Significance

The great scientist Albert Einstein said that he stood on the shoulders of James Clerk Maxwell, a Scottish physicist. Maxwell’s insights into electromagnetism laid the foundation for the communication technologies we enjoy today.

In 1873 Maxwell delivered an essay at Cambridge titled “On Determinism and Free Will.” In that address Maxwell spoke about miracles, which he called “singular points.” A singular point occurs within history, but its occurrence is so infrequent and so relatively small that when it occurs, the finite mind cannot grasp its force for change. For example, in 1809 all the world was looking at Napoleon’s vast military exploits. Yet who noticed that a baby named Abraham was born that same year in northern Kentucky in a tiny log cabin? Retrospectively, of course, the world can now see the significance of that hour, which opened up a chance for this ship of state to be guided through the storms and into safe harbor, thereby preserving the Union and freeing those in the bondage of slavery. A singular point.

According to Maxwell, history is replete with these miracles that have changed the destiny of civilizations. A single person, a small group, an idea, a book—all can be points at which the vital moves the massive. We cannot see singular points of history in their origins. We can only grasp their significance years if not eras later.

“Any assessment of history which does not take into account the possibility of miracles is a false assessment of history,” said Maxwell. H.G. Wells named names: “I am a historian, I am not a believer, but I must confess as a historian that this penniless preacher from Nazareth is irrevocably the very center of history. Jesus is easily the most dominant figure in all history.”

David Crosby, the lead singer for Crosby, Stills and Nash., became one of the most successful rock musicians of all time. But even at nearly 80 years old, Crosby could not stop hitting the road and promoting his music. He was worth over $40 million. And his wife did not want him to travel, but his entire sense of significance was wrapped in his music.

In a film about his life, Crosby expressed a lot of regrets. “People ask me if I got regrets,” he said. “Yeah, I got a huge regret about the time I wasted being smashed. I'm afraid. I'm afraid of dying. And I'm close. And I don't like it. I'd like to have more time—a lot more time.”

Crosby tells his interviewer that music “is the only thing I can contribute, the only thing I got to offer.” Then toward the end of the film, he raises the volume of his voice and the intensity of his delivery with these summarizing words: “The one thing I can do is make music. Myself. So, I'm trying really hard to do that.” His interviewer asks, “To prove yourself?” Crosby responds, “That I'm worth a [expletive].”

People today may say that it shouldn’t matter what other people think about you. All that matters is what you think of you, that you live up to your standards and do what you think is right. I propose that that is utter nonsense. We are utterly dependent on others to name, bless, and affirm us.

Imagine a poet who says, “You know, I've been writing poetry for 10 years and I've let 3,000 people read my poems. Everyone has hated them. Everyone says, ‘This is stupid, this is terrible, this is bad. You must get another job.’” But the poet says, “It doesn't matter what they think. I know I'm a great poet.”

Would you say, “Well, there's a person with a great self-image?” Of course not. You’d probably say, “That’s a person on the verge of insanity. They are not functional.” And you know the reason why? Because we cannot bless ourselves. We cannot feel beautiful just because we keep saying I'm beautiful. You cannot bless yourself. You cannot name yourself. You cannot say I'm somebody. Somebody from outside has got to tell you you're beautiful. Somebody from the outside has got to tell you you're a good poet. Somebody from the outside has got to bless you. Somebody from the outside has got to name you. You can't do it yourself.

And that means you are completely dependent, or you will be completely dependent on somebody else, spiritually. Your whole being is going to rest on somebody, whether it's the critics, your parents, somebody you hope to marry, somebody you have married, or somebody else. Like sheep, we are dependent on others for our survival and flourishing.

The next time you're signing your name at the DMV or another U.S. Government office, you probably won't notice the black pen in your hand. It, after all, is exactly like the dozens of other black pens you've used in post offices, courthouses, and other buildings throughout your adult life. You certainly won't think there's much of a story behind the unobtrusive implement that, likely as not, is chained to the well-worn desk you've been waiting to stand at.

But like everything, those pens have a story. For over 55 years, those Skilcraft pens have been assembled by blind factory workers in Wisconsin and North Carolina. Each year they make nearly four million pens. The pens must meet rigorous government specifications: to write continuously for a mile, and within temperature swings from 40 below zero to 160 degrees Fahrenheit. The standard length of the pen has helped lost Navy pilots navigate by map. Stories say that the pen can be used as a two-inch bomb fuse, or for emergency tracheotomies. It can write upside down. It costs less than 60 cents (when purchased in quantity).

The pen has a rich, fascinating history, woven together with war, peace, postage, bureaucrats, spies, work, and play. And you'd never know it to look at it.

