I am a pastor

Fancy suits. Enormous hair. Bright lights. Pulpits. Thousands of congregants in their midst. Booming voices. Books, mp3s, podcasts, TV shows. Endorsements. TBN. Spitting when they talk. Walking with a strut. Swagger. 
 
That's not me.
 
Being a pastor is…it's not…
 
It's not some title or some honor bestowed upon some attention-grabbing individual, who desires the perpetual and proverbial spotlight cast upon them from the hours of 9am to noon, one day a week (and the occasional 90 minutes on a Wednesday). It's far more than a position to be noticed or a description to be applauded.
 
I have not church. No congregation. I'm not ordained. I have no messages or podcasts. Written any books. Created a Nooma-type series. None of that has been ascribed to my name. By all accounts, I'm a nobody. 
 
Yet I pastor. 
 
However it doesn't look like anything you would associate with the term. It is less glamorous. It can be dirty. It doesn't stem from position and entitlement. You find yourself in with the people. In their midst. You become accessible. 
 
Afternoon coffee appointments. Dinner dates. Hospital visits. Birthday parties. Pub talk. Conversation. Shooting the breeze. Encouragement. Edification. Comfort. Adding value. Speaking life.
 
Simple, right? Anyone can do it. Yet, few even attempt it. It's not glamorous. Little, if no, recognition. There are few perks. It seems too common. Far too ordinary. 
 
When did it become too common to encourage people? To see them come alive? When did our fellow man deserve less than support and edification? Who said it was ordinary to comfort those who needed peace? 
 
When did we rise above taking care of the widows, orphans, and sick? Those who are abandoned, struggling, poor in spirit, depressed, imprisoned, who told them they were worthless? 
 
It's not beneath or below me to care for them. 
 
Is it beneath you?