What is Ministry? (part 2)

This post was inspired by reflections Tom Cooper shared with me as we discussed our wilderness sermon series.

“Then the devil left Him, and behold, angels came and ministered to Him.” (Matthew 4:11)

Jesus is hungry, alone, wrung out from a 40-day battle of identity and trust. We then see two opposing spiritual forces working against one another. There is the satanic voice in 4:1‑10 whispering subtraction: “If you are the Son of God, prove it … grab the kingdoms … throw Yourself down.” Each suggestion is a chiselling away at Jesus’ trust, identity, and mission. But when the tempter flees, there is a different presence: ministering angels. Here, the Greek word for “ministered” diakonia, in its purest form, means a kind of serving that adds to its recipient: that heals rather than wounds: that lifts rather than pushes down. Ministry is Kingdom arithmetic: always building up. In the language of Jesus, it is to follow Him with a towel in hand.

In this second article on ministry, we’ll walk through the divine shape of ministry—not as a title or platform, but as a way of being that begins in the wilderness and ends at a feast. Along the way, we’ll meet angels and apostles, Marys and Marthas, spreadsheets and soup kitchens. The hope? That every member of Merri Creek Anglican might rediscover what the church has always been: not a restaurant of religious customers, but a banquet hall of waiters.

Ministry as Service

Think about a waiter in a restaurant. Their work is to patiently wait on the customers, bringing the food, answering questions, pouring the drinks. In a similar way, Christian ministry is about being stewards of grace.

Paul crystallises this in Ephesians 4:12. The ascended Christ gives leaders “...for the equipping of the saints for the work of ministry, for the building up of the body of Christ.” Whatever our role is in our congregation—kids helper, bass player, cook, administrator, retiree, youth leader—our purpose is identical: to furnish one another with the resources of the gospel until the whole body reaches maturity.

The writer to the Hebrews describes angels as “ministering spirits sent out to serve” those inheriting salvation (1:14). In other words, the most dazzling creatures in the Bible consider it glory, not a burden, to wait upon redeemed humanity. If flaming seraphim delight in service, how can any earthly role feel beneath us?

The tender angelic cameo in Matthew 4 thus sets the rhythm for all subsequent ministry: God’s messengers—celestial and human—pour strength into weary saints so that the Father’s mission moves forward.

When ethnic tension threatened the Jerusalem fellowship, the apostles established a team to oversee daily food distribution so “we…can devote ourselves to prayer and the ministry of the word” (Acts 6:4). Stephen—the prototype deakon/servant—shows that waiting tables and preaching Christ are not rival callings; they are two expressions of the same servant heart. His Spirit‑filled witness before the Sanhedrin proves that those who handle bread for widows can also handle Scripture with prophetic fire.

Luke’s narrative refuses to rank “platform” gifts above “practical” ones. Whether organising rosters, installing Livestream cables, praying for an anxious friend, or explaining the gospel to your children, we all wear the same waiter’s uniform.

In fact, Jesus turns our notion of what is great on its head:

“Whoever wants to become great among you must be your diakonos servant” (Matthew 20:26).

“The greatest among you will be your diakonos servant” (Matthew 23:11).

“Whoever diakone serves Me must follow Me; and where I am, My diakonos servant also will be” (John 12:26).

For Jesus, status is reversed: kings wear aprons, masters wash feet, leaders move to the lowest seat. Notice the verb tenses—must be, will be, is. Service is not a strategic season before promotion; it is greatness now and forever. In eternity, we will still serve God and the Lamb (Rev 22:3); the ministry of service is not a stepping‑stone but the destination.

Jesus is our Chief Minister in the form of a Servant King. He builds His Church not through force or spectacle, but through self-giving love, truth, and the ministry of presence. He lays the foundation with His own body, broken on the cross, and continues to build by drawing people into communion with God and one another, forming a people shaped by grace, forgiveness, and sacrificial service. As the Good Shepherd, He tends His flock with gentleness, empowering His followers through the Spirit to share in His mission of reconciliation. In stark contrast, the Antichrist seeks to destroy the Church by imitation and distortion—substituting control for love, spectacle for sacrifice, and autonomy for dependence on God. Where Jesus humbles Himself to serve and uplift the broken, the Antichrist exalts self, undermines truth, and sows division. One builds by laying down His life; the other destroys by grasping at power that does not belong to him.

Ministry, then, is about being on team Jesus.

Mary and Martha Types

Now ministry can trip us up. Martha’s problem in Luke 10:38‑42 is not that she serves; it is that her service becomes self‑referential. The tell‑tale symptom is resentment: “Lord, don’t you care…?” Mary, sitting at Jesus’ feet, receives before she gives. Ministry is sustainable only when it flows from presence; otherwise, our dishes of kindness come laced with exhaustion.

Some of us are wired for action. We spot empty cups before anyone else notices there was tea. We thrive in the kitchen, on the rosters, behind the sound desk. This is a God‑given superpower—until it isn’t. The servant‑hearted can drift into: burn-out – never stopping serving in the kitchen enough to be fed themselves; and bitterness – quietly judging the non-helpers: “It must be nice to sit and chat while I stack the chairs.”

The remedy is not to suppress our wiring for service, but to re‑anchor it in intimacy with Christ. Pause, breathe, listen. Let Jesus serve you with His word before you serve anyone else.

