Hello Brothers and Sisters in the Lord,

This is a shorter, lighter issue, so let's jump straight in.

Jackson

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There's an old story that gets told in churches, about a man who wrote to his local paper. “I have gone to church every Sunday for thirty years,” he said. “In that time, I have heard something like fifteen hundred sermons. But for the life of me, I cannot remember a single one of them. I think my time would have been better spent elsewhere.”

It ran for weeks as a debate in the letters column, until another reader settled it. “I have been married for thirty years,” he wrote. “In that time, my wife has cooked me thousands of meals. For the life of me, I cannot remember the exact menu of a single one of them. But I do know this: they nourished me, and gave me the strength I needed to do my work. If my wife had not given me those meals, I would be dead today. Likewise, if I had not gone to church to receive the nourishment of those sermons, I would be dead in a different way.”

Its exact origin has been lost along the way, so take it as a story rather than a documented account. We may not remember a single meal, but that doesn't diminish the person who cooked it or make their work any less important. We might take it for granted most weeks, but the chef keeps cooking anyway.

It's the same on a Sunday morning. Someone in your church took up a genuine weight when they were entrusted to teach. Scripture holds that kind of teaching to a stricter account, and part of carrying it well is making sure you're fed, week after week.

That weight isn't only about being watched closely. It's what faithful teaching actually costs. Teaching with reverence, with a kind of fear and trembling before God, rather than performing for a room. Choosing the truth over the popularity, resisting the pull toward “itching ears”, teaching that only ever tells people what they already want to hear. Reaching past head knowledge that just puffs a person up, toward something that actually feeds and changes a life, because the Word was always meant to give life, not just information.

Some weeks, that costs something real: a friendship strained because the text demanded an unpopular word, a truth spoken knowing exactly who in the room won't want to hear it. It's a kind of quiet serving and struggle that most people in the room don't see.

Paul doesn't leave that weight unanswered. Writing to Timothy, he says: Let the elders who rule well be considered worthy of double honour, especially those who labour in preaching and teaching. That's not only the person in the pulpit. It's everyone who leads and serves in your church's governance too, with an extra measure of honour reserved for those who carry the preaching and teaching. Not admiration for a gift. Honour for an office, and for what it costs to hold it well. The next line ties that same honour to something concrete too. Fair wages because the labourer deserves his pay.

This honour isn't for how skilled the delivery was, or whether the style happened to suit you. It's for the office itself, the one God appointed before you ever sat down in a pew, and for the person who keeps showing up to it. Some preachers are naturally gifted at this, gripping, clear, seemingly made for it. Others learn the craft slowly, the way any chef does, and stand up anyway, week after week, whether anyone notices the work behind it. Both preach by grace, and know that only God brings transformation. Every sermon may not be revelation. But every sermon can be nourishment.

Chances are, you're the one keeping the roster together, sorting the finances, chasing the compliance paperwork, participating in necessary meetings. That's its own kind of quiet serving, and it rarely gets a specific thank-you either.

So if nobody's said it to you lately: what you do counts. Thank you for serving your people and building God's kingdom. Let's carry that same honour further this week. Send a specific thank-you to your preacher or another leader within your team.

No Toolbox resource this issue. We'll be back with one next time.