When No One Knows Your Name
One of the questions I get asked most right now is this:
“So… when are you getting back into full-time ministry?”
“When are you going to start preaching again?”
“Do you feel called to Pastor again?”
And I know those questions come from a genuine place of love.
Many people ask because they still sense a calling on my life. A calling that I still feel. A calling I still believe is real. I haven’t stopped loving the Church. I haven’t stopped believing I’m called to shepherd and teach God’s people.
But here’s what has surprised me.
I’m not in a hurry.
There was a time in my life when obscurity felt like punishment. And if I’m completely honest, I used to fear it.
I didn’t want to be unknown.
I didn’t want to be unseen.
I didn’t want to be forgotten.
I liked being needed.
I liked being consulted.
I liked being the one with answers.
I liked the stage more than I ever admitted.
And when the stage disappeared, it felt like part of me disappeared with it.
You see, when you lose visibility, you find out how much of your identity was attached to being seen.
And what I have experienced is this:
Obscurity exposes what applause hides.
It reveals whether you were walking with Jesus… or performing for Him.
For a while, obscurity felt like exile.
No microphone.
No audience.
No weekly affirmation.
No visible metrics telling me I was doing something meaningful.
Just normal life.
Just showing up at home.
Just going to work.
Just being present.
And at first, it didn’t just feel small… I felt small.
Unimportant. Replaceable. Forgotten.
But slowly, something began to shift.
This season has allowed me to be more emotionally and physically present at home than I have ever been.
I’m not missing bedtime because of meetings.
I’m not preparing sermons late into the night.
I’m not carrying the constant weight of ministry into every room I walk into.
I get to be hands-on with the triplets. I get to spend more time with my teenagers. Mary and I have had more date nights in this season than we have had in years. We’ve had conversations without the pressure of ministry hanging over them. We’ve laughed more. We’ve rested more (as much as the babies will allow).
And I realized something that I should’ve heeded years ago:
My first ministry was never the stage. It was my family.
This season has also taught us how to make friends apart from ministry.
For the first time in our adult lives, we are learning to build friendships that aren’t connected to staff meetings, church circles, or shared leadership responsibilities. We are also learning how to serve in a church without a title. Without being “a somebody.”
And it has been incredibly refreshing… and kinda scary!
There is something deeply freeing about walking into a room and not being the pastor.
No expectations.
No assumptions.
No pedestal.
Just a follower of Jesus learning alongside everyone else.
For me personally, this season has opened doors I never expected.
I’ve had the opportunity to meet people in the workplace I never would have rubbed shoulders with before. Different backgrounds. Different stories. Different struggles.
And learning how to share Jesus with them is something I used to preach about.
Now I get to live it.
There is no pulpit. No sermon series. No structured altar call.
Just conversations.
Just relationships.
Just showing up consistently and letting Jesus be seen in my ordinary life.
I used to think influence only counted if it happened inside a church building. Now I’m watching God move in break rooms, job sites, and everyday conversations.
But if I’m being honest, this season has also exposed something that hasn’t fully died in me.
My flesh still craves to be known.
I still feel the subtle pull when someone asks about preaching again.
I still feel the ache when I see other pastors leading and caring for their churches.
There’s something in me that wants to matter publicly.
That wants to be seen.
And I don’t think that desire makes me evil.
It makes me human.
The problem isn’t the desire to be known.
The problem is confusing being known by people with being known by God.
And Jesus speaks directly into that ache.
“I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me.” — John 10:14
He knows me.
Not the polished version.
Not the platform version.
Not the version that performs well.
Me.
The ambitious parts.
The insecure parts.
The redeemed parts.
Fully known. Fully seen. Fully loved.
That is what I am learning in this season. That even if I feel obscure to people, I am not obscure to God.
Even if my name is not spoken in rooms anymore, the Shepherd still calls me by name.
Before I ever held a microphone, I was His.
Before I ever led a church, I was His.
And if I never stand on a stage again, I will still be His.
I am learning… slowly… that being a son of God is enough.
Obscurity hasn’t removed the temptation to be known. It has simply revealed where I’ve been looking for it.
And in this quiet season, Jesus is teaching me something deeper than influence:
You are already known.
You are already loved.
And that is enough.
