A few months ago, I got a postcard in the mail. It did not feature a picture of a sandy, tropical beach, nor an amusement park, nor an alpine sunset, there was no instantly recognizable national monument, and that ubiquitous hybrid creature that seems to populate every truck stop in America, the jack-a-lope, was nowhere to be found.  Of course, because almost no one sends postcards anymore, what does come in the mail of that approximate shape and size is almost always a coupon, an ad, or some kind of solicitation. This one, lacked the expensive colors and graphics of the typical postcard. It appeared to be different than the others in its simplicity. It did mean something very different for me. So, I posted it where all truly important things go, on the refrigerator.

Upon noticing the words written clearly on it, my daughter asked, “Dad, Who’s Judy Simmons?”
“I don’t know,” I responded. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s on the fridge.” She walked over to the plain rectangle and pointed at the card. “See, Judy Simmons.”
“Oh, that doesn’t say ‘Judy Simmons,’ it says, ‘JURY SUMMONS.’’’
After a puzzled pause she asked, “Who’s that?”

Needless to say, I reported for my civic duty, along with hundreds of other people —  all of whom were convinced they had better places to be and more important things to do. After a thrilling powerpoint presentation detailing all of what we were permitted and not permitted to do, a county employee, knowing the level of enthusiasm in the room, did his best to introduce one of the judges from the courthouse. He listed her qualifications. They were as impressive as they were numerous. At the end of his introduction that most definitely warranted a massive eruption of applause — silence. The whole angry mass of people were so undone about having to be there, that no judge, no person, nor contributor to the system that removed us from our ultra-important lives was worthy of any sound.

In the silence, she stepped forward to undertake a seemingly impossible task: to give us — this seething mob of reluctant but dutiful citizens — something we could not only not see, but barely fathom. Her task was to make this day full of long waiting spells, orderly walking, standing, and procedures matter. Said differently, this judge was tasked with bestowing upon us a measure of significance. She talked about growing up in a country where trial-by-jury was barely a dream. She spoke of pro-government military tribunals and the presumption of guilt — how the burden of innocence rested on the accused. She told us how we were the custodians of the Constitution, limiting the capacity of government from over-reaching its powers over the people over whom it presides. We were the ones who held the power. Neither the judge, nor the attorneys, nor the bailiffs, had the power to convict — to find guilt or innocence. That was ours, ours alone.

As she wrapped up her brief speech, folding a tidy notebook, and stepping down from the small stage, everyone erupted in applause. She had done the impossible. We believed, if only for a moment, that our civic duty was an essential part of what it means to be a citizen. And, though all of us would have rather been somewhere else, we could see why it mattered to be there. Now, where there once was only obligation, there was purpose.

This is the point of the next few weeks at Mariners MV. We’ll dive into the idea making our lives matter in our new series: FAVOR WITH KINGS. While so much of what we build our lives around can feel like a dutiful obligation — part of merely being a human citizen — there is another part of us longing to connect our lives with a greater purpose and meaning. In short, we’re searching for something universally sought after — significance.

Now that we’ve added a new service, you have room to do what you do so well — invite people to join you. Come on Sunday evening at 5pm. This week, after the 5pm service, we can chat about our good friend JUDY SIMMONS and the heartache she’s caused us (among other things) while we enjoy gourmet hotdogs and chips for $5 a plate from the DOGZILLA food truck.

See you Sunday,
Jeff