Others amongst us are more like Mary and love to talk and connect. We gravitate toward conversation circles, remember birthdays, and sense when a newcomer is lonely. This gift of relational presence is priceless—but it, too, has pitfalls. Marys can have practical blind spots, forgetting that someone has to wash the mugs. Also, they can have an addiction to relaxation and risk becoming consumers of hospitality rather than co-creators. The invitation for the Mary‑type is to pull up their sleeves now and then—to discover the worship hidden in wiping tables and stacking chairs, tasks that quietly build people up.

The best kind of ministry happens when Marys and Marthas learn to borrow from each other’s strengths. The active learn to rest; the contemplative learn to sweat. Together we become what Paul envisioned in Ephesians 4:12—every saint equipped for the work of service, building the body into maturity.

A Congregation of Waiters

Many believers shop for churches the way some shop for restaurants: the slickest ambience, an award‑winning preacher chef, and a five‑star ministry menu. Jesus pictures something humbler and holier: a dining hall where everyone wears the black apron.

Imagine arriving on Sunday and discovering that every member, whether nine or ninety‑one, anxious or confident, chronically ill or bursting with energy, has come asking, “Whom can I wait on today?” The preacher still preaches and the band still plays, but the measure of excellence has shifted. A world‑class sermon cannot replace a warm welcome to the newcomer who slipped in late; flawless harmonies cannot outweigh sitting beside a grieving widow through the final hymn.

In that sort of fellowship:

The vulnerable are noticed. When each part instinctively serves, no part is dispensable (1 Cor 12:22). The depressed brother or sister is not a drain on resources but a recipient of targeted grace—meals cooked, texts sent, psalms read aloud at his kitchen table.
Gifts are discovered. The shy teenager learns she can pray tenderly; the retiree finds his bookkeeping ability answers silent administrative prayers. Ministry is no longer a clerical elite but a congregation‑wide choreography.
Evangelism becomes believable. A society suspicious of religion may still be won by a community where power flows downhill and the weak are prized. As Tertullian paraphrased pagan observers: “See how they love one another.”

In the Kingdom of God, the ideal is not the absence of weakness but the absence of neglect. A perfect church is where every member is both guest and waiter at Christ’s table.

The Women Who Stayed

When the sky turned black and the disciples scattered, a group of women stayed. We often rush past this moment in the passion narrative, but it is here—in the long shadow of Golgotha—that diakonia reveals its truest form.

Matthew 27:55-56 notes that “many women were there, watching from a distance. They had followed Jesus from Galilee to diakonusai care for his needs.” Where diakonusai should be translated - to minister or serve. These women were not bystanders; they were ministers. When others fled, they stayed. They stayed as Jesus breathed his last, as his body was lowered and wrapped, and as Joseph laid him in the tomb.

On the third day, they returned with spices and tears. The angel told them, “He is not here,” and then sent them to be the first apostles of the resurrection.

Their ministry was not glamorous, but it was glorious. They built up what had been broken down: courage in the face of despair, devotion in the face of death, hope in the face of silence. Theirs was diakonia in grave clothes, bearing witness with trembling hands and stubborn hearts.

Here is a picture for us. Not every act of ministry will look like a sermon or a spotlight. Some will look like walking slowly with the grieving, or preparing a meal when words fail. Some will look like staying, when others walk away. In a world of performative power, these women show us Kingdom greatness: to be present, faithful, and the last to leave.

In his recent book Evangelism in an Age of Despair, Dr. Andrew Root, drawing on a theology of the cross and the experience of divine presence in absence, frames evangelism not as persuasion or technique, but as the ministry of consolation. He argues that now, in our secular and accelerated age, evangelism is about being with people in their suffering, not offering easy answers but witnessing to the God who is found in the depths of despair, particularly through Jesus’ own abandonment on the cross. In this way, evangelism is about making space for God to be encountered in moments of vulnerability and loss, rather than in triumph or certainty. It’s about sharing in the world's ache and naming God's presence precisely there.

Mysteriously, the ministry of consolation is a ministry that builds.

Looking Forward to the Heavenly Banquet

Our English word ministry can sound professional, hierarchical—something done by people with theological degrees. Diakonos rescues us from that misconception. It drags ministry back to the kitchen, the hospital bedside, the crèche floor, the WhatsApp prayer thread.

So here is the invitation to us at Merri Creek Anglican:

Start in the wilderness. Let the angels’ example shape your week. Whom can you strengthen with a word, a lifted chair, a prayer breathed over Zoom?
Listen before you labour. Sit at Jesus’ feet like Mary; then rise and move toward others with Martha’s practicality, freed from resentment.
Take the lowest towel. Look for unnoticed tasks. Greatness is measured in hidden corners swept and forgotten names remembered.
Let every weakness ring the dinner bell of grace. When you feel too tired, shy, inexperienced, or broken, recall that God sends even archangels to minister. Your limitations are not obstacles but opportunities for someone else’s diakonia.

One day we will feast at the marriage supper of the Lamb. Until then, the church is a foretaste banquet where the wait‑staff are also the guests. May we be known, not for celebrity preachers or cutting‑edge tech, but for a thousand quiet acts of Kingdom arithmetic—adding courage, hope, and dignity to one another, tray by tray, word by word, prayer by prayer.

“Whoever serves Me, the Father will honour.” (John 12:26)