Serving God for Ten Shekels and a Suit

Why do we do what we do? Why give up so much, and often receive so little in return, to serve the Lord? Somewhere along the way, most of us stop asking that question. We get busy with the work and forget to examine the heart behind it. But it may be the most important question you ever sit with, because the answer quietly shapes everything else.

There is an old, almost forgotten story tucked into the book of Judges about a young Levite who served God for wages, ten shekels of silver and a suit of clothes. It sounds like a footnote. It turns out to be a mirror.

How We Measure Success

Ask most of us how we know a ministry, or a life, is successful, and our instincts run in one direction. Is it a church of two hundred? A mega-church? Several branches planted, a title earned, real influence over people's lives? We rarely say it out loud, but we tend to believe that if something is working, it must be genuine. If it produces results, it must be right.

That way of thinking has a name. Philosophers call it pragmatism, the conviction that usefulness is the test of truth. Applied to faith, it produces a very practical religion: a useful God, a relevant God, a God whose main job is to make my life work. And the test of every teaching becomes simply, does it deliver?

But measure the people God has honored most by that ruler, and something strange happens. Noah preached for a hundred and twenty years and saw seven people saved besides himself. We would call that a failed ministry. Jeremiah was a powerful preacher who lost the people, lost the royal court, and was rejected even by his fellow ministers. By the numbers, he scored a large zero. And Jesus, after all the preaching and all the miracles, had fewer than a hundred and twenty in His movement, was betrayed by His closest friend, and was run out of town and killed. He organized no denomination, built no school, printed no book.

If results are the only measure of success, then the greatest servants of God were its greatest failures. Which tells us the ruler is broken.

The Levite Who Named His Price

Now to the young Levite. A man named Micah set up a private shrine in his house and was thrilled when this traveling Levite came along and agreed to be his personal priest. The wage was settled: ten shekels of silver a year, along with clothing and food.

On the surface, here is a man doing the work of God. Look closer, and he is really looking for a place for himself, a place that would give him recognition, acceptance, security, a place where he could shine by the values that mattered to him. He had decided what he was worth, ten shekels and a suit, and he was prepared to sell himself to anyone who would pay it.

And here is the trap in seeking a place for yourself: someone can always offer more. Someone can always stroke the ego a little harder, pamper a little longer. So when the tribe of Dan passed through and said, "Why be a priest to one household when you could be priest to a whole tribe? Come with us," off he went, to a bigger platform, a wider reach, a brighter place, for himself. His religious service was never the point. It was a means to an end. And so, quietly, was God.

That is the question the story presses on us. Am I a servant of God, or a servant of my own advancement wearing God's name? Is God an end, or a means to an end?

The Gospel of Human Happiness

If this feels strange, even uncomfortable, I understand. For a long time many of us have been handed a version of the good news that runs like this: God saves you to make you happy, to spare you suffering here and to secure your joy hereafter. We gave our lives to Christ mostly to make heaven and avoid hell, to get the blessing and dodge the pain.

There is a name for the idea underneath that, too. In its simplest form it says the end of all things is the happiness of man. The reason for your existence is your own well-being, and salvation becomes little more than securing the most happiness you can get. It is a compelling philosophy. It is just not Christianity.

Watch how easily it slips in wearing religious clothes. "I paid my tithe, so how dare hardship touch me." "God reigns so that I can be comfortable; the anointing is on me to take me to the next level; Jesus came so I could be promoted at work." It all sounds like faith. But at the center stands not God but me, and God has quietly become the means to my ends. A faith like that has a form of godliness while denying its power.

In those days there was no king, and everyone did what was right in his own eyes.

Judges 21:25

Please hear me carefully. There is nothing wrong with wanting a good life or longing for heaven. God genuinely intends for us to be glad, both now and forever. The problem is not joy. The problem is when our joy becomes the whole point, when all our praying and fasting and serving is finally just for us. That is the Levite's error dressed in Sunday clothes: God for ten shekels and a suit.

God as the End, Not the Means

So let me put the two visions side by side. One says the purpose of everything is the happiness of man. The other says the purpose of everything is the glory of God, because God is worthy of it. Christianity is the second. God is not a resource we manage for our benefit. He is the end for which we were made.

This changes why we come to Him at all. If I am honest about myself, I have no claim on God's kindness. I have lied and envied and been proud; so have you. None of us can stand before a holy God on our record and call it deserving. And yet, while we wanted nothing to do with Him, He chose to love us. While we were far off, He came near, and bore in Himself the very suffering we had earned. That is grace, and grace cannot be purchased with ten shekels or ten thousand.

Once you see that, the whole equation flips. I do not serve God so that He will owe me something. I serve Him because He gave His life for mine, and He is worthy. Even if not one further blessing ever came, He would still deserve every prayer, every offering, every hour. We do not do God a favor by loving Him. We simply give Him what He is due.

Why a Heart Turns to God

This is why real repentance is not a bargain. If the only reason I turn to Christ is to stay out of hell, then I have not truly turned at all; I have only struck a deal, and God is still a means to my end. A repentant heart is one that has glimpsed something greater: the sheer wonder of a love it once ignored, and the beauty of the One it once held at arm's length.

Why should a sinner turn to God? Because God is worthy of the love and trust that we have withheld from Him, not merely so that we can escape what we fear.

When Pastor Okezie tells his own story, he says that the day the weight of it finally dawned on him, he did not weep because he was afraid of hell. He wept because he saw that he had wounded such a loving God. And in that moment he knew his life was no longer his own to keep. It had to be surrendered, because it belonged to the One who paid for it.

A Better Question to Live By

So this is the invitation, whether you have followed Jesus for decades or are only now leaning in for the first time. You do not have to have your answer polished today. You only have to let the question do its quiet work: is God an end, or a means to an end, for me?

You are welcome here exactly as you are, questions and all. That is the heart of this church, a well and not a fence, belonging before believing, grace before performance. But grace, once it has held you, does something wonderful. It frees you from forever selling yourself to whoever offers the most, and it settles you into the one place your soul was always looking for, not a bigger platform, but the presence of God Himself. Not ten shekels and a suit. Something worth your whole life.