Much like many of us. In every room, every single person has a story, a rich, fascinating history that few of us ever think to ask about. If we did, we'd be floored, astounded. We'd see each other differently, and with more respect. Just like you'll see that pen differently the next time you pick it up.

New York Times columnist David Brooks writes:

A few years ago, I was having a breakfast meeting in a diner in Waco, Texas, with a stern, imposing former teacher named LaRue Dorsey. I wanted to understand her efforts as a community builder because of my work with Weave, an organization I co-founded that addresses social isolation. I was struck by her toughness, and I was a bit intimidated. Then a mutual friend named Jimmy Dorrell came into the diner, rushed up to our table, grabbed Mrs. Dorsey by the shoulders and beamed: “Mrs. Dorsey, you’re the best! You’re the best! I love you! I love you!”

I’ve never seen a person’s whole aspect transform so suddenly. The disciplinarian face Mrs. Dorsey had put on under my gaze vanished, and a joyous, delighted nine-year-old girl appeared. That’s the power of attention.

Each of us has a characteristic way of showing up in the world. A person who radiates warmth will bring out the glowing sides of the people he meets, while a person who conveys formality can meet the same people and find them stiff and detached.

The first point of my story is that you should attend to people in the warm way Jimmy does and less in the reserved way that I used to do. But my deeper point is that Jimmy is a pastor. When Jimmy sees a person — any person — he is seeing a creature with infinite value and dignity, made in the image of God. He is seeing someone so important that Jesus was willing to die for that person.

When a researcher started interviewing hospital workers—the people who cleaned out the patients’ rooms each day she assumed they would only have bad things to say about it. That was partially true, but she also found a second group of workers with the same jobs who felt their labor was highly skilled.

They described the work in “rich relational terms,” talking about their interactions with patients and visitors. Many of them reported going out of their way to learn as much as possible about the patients whose rooms they cleaned. “It was not just that they were taking the same job and feeling better about it … It was that they were doing a different job.”

This group didn’t see themselves as custodial workers at all. One described forming such a bond with patients that she continued to write letters to some of them after they were discharged. Another paid attention to which patients seemed to have few visitors or none and would make sure to double back to spend some time with them. They said things like, “I’m an ambassador for the hospital” or, “I’m a healer. My role here is to do everything I can to promote the healing of the patients.”

One woman told how she rotated the art in the rooms of coma patients. She would take paintings down in one room and putting them up in another. The woman explained that it was at least possible that a change in scenery might spark something in their comatose brains.

These workers were quietly creating the work that they wanted to do out of the work that they had been assigned to do. The researchers called them “job crafters.”

Artist Wendy McNaughton was distraught about the incivility in the U.S. So, she started using a drawing technique, called “blind contour” or “look closely.”

It works like this. Two people who have never met before sit at a small table across from each other. Then they follow these rules. Rule number one: never lift your pen off the page. Use one continuous line. Rule number two: never look down at the paper you’re drawing on. Keep your eyes fixed on your partner’s face the whole time.

McNaughton encourages participants to go slow and pay attention. Draw what you see, not what you expect to see.

Nearly all the participants fretted over their artistic ability, but I insisted they just start drawing. And when they were finished, they looked down and inevitably cracked up. The drawings were always hilarious. Teeth on foreheads and scribbles where lips should be. ... But the point of this isn’t the final product. It’s the process. Seeing each other. Participants were stunned by the connection they felt with someone they hadn’t met before, even after just 60 seconds. These former strangers were now, kind of, friends.

McNaughton concludes: “Imagine what would happen in our communities, if we slow down to look at one another.”

I’ve noticed along the way of life that some people are much better at seeing people than others are. In any collection of humans, there are diminishers and there are illuminators.

Diminishers … make others feel insignificant. They stereotype and label. If they learn one thing about you, they proceed to make a series of assumptions about who you must be.

Illuminators, on the other hand, have a persistent curiosity about other people. They have been trained or have trained themselves in the craft of understanding others. They know how to ask the right questions at the right times—so that they can see things, at least a bit, from another’s point of view. They shine the brightness of their care on people and make them feel bigger, respected, lit up.

Illuminators are a joy to be around. A biographer of the novelist E.M. Forster wrote, “To speak with him [gave you] a sense of being listened to with such intensity that you had to be your most honest, sharpest, and best self.” Imagine how good it would be to offer people that kind of hospitality.

Business consultants are calling it “The 85% rule.” An article in The Wall Street Journal explained how it works:

Are you giving it your all? Maybe that’s too much. So many of us were raised in the gospel of hard work and max effort, taught that what we put in was what we got out. Now, some coaches and corporate leaders have a new message. To be at your best, dial it back a bit.

