a small task
by Rick Saenz

I didn't want to write this column; still don't. Not because of laziness, of course—no, no, my reason is far more noble than that. I love the theme of this issue, and I think that the topic I was assigned is an important one, so important that it deserved a much better column than I would be capable of writing. You know, the kind of column that R.C. could probably dash off in forty-five minutes while eating a sausage sandwich and improvising a reggae song about chicken-killing. I mentioned this to him this morning, and he told me that as he had made up the assignment list, he knew that he could write a great column on the topic without breaking a sweat. But he had wanted me to do it.

Often I'll instruct one or another of my children to do something, and there is an immediate outpouring of questions: Why do you want that done? Wouldn't it be better to have so-and-so do it? Wouldn't it be even better if we did this other thing? In one sense, these questions are legitimate and reasonable. Often I tell them to do something that could just as well be left undone, or to do something that could be done much more easily by myself or someone else, or to do something that isn't nearly as desirable as some other thing. But in a more important sense, these questions are beside the point, and I tell them so in roughly these words: "You must not have heard me properly. I didn't say I wanted such-and-such done—I said that I wanted you to do it."

Too often we mishear God's commands in just the same way. He commands us to worship Him, and we set about making the service more conducive to worship. He commands us to go and make disciples, and we ponder ways to get people into accountability groups that they might be discipled. He commands us to train up our children, and we seek out a school that can educate them properly. It never occurs to us that God might be less interested in our accomplishments than in our obedience—that doing what we've been told to do, however poorly, is preferable to turning that task over to someone who can do it better.

I'm especially weak on this when it comes to the consummation of the kingdom. Like any ardent postmillennialist, I enjoy daydreaming about that future time when Christ's reign is visible, palpable, and undeniable, about a world filled to overflowing with His loyal subjects. I've gone so far as to do the math, calculating how long it might take a faithful and fertile community to dominate Mendota, Bristol, southwestern Virginia, the eastern seaboard, and the western hemisphere.

But the bigger I allow my vision of the consummated kingdom to get, the more I see that my own role in its consummation—being a godly parent who raises godly children—however important, is a small one. This tempts me to seek out ways to expand that role, perhaps by taking on the responsibility for instructing other people's children in godliness or the responsibility for making others into godly parents. Or, perhaps even better, by building a self-perpetuating ministry that will see that these things are done not just now, but long after I am gone.

I resist this temptation by doing the math again and then I breathe a huge sigh of relief. The math reassures me that if I do in fact raise godly children, children whose obedience will lead them to raise godly children of their own, then time and fertility will quickly populate this corner of the world with subjects of the King.

The sigh of relief comes as I remind myself that raising children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord is a small thing. By "small" I don't mean "trivial," as in a small matter, but rather "limited in scope," as in a small farm. Even if God chooses to bless us tremendously with children, they will barely fill a classroom. Better yet, we have the attention of each child all day long, day in and day out, for twenty years or more. And each of them is naturally inclined to look to us with a trust that is frightening, expecting us to provide them with guidance, knowledge, wisdom, and every good thing. The scope of the task is small indeed, and it is within any godly couple's reach.

Because the task is a small one, it is one to which we can apply an extraordinary amount of attention. Like the small farmer who becomes intimately familiar with every inch of his land through months and years of working it, we can come to know our spouses and children far more deeply than we will ever know any other human beings. And like the small farmer who continually watches his land, experiments with it, learns from it, and contemplates it, we can grow in ability, knowledge, and wisdom in the most important task God will ever charge us with.

And because the task is a small one, it is one in which we can come to fully appreciate the smallness of our role in this part of God's plan—and come to rejoice in that. Like the small farmer who stands back in astonishment as he contemplates the fact that a bountiful harvest was nothing he produced himself but simply the reward for his faithfulness in planting and tending, so we can gaze in astonishment upon our children as they grow in wisdom and stature, realizing that this is nothing that we could possibly have done ourselves but simply God's reward to us and them for our faithful obedience in training and disciplining them—in doing what He told us to do.

Finally, because the task is a small one, it is one that we can pursue at a relaxed and inefficient pace. As the small farmer can take time to lean on his hoe and visit with a passing neighbor, or to stop and survey his land with pleasure even while there is work left to be done, so we can take time regularly to enjoy the small godly community that we have been commanded to cultivate. Let us do so often, and do so gratefully.