It’s 8:05 a.m. and my three girls tumble out of the car.
I drive away, letting Hey Jude finish its final chorus—sometimes singing, sometimes contemplating.
As I make it to the highway, I have scrolled and selected my instruction for the day. Maybe Invest Like the Best. Maybe Carey Nieuwhof. On Mondays, always Jon Acuff.
Nuggets of wisdom, glimpses of greatness, new ideas flood my brain.
Also, self-doubt. Questions of competency. Regret over floundering.
Arriving at work, I conclude my 30-minute liturgy, once again formed by the gods of work.
It’s Monday morning, and I have already commuted out of the sacred and into the secular again.
Yet, Jesus made clear: “My Father is working until now . . . .” (John 5:17)
And he has always been working.
In Genesis, God worked before he did anything else. Worker is one of his attributes.
Creating the cosmos was poetry, but it was also work.
A King must manage people, finances, safety, systems.
A Farmer must forecast, acquire, study, tend.
A Shepherd must quantify, shear, guide, protect.
A Warrior must prepare, take a stand, calculate risks, bleed.
All job titles, all labor, all work.
But, we don’t know him that way. When was the last time you prayed to the God who manages?
So, naturally, we look to our surrogates—the Musks, the Brenés, the Gary Vees.
Their wisdom comes from the well of common grace—sharing wisdom derived from Wisdom himself.
We’re searching for help but ignore the reality of the Master Worker—the designer of molecular biology, the composer of human psychology, the developer of natural resources.
And the beauty of it—the Worker knows exactly who you are, what he designed you to do, how he equipped you, and what you need. Bezos couldn’t care less.
Maybe our commute should welcome the sacred instead of ignoring it.
Still, the podcasts play, and I listen.
But now I have permission to hear the Worker’s whisper: “You can ignore that strategy. It’s not how I created you.”
And I step out of the car wanting to hear the whisper throughout the day.