Trying to run at top speed will actually lead to slower running times, they say, citing fitness research. Lifting heavy weights until you absolutely can’t anymore won’t spark more muscle gain than stopping a little sooner, said one exercise physiologist.

The trick—be it in exercise, or anything—is to try for 85%. Aiming for perfection often makes us feel awful, burns us out and backfires. Instead, count the fact that you hit eight out of 10 of your targets this quarter as a win. We don’t need to see our work, health, or hobbies as binary objectives, perfected or a total failure.

Possible Preaching Angle:

Interestingly, if you truly remember the Sabbath—one day out of seven—that equals 85.7% of your week devoted to work. So, the Sabbath was God’s original 85% rule.

Godfrey Barnsley was one of the wealthiest men in the world in the early 1800s. He directed a shipping empire that sailed the world sea’s and transported 60% of the South’s cotton to his native England. He was well respected all over the world.

Barnsley decided to build a luxurious and magnificent home for his wife, Julia. He purchased 400 acres of land in the wilderness of northwest Georgia and created a vast estate and gardens. Since his wealth was so immense, he shipped in hundreds of rare trees and shrubs—ancient Cedars from Lebanon and other bushes from around the world. He chose handcrafted windows with sterling silver latches, marble from Italy and France, and priceless furnishings from the four corners of the world. It was one of the most exquisite antebellum estates east of the Mississippi river.

Unfortunately, his wife passed away before the home was completed in 1848, but several generations of the family lived at this estate until 1942. However, by the 1980s, the home and grounds were vacant and falling into ruins. In 1988, the property was purchased by an investor who developed it into the upscale resort it is today. If you go to Barnsley resort, all that remains of Godfrey Barnsley’s investment is a pile of rocks, known as the “Manor House Ruins.”

Possible Preaching Angle:

When your time on earth is finished, which legacy would you prefer: People impacted by how you lived your life and utilized your money, or a mound of rocks?

Pro quarterback Patrick Mahomes had just limped his way through a last-minute, game-winning drive in the 2023 AFC Championship when he gave the credit for his performance to someone that even the biggest Kansas City Chiefs fans had never heard of. “Julie WAS the reason I was the guy I was on the field today!” Mahomes wrote to his millions of followers on Twitter that night. Her full name is Julie Frymer.

Who is she and why is she so important to the team? She’s the assistant athletic trainer. Frymyer had one of the NFL’s most important jobs in the 2022-2023 season: She was in charge of putting Mahomes through rehab for his injured ankle and getting the star quarterback ready to play for a spot in the Super Bowl.

Hobbling through a nasty sprain that often requires weeks of recovery, Mahomes wasn’t just able to play against the Cincinnati Bengals. He was fantastic. He was clearly gimpy, grimacing through several plays, but he was mobile enough to make several key plays, including a crucial run setting up the last-second field goal that sent the Chiefs to the Super Bowl to face the Philadelphia Eagles.

Mahomes going out of his way to praise her was the first time most people in Arrowhead Stadium had ever heard the name Julie Frymyer, but the Chiefs knew her value long before the guy with a contract worth nearly half a billion dollars, might as well have given her the game ball.

The final curtain fell on the longest-running show in Broadway history after 13,981 performances. Alan Lampel has been there for roughly 13,000 of them. Mr. Lampel has done the same job in the same place for the same production from the very beginning of its existence. He takes a seat in a rolling chair at his desk in the back of the orchestra section of the Majestic Theater and plays the most important role that nobody should notice: He is the head electrician for The Phantom of the Opera.

“I’ve seen the show more than anybody on earth,” Mr. Lampel says. In fact, nobody has seen any show as many times as he sat through Phantom, which has sold 20 million tickets and earned $1.3 billion during a run that made other Broadway productions look more like high-school musicals. There was one guy keeping the lights on the whole time. And the success of any business is every bit as much about the electrician operating behind the scenes as the people taking a bow on stage.

Mr. Lampel was there at the start on January 26, 1988, and he was there at the end on April 16, 2023. That kind of longevity on Broadway is not just unprecedented. It’s unimaginable. There were colleagues he loved and bosses he didn’t. His responsibilities evolved with technology.

Others in the theater have no reason to pay attention to Mr. Lampel. But it’s those who understand Phantom the best who appreciate his contributions the most. Andrew Lloyd Webber, the show’s composer said, “Phantom has shone brighter on Broadway for 35 years because of the work of Alan Lampel.’”

