conference panels to answer our questions. We honor those who pen the few bestselling books. When given the opportunity, we surge forward to shake their hands, to snap a selfie, to share encouraging words.

None of these actions is wrong, of course. But in all our excitement and affirmation, is it possible we tacitly communicate that some gifts are better than others, that some are more desirable than others, that some are more essential than others? Is it possible we suggest that the greatest Christians are those with the most visible gifts?

I often think about one of the first major Christian conferences I ever went to. There were several thousand people in attendance, cramming a great auditorium, singing every song with great passion, listening to every message with rapt attention.

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