An Open Attack on Our Status System
Blog / Produced by The High Calling
At the end of my first day in high school, I lingered in class until the dark-haired teacher asked me if I was okay. I nodded, numbly shuffled my notebooks into a stack, and exited to search for the door out of the vast, rambling building.
My former school, which my father started, the one I'd grown up in, had only 30 of us—eight grades in two classrooms. We were like brothers and sisters. Now I saw how tiny I was, how ineffectual, how truly bizarre my past life had been. I couldn't find my voice. I crept along the lockers, hoping to dissolve into the shadows.
About six weeks into that year, a new custodian arrived. That's what we called the cleaning people—with a certain amount of contempt. Custodian.
But she clearly believed her title to mean that we were all in her custody. She intended to take care of us.
She hummed as she walked down the hall. Walked! She steamed, like a ship with a new boiler. She carried her tools proudly and pushed a large blue rolling trash bin as if it were filled with a million dollars. She brought her own flowers for the bathrooms. She kept her hair combed, her lipstick on, and her uniform crisp. She learned my name and joked with me. Looking into her face, I found peace.
After a few weeks of watching her, I felt my spirit engage—like a gear that, after slipping, finally connects.
I don't remember her name. But I remember what she taught me—that it's possible to challenge the status quo, create your own position, define your project. Her courage became a kind of grace. From her I learned how to approach four years of high school imaginatively. By transforming her job, she changed my life.
Thinking about her now, I realize her genius. She acted out Christ's prediction that the last shall be first, that children and fools and servants will be greatest in his kingdom. For her to act on Jesus' idea was radical. It was an open attack on our status system. We honor people with money and power, not people who empty wastebaskets.
But my friend, the custodian, reversed everything we high school students had learned about status. She didn't care that we belittled custodians. According to a more important value system, she was significant. In Christ's kingdom, no detail is too small to be done well. So rather than acting victimized, our custodian acted as the host in that high school. Her hospitality welcomed generations of scared new students to worlds of possibility.
My former school, which my father started, the one I'd grown up in, had only 30 of us—eight grades in two classrooms. We were like brothers and sisters. Now I saw how tiny I was, how ineffectual, how truly bizarre my past life had been. I couldn't find my voice. I crept along the lockers, hoping to dissolve into the shadows.
About six weeks into that year, a new custodian arrived. That's what we called the cleaning people—with a certain amount of contempt. Custodian.
But she clearly believed her title to mean that we were all in her custody. She intended to take care of us.
She hummed as she walked down the hall. Walked! She steamed, like a ship with a new boiler. She carried her tools proudly and pushed a large blue rolling trash bin as if it were filled with a million dollars. She brought her own flowers for the bathrooms. She kept her hair combed, her lipstick on, and her uniform crisp. She learned my name and joked with me. Looking into her face, I found peace.
After a few weeks of watching her, I felt my spirit engage—like a gear that, after slipping, finally connects.
I don't remember her name. But I remember what she taught me—that it's possible to challenge the status quo, create your own position, define your project. Her courage became a kind of grace. From her I learned how to approach four years of high school imaginatively. By transforming her job, she changed my life.
Thinking about her now, I realize her genius. She acted out Christ's prediction that the last shall be first, that children and fools and servants will be greatest in his kingdom. For her to act on Jesus' idea was radical. It was an open attack on our status system. We honor people with money and power, not people who empty wastebaskets.
But my friend, the custodian, reversed everything we high school students had learned about status. She didn't care that we belittled custodians. According to a more important value system, she was significant. In Christ's kingdom, no detail is too small to be done well. So rather than acting victimized, our custodian acted as the host in that high school. Her hospitality welcomed generations of scared new students to worlds of possibility.