Possible Preaching Angle:

In life, usually the author, the speaker, and the star of the show gets the praise. But quite often, just as much praise, if not more, is due the person who quietly and faithfully works behind the scenes. This is especially true in the church, where a faithful group of people often work unnoticed to set up chairs, staff the nursery, work with the youth, using their less “spectacular” spiritual gifts who also do the work of God.

A recent Aperture video gives a concise overview of absurdism: the philosophical theory that existence in general is absurd. It begins with the Greek mythological story of Sisyphus. The gods were displeased with his arrogance and punished him with the futile task of pushing a rock up a hill, then having the rock roll back down every time he reached the top.

Classical interpretations of the myth view it as an allegory for the futility of trying to escape death. No matter how powerful or clever a person is, we're all doomed to meet the same fate. More modern audiences have found something more relatable about Sisyphus' struggle: seeing it not as a simple parable about the inevitability of death but more like a metaphor for the drudgery and monotony of their own lives.

Every day we wake up, make coffee, take commute to work, stare at a computer for hours, get yelled at by our boss, stare at the computer some more, then travel back home, binge Netflix or YouTube while eating dinner, go to bed and then wake up and do it all over again. Just like Sisyphus we seem condemned to repeat the same meaningless tasks over and over and over.

Most of us do this every day for the rest of our lives as though we're sleepwalking, never waking up or stopping to ask why. For some of us, one day we're standing on a street corner preparing to go to work, when in an instant we're struck by the strangeness of it all. Suddenly nothing appears to have purpose. Life is haphazard and meaningless. You look around and you whisper to yourself: Why are all of these people even in such a hurry? For that matter, why am I? What's the point of all this? Why am I even alive?

You can watch the video here (0-1 min. 57 sec.).

In the film Wonder, which is based on the novel with the same name, a 10-year-old boy named Auggie was born with a rare medical facial deformity. Auggie has been home-schooled his whole life. But in fifth grade, his parents make the decision to send Auggie to school. The film chronicles Auggie’s experience of acclimating to his new social environment, getting bullied for the way he looks, and slowly making friends.

The story is told from multiple perspectives, including the story of Auggie’s older sister, Via. Via loves Auggie and watches out for him, but she often feels unseen by her family because of how much attention Auggie requires. And so she adjusts her life around this reality. Via fades to the background and keeps the details of her life hidden from her parents. There’s this poignant moment when Via expresses how much she longs for her mother to cast her gaze fully on her.

And then there’s this scene, where Via is serving as a stagehand as well as the understudy for the lead role in the high school’s production of Our Town. Her parents are in the audience because Via’s best friend has the lead role. But then her friend, who sees an opportunity, pretends to be sick right before the curtain goes up, which thrusts Via onto the stage, while her parents sit in the audience watching her amazing performance.

After the play is over, her family comes backstage, overwhelmed by her performance. And then there’s this moment, where Via looks up, and everything else fades to the background, and her mom is staring her right in the eye, with this look of incredible love and pride. And she simply points at her. In that moment, it’s as if Via is receiving the fulfillment of a fundamental human desire: to be seen, to be known, and to be loved.

The scene can be found here.

Charles Plumb was a U.S. Navy jet pilot in Vietnam. After 75 combat missions, his plane was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. Plumb ejected and parachuted into enemy hands. He was captured and spent six years in a communist Vietnamese prison. He survived the ordeal and now speaks on the lessons learned from that experience.

One day, when Plumb and his wife were sitting in a restaurant, a man at another table came up and said, "You're Plumb! You flew jet fighters in Vietnam from the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk. "You were shot down!" Plumb asked, "How in the world did you know that?" The man replied, “I packed your parachute.”

Plumb gasped in surprise and gratitude. The man pumped his hand and said, "I guess it worked!" Plumb assured him, "It sure did. If your chute hadn't worked, I wouldn't be here today."

Plumb couldn't sleep that night, thinking about that man. Plumb says, "I kept wondering what he might have looked like in a Navy uniform: a white hat, a bib in the back, and bell-bottom trousers. I wonder how many times I might have seen him and not even said 'Good morning, how are you?' or anything because, you see, I was a fighter pilot and he was just a sailor."

Plumb thought of the many hours the sailor had spent on a long wooden table in the bowels of the ship, carefully weaving the shrouds and folding the silks of each chute, holding in his hands each time the fate of someone he didn't know.

Now, Plumb asks his audience, "Who's packing your parachute? Who has done something that has helped make your day safer – or easier or more pleasant – or who have you witnessed ‘packing’ for someone else? Recognize them right away.”

