Over the summer, I’ve been working at Calvin University. Not as a resident assistant, a researcher, or a teaching assistant. I’m a line server in the school’s dining hall. Not the most glamorous position, you think. There’s a rhythm to it. I wake up early, tie an apron behind my back, and spend the day scooping food onto plates for hungry campers and conference-goers. It’s repetitive. It’s sweaty. And it’s not what many people would expect from a biblical studies student, especially one with hopes of ministry. But this summer, I’ve worked with the cooks, the dish crew, and the janitors. I’ve seen their integrity, their tired smiles, their quiet pride in finishing a job well. And I’ve realized something: If my theology can’t find dignity here, it probably doesn’t belong anywhere. This isn’t my first blue-collar job. I’ve mopped classroom halls, mowed lawns, and painted fences under the July sun. I’ve picked up odd jobs through word of mouth—landscaping yards or cleaning basements. None of it will make it onto my academic résumé. Yet all of it has shaped my theology far more than another class on Reformation history ever could. Holiness in the Humble In many Christian circles, especially those adjacent to higher education, we fall into the subtle trap of professional elitism. We elevate the preacher, the professor, the published author—and rightly so, to a point. These are good and necessary callings. Somewhere along the line, we absorb the idea that these are the important jobs, the holy jobs. And the others? They’re just the backdrop. But Scripture doesn’t share that hierarchy. In the garden of Eden, before there was sin, there was work. “The LORD God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it” (Gen. 2:15). Work isn’t a curse; it’s part of what it means to be human. When we imagine Eden, we often picture eternal leisure. But God imagined joy in tending, cultivating, and creating alongside him. The fall introduced toil (3:17–19). Our bodies and the ground resist us now, but the call to work has never been revoked. Work isn’t a curse; it’s part of what it means to be human. Moreover, in Exodus and Leviticus, God gives his people instructions not only for worship and sacrifice but for farming, animal care, craftsmanship, and homebuilding. Bezalel and Oholiab, artisans filled with God’s Spirit, were tasked with constructing the tabernacle (Ex. 31:1–11). Their tools were chisels and thread. God used their hands to build a dwelling place for his presence. Paul echoes this holistic vision in the New Testament: “Aspire to live quietly, and to mind your own affairs, and to work with your hands . . . so that you may walk properly before outsiders and be dependent on no one” (1 Thess. 4:11–12). To the Colossians, he writes, “Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men. . . . You are serving the Lord Christ” (Col. 3:23–24). This is foundational to whatever you do. Not only if you’re pastoring a church or writing devotionals, but also if you’re changing diapers, replacing tires, or wiping dirty fingerprints off glass. Another Kind of Service There’s no caste system in God’s kingdom. Jesus made this plain when he washed his disciples’ feet, an act so low it was normally reserved for the least of the servants. He tells them, “If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet” (John 13:14). No task is beneath us because no person is beneath us. The world assigns value based on prestige, platform, and paycheck. The Lord looks at the heart. What kind of heart pleases him? A faithful one. One that shows up on time, does the work well, and loves the people nearby, even when the work itself is unnoticed. I once served mashed potatoes to a man who barely looked up. He just mumbled “Thanks” and moved on. But my coworker, an older woman who’s worked in food service for more than a decade, smiled anyway and said, “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Have a good day.” Her words were a benediction. A tiny blessing offered over steam and aching feet. That’s what gospel work looks like too. Remember Christ Ironically, it’s these jobs—forgotten by many, avoided by some—that have taught me the most about pastoral ministry. If I ever preach the gospel from a pulpit, I pray I remember what it was like to wipe down sticky tables. To sweat through a lunch rush. To chat with the quiet dishwasher who rarely speaks but always helps carry the weight. Because real ministry begins with remembering the people the world forgets. And if our theology can’t embrace the janitor or the roofer or the cashier at Meijer, then we’ve misunderstood the incarnation. Christ didn’t consider equality with God something to be grasped but emptied himself—taking the form of a servant, becoming obedient even unto death (Phil. 2:6–8). God stooped. If our theology can’t embrace the janitor or the roofer or the cashier at Meijer, then we’ve misunderstood the incarnation. In a sense, every job done in love is an echo of that descent. A shadow of Christ’s humility. And when we honor ordinary labor, we honor the God who became flesh in a lowly manger. So yes, I’m a biblical studies student. And yes, I serve food behind a plastic sneeze guard. But in the strange economy of grace, this work isn’t beneath me. It’s preparing me to be a better disciple, not despite its mundanity but because of it. Here, in the “unimportant” jobs, I’ve discovered joy as the fruit of faithfulness. And maybe that’s where the kingdom begins: at the bottom of the ladder, with a heart learning to see God in the work of our hands. The world says, “Dream big.” Jesus says, “Be faithful in little” (see Luke 16:10).