There was a time in my life when I thought that serving God simply meant fulfilling my responsibilities at church on Sundays. Arriving on time, singing the hymns, partaking of the sacrament, and then going home with a clear conscience. In my mind, that was “doing my part.” But over time, something inside me began to stir. It wasn’t guilt. It was something deeper. Like a thirst. A need to feel that what I was doing actually mattered to God. That my life could be more than just compliance.
I remember one night in particular. It was a Tuesday. I had had a long day at work. I was tired, irritable, and had a headache. Just as I sat down to eat dinner, I got a message from a brother at church. His mother had been hospitalized and he needed someone to watch his kids for a few hours. I looked at my plate, then at the message, and felt that gentle whisper in my heart. That quiet but insistent voice you recognize after years of trying to follow the Lord. I got up, left my food, and went.
There were no miracles that night. Just kids doing homework, cartoons on the TV, and a simple prayer before bed. But as I closed the door behind me, I felt something different. As if heaven had smiled at me. Not because of the act itself, but because I had put someone else first, even if only for a little while.
Since then, I began to see service differently. Not as a church program or a Christian obligation, but as a way to love. And the curious thing was that as I started doing it more often, something inside me began to change. The stress from work didn’t weigh on me as much. The anxiety that used to creep in at night wasn’t as loud. I felt fuller, more stable. More myself.
I started reading more about how the brain responds to acts of service. I discovered that helping others releases oxytocin and serotonin—chemicals that produce well-being. I was amazed. Science was confirming what the Gospel had taught all along: that in losing your life for others, you actually find it. But more than the biology, it was clear that when I served, I felt God was close. Not just watching me, but participating with me. Like He was walking right beside me.
Not every act of service was big. Some were invisible. Dropping off breakfast for a brother who lived alone. Listening carefully to a young man who wasn’t sure God loved him. Praying for someone who didn’t like to pray. Tiny seeds that, in time, bore fruit. Maybe not in them, but definitely in me. Because in serving, something inside of me was refined. My character, my pride, my impatience—all tested and, if I let it happen, also transformed.
But I also discovered that service can become a trap if it’s done with the wrong heart. There were times when I said yes to things just to look good. Or so people would admire me. Or to avoid feeling guilty. And in those moments, service didn’t bring joy—it brought exhaustion. A weight I carried bitterly, as if God was demanding more than I could give. I had to learn that service isn’t surrendering to duty—it’s surrendering to love.
Within communities, service has power too. I’ve seen youth completely change when they’re given meaningful responsibility. I’ve seen marriages strengthened through shared service. And I’ve seen fractured congregations find unity through projects of help, collective fasting, prayer campaigns, and visits to those in need. Service unites us. It reminds us that we’re not alone. That our purpose is woven together with that of others. It’s a divine dance, where the least among us matters just as much as the one leading.
Not long ago, a young man who had been away from the Church for years came back to our meetings. Not because someone preached at him or made him feel bad, but because a sister brought him food every Saturday for three months. Without saying a word. Just because the Lord told her in prayer: “Do it.” That quiet act had more impact than a hundred lessons. Sometimes, the truest testimony isn’t spoken—it’s lived.
I’ve also realized that service is an act of rebellion against the selfishness of the world. We live in a time where everything revolves around “me”—my career, my success, my time. But when you choose to serve, you declare that there’s something greater than yourself. That the Kingdom of God isn’t just a beautiful ideal—it’s something real that is built through tangible acts. That love is spelled with action.
To serve God, at its core, is to love the way He loves. And that love is not always comfortable. Sometimes it leads you to wash the feet of someone who betrayed you, like Jesus. Or to walk an extra mile with someone you don’t even like. Or to give when you feel like you have nothing left. But it’s there, in those outer edges where ease ends, that true service begins. The kind that transforms. The kind that saves.
Today, if you asked me what it means to serve the Lord, I wouldn’t talk about titles or schedules. I’d say it’s about being available. It’s about opening your heart to the unexpected. About saying “yes” even when no one’s clapping. It’s living with eyes wide open to the needs others don’t see. And responding—not out of obligation, but out of gratitude. Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that serving God isn’t a burden we carry—it’s a grace that lifts us.
In the end, when all is said and done and I stand before Him, I don’t think He’ll ask me how many callings I held or how many talks I gave. But maybe—just maybe—He’ll look at me with tenderness and say, “I was hungry, and you fed Me. I was lonely, and you visited Me. You served one of these, and in doing so, you served Me.” And for me, that will be enough.
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