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’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. But nearby, in a much smaller room, was a second group of people. They sang none of the songs and listened to none of the messages, for they were there to pray. They had with them a long list that included the name of every speaker, every singer, every attendee. For every hour the big group worshipped, this small group interceded. For every one sermon that was heard in the big room one hundred prayers were offered in the small room. Their gift was prayer, their calling was prayer, their task was prayer. And so they prayed, hour after hour and day after day.

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