If an angel called you something, it’d probably stick. That’s your nickname now. Even if nobody else ever used that name for you, you’d probably say it when you looked in the mirror. It’d definitely make it into your journal.
Many of you are probably like me: marked or even scarred by names people have called you. Like initials carved into a tree, there are probably scratches in the bark around your heart. You could really go for a renaming, an angel’s proclamation of something better. Something good. So, I’m guessing the same was true for the guys who walked around Israel with Jesus a couple millennia ago.
Right after Jesus left these followers—his friends—two figures appeared looking like human men in white robes. Not in the sky, not in a reflection on a pond, not in a dream. We’re not told if they were angels, but Luke implies that. Anyway, these two dudes just suddenly stood in their huddle and asked, “Why are you guys still standing here, staring into heaven?” I guess it’s a fair question; but I would’ve been watching my hero and mentor ascend into oblivion, too. I don’t sit down in that question. My favorite part of that exchange are the three words that proceed that question.
“Men of Galilee.”
The angel could’ve called them “friends of Jesus” or “beloved brothers” or “heirs of the kingdom.” He could’ve addressed them as “men of Israel” or “sons of Abraham.” If they had, we wouldn’t think it out of place.
But no: Men of Galilee.
My buddies and I discussed this a couple months ago before COVID-19 forced us into hiding. These guys study the Bible and pray with me every week. We meet around fires or lanterns in the spring and autumn. We circle under park pavilions and on pool decks when it’s warm enough to forego a fire. We huddle in garages or basements, man caves or barns in the winter. On the night in question, we wrestled with the Great Commission, the mandate extended from those men of Galilee to us men of Bedford County, Campbell County, and Lynchburg City.
I told my buddies that I think the white-robed men called out more than just where the disciples called home. Galilee wasn’t just a place. It was a vibe, a mojo, a way of life. Later in Luke’s record of the burgeoning church, he noted that observers marveled at the wisdom and boldness of the apostles—because they were men of Galilee. These fellas were blue collar. They probably spoke with the wrong kind of accent, the kind that came with assumptions about their education. They weren’t Jerusalem elite or even adjacent. They weren’t from the merchant class. They would’ve driven pickup trucks and worn camo if either were available. They probably would’ve listened to Alan Jackson and Garth Brooks. They’d have asked for beer instead of wine, if they had been given an option at that wedding. Probably an IPA.
“If those angels had appeared to us now, they’d have said, ‘Men of Carhartt,’” I added. On Wednesday nights, we show up to that prayer time in boots and jeans, ball caps and hoodies. Half of our guys arrive in pickups, half of those with lift kits. Even my little MINI Cooper has the kind of off-road lights mentioned a couple times an hour on country stations. Those of us with college degrees and white collar jobs arrive with some distance from those realities, even if it’s just a shirt pulled into its untucked position to hide the belt underneath.
This morning, for virtual church, the music and video teams of my church broadcasted from a studio created in the loft of an old building. Our indoor worship teams rotate vocalists and musicians. This morning, my brother-in-law led the room and those of us watching at home.
Zach doesn’t look like the hipster worship leader portrayed in parodies. No flaccid beanie or skinny jeans, no scarf, no $60 tee shirt, no collection of bracelets. He smokes his own meat, and he’s been known to catch or kill it before he grills it. He drives tractors and equipment with external hydraulic hoses. He moonlights in a cigar shop. Zach wears tattoos that speak to his Montana soul and his mariner’s heart. He is an expert on both turf grass and beef cattle, and his parenting exclamations almost always start with “Son!”
Because of the studio lighting, Zach was allowed to wear his staple baseball cap. In the auditoriums of our two regular campuses, the lighting doesn’t allow for such. This morning, I commented on Facebook that I wish the hats could stay as part of the stage oeuvre once churches are allowed to meet again. One of my friends (one of our elders) asked me why I longed for that. He asked in genuine curiosity, not like a teacher or therapist asking a leading question.
It made me think. I guess seeing hats on stage would be greedy. I already wear a hat to church. Every Sunday. It’s actually part of my serving team’s uniform. I have something to remove to show honor during prayer. I have something to put over my heart or wave in the air when I’m singing—just like at a ball game. Even if I leave church without my heart being imprinted, I still arrive home with hat hair. Sunday mornings mark me. It’s small, but that hat gives me a connection to the tradesman who arrive in their trucks and to the guys who never show at my church. Or any church.
This post isn’t to lobby my church to change their stage guidelines. I’m cool with their requirements for closed-toe shoes, for no shorts—even for no hats. We present a happy medium between the stodgy, traditional church culture of our Bible Belt town and the comfort of what we all wear the rest of the weekend. It goes with the pastor wearing a sport coat on Easter and Christmas—a bridge for people with hangups in either direction.
It’s just that I’m grateful there are Men of Carhartt—Men of Galilee—and their female equivalents on our stages, on my serving team, and in my midweek communities. I’m thankful to be led by guys in work boots, guys with tan lines where the elastic in their hat stops. There’s an earthiness to their voices, an authenticity in their eyes. They aren’t Preachers in Sneakers. They aren’t promising prosperity in tailored suits. They aren’t trying to impress me or anyone else with formulaic gestures, vocal runs, or a specific aesthetic. They aren’t trying to cut a record, to lay down a track. They sing like that in their trucks and on their back decks with little ones getting grass stains on their knees nearby. I’ve seen it first hand.
They’re the kind of worshipper I’d want to be if our places were reversed—if I could carry a tune in a Lowes blue bucket. When my eyes meet with one of my friends on stage, I dip the bill of my cap and smile. They know. We both do. This is how men and women of Galilee celebrate what Jesus is doing in our midst.
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Stock image purchased from iStockPhoto.com