Possible Preaching Angles:

1) Help; Support; Support Team – Each of us are touched by individuals who provide what we need to make it through the day. Praise that person. You are supporting the kind of behavior you respect – making it more likely to happen again. 2) Evangelism; Discipleship - Who told you about Christ? Who discipled you? We are all grateful to someone for introducing us to Jesus. Let’s give thanks for them “for packing our chute.”

Do impressive-sounding, inspirational job titles make us feel better about ourselves? Can they change our behavior? Research suggests that job titles have the power to improve our well-being and sense of control, and shield us from feeling socially snubbed. They might even encourage us to apply for a job in the first place.

Since a powerful-sounding job title can signify social status, it’s not surprising workers aspire to them. But a fancy title isn’t always about status. Simply making a title more fun can influence behavior. After attending a conference at Disneyland and upon discovering that employees there were called “cast members,” Susan Fenters Lerch felt inspired.

The former CEO of Make-A-Wish Foundation returned to her office and told employees they could create their own “fun” job title, in addition to their official one, to reflect “their most important roles and identities in the organization.”

Researchers interviewed these employees a year and a half after Lerch’s decision. They found that their “self-reflective” job titles reduced workers’ emotional exhaustion, helped them cope with emotional challenges, and let them affirm their identity at work. Researcher Daniel Cable said, “The titles opened the door for colleagues to view one another as human beings, not merely job-holders.”

Researchers have also found that giving an employee a more senior-sounding title can make them act more responsibly by making them feel happier at work. Sociology professor Jeffrey Lucas found that giving high-performing employees a high-status job title could stop them from leaving. He carried out two experiments and discovered that workers with important-sounding job titles “displayed greater satisfaction, commitment, and performance and lower turnover intentions” than those who didn’t.

“However, as far as job titles go, it's important that people actually perceive the titles as conferring status. In other words, fancy titles that people perceive as being nothing more than just that would be unlikely to have positive consequences.”

Possible Preaching Angle:

This attitude could apply to valuing church staff, elected church officers, and volunteers. Do we follow Paul’s example in giving affirming titles those who serve with us? He publicly appreciated them and called them “fellow workers,” “beloved brothers,” “faithful ministers,” and “true partners” (Phil. 4:3; Col 4:7).

Men have fewer friends than women and are at a greater risk of isolation. The gap has widened in recent years. A 2021 report identified a male “friendship recession,” with 15% of men saying they have no close friends, up from 3% in 1990.

The researcher of this study concluded that in 1990, nearly half of young men reported that when facing a personal problem, they would reach out first to their friends. Today, only 22% of young men lean on their friends in tough times.

In his novel Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck’s character Crooks pinpoints why this matters so much to men. At one point in the novel Crooks tells another man, “A guy needs somebody … To be near him. A guy goes nuts if he ain’t got nobody … I tell ya a guy gets too lonely an’ he gets sick.”

While working in India, Doctor Paul Brand, who pioneered the modern treatment of leprosy, once laid his hand on a patient's shoulder. Then, through a translator, Brand informed the man about the treatment that lay ahead. To his surprise, the man began to shake with muffled sobs.

Doctor Brand asked his translator, “Have I done something wrong?” The translator quizzed the patient and reported, “No, doctor. He says he is crying because you put your hand around his shoulder. Until you came here, no one had touched him for many years.”

In his book The Life We’re Looking For, author Andy Crouch relates the following spiritual prayer experience. While stuck in Chicago’s O’Hare airport on a cold winter night, he needed some exercise, so he tried the following prayer walk experiment:

As I walked, I decided, I would try to take note of each person I passed. I would pay as much attention to each of them as I could … and say to myself as I saw each one, image bearer. I passed a weary looking man in a suit. Image bearer. Right behind him was a woman in a sari. Image bearer. A mother pushed a stroller with a young baby; a young man, presumably the baby’s father, walked next to her, half holding, half dragging a toddler by the hand. Image bearer, image bearer, image bearer, image bearer. A ramp worker walked by in a bulky coat and safety vest. Image bearer.

By the time I reached the corridor where Terminal 1 connects to Terminal 2, I had passed perhaps 200 people, glancing at their faces just long enough to say to myself, image bearer. I had six more concourses to go. ... After about 45 minutes of walking—image bearer, image bearer, image bearer … I was at the most distant gates.

By the end of the walk … I had passed people in every stage of life and health, [many] national and ethnic backgrounds, some traveling together, most seemingly alone. The stories I would never learn behind each of those faces … the possibility and futility each one had no one and would know … carried an emotional and spiritual weight that I can still feel, years later. From time to time, I repeat this exercise on a city street, in a coffee shop, even driving on the highway with faces are just a blur behind a windshield. Image bearer, image bearer, image bearer. It never fails to move me.