Why am I here? What is my purpose?
To serve.
And I get it. That sounds submissive and somewhat cowardly.
Hear me out.
We all serve something or someone. For good or bad, we choose what banner to fly when things get dire. The question is less about what are you fighting, and more what are you protecting and working for?
There’s a reason women melt when a capable, strong man kneels before them. Why boys and men alike dream of dying in some spectacular, sacrificial way. They are serving those they love. It feels natural, and meaningful and somewhat heroic.
Those in love serve each other. Especially in the beginning. Your lover’s happiness is the hill you stand on and defend. The rupture of that happiness has brought about wars, regret and death.
Many new fathers stare at the vulnerable life of their newborn children and feel servitude seared into their soul, as though the branding iron was pressed to their flesh. Mothers’ feel chains of weightless rope tie their heart to their children. Family demands servitude or flails and drowns.
You could serve yourself. But prepare for a very lonely, somewhat bitter life. And it would be a lie. An illusion as you pretend that you’re not addicted to that vape, or money or some proof you deserve to stay on this floating rock. Plenty of rich people choose death in their penthouses. Be conscious of what you’re serving. What power are you giving away? Because you will give it. To belong is to dip your ink into the pool with others and hope the colour mixes into a beautiful hue and not… brown. Or worse, drown you in the waters below. Surrounded by others who also say things like, “I could stop if I wanted to,” or, “I’m just being honest – if what I say sounds cruel, that’s a ‘you’ problem.” Your heart is waterlogged.
What are you going to serve? Who? In a world frayed and battered, what spark are you huddling around? Or are you going to stumble about looking for the next master to offer you some glimmer of dopamine? Are you going to cling to noble pursuits only to find the worth lost in the tradition?
The ancients chose the mythical and godly. A sacrifice to show their devotion. A prayer. A chant. Exchanges for a better life. A better outcome. A life served in an ecosystem. Serving something bigger than yourself makes you less of a cog, and more of a flower in a very big garden. Let’s hope you picked a deity that wasn’t so cruel as to demand something you cannot achieve. Let’s hope you picked at all.
But us modern people? We are too enlightened to bow down to anything. We know how the world works and therefore our systems are better. Sophisticated. Data on the declining mental health of our age would have another interpretation. Nothing wonderous grows in a sterile desert. What is there to live for if your purpose is something obscure like, “follow your heart” or, “do what makes you happy.” The heart lies. The heart needs direction. You know that. If you looked deep enough. Happiness isn’t the destination we were told it was. We easily love. But we do not work for her. We strip her and then scream when she withers in our hands. Or we cling to it until we both suffocate under unattainable aspirations.
Who will you serve? Where are you directing your energy? Whose hand are you holding as you struggle down this road?
Me? I’m not going to stand on my box and beat you down with my lofty ideals.
But I will tell you this. I have tumbled down into holes that almost went to hell. There was no light. Only the slick walls of my endless mistakes. There is a reason new converts grip you by the shoulders and proclaim their wondrous discovery. Because when you’ve served enough abusive masters you realize there is one master who chose to take on your burden for you. You. There was one king who said, “you cannot achieve what you must, so I will take your place.” I will serve a master who not only loves me, but stands in my leaking boat. He may not take me out, but he will hold me steady as I navigate my way home. Free will, not robots. I will serve a King who sees me and all the mess that I am and still holds out his hand. My value is infinite when combined with the love of my King. Of a king who washed feet, who bowed his head and chose me through blood and sacrifice. He reached down, he didn’t expect the impossible from me.
You are allowed to doubt. Good. Look into it. Reach out. Knock. Doors will open.
Our purpose is to serve. Who is your master? If you don’t know, I suggest you find out. Broken crowns and plastic flowers will not grow what your soul needs to thrive. I refuse to believe people are now simply compost made of matter and blackened dreams. Who have you given your worth to? Who do you serve? Because from where I’m standing, resting on the promises of my king. I would suggest there are brighter futures then we were led to believe. A purpose so fulfilling the world pulsates with colour. An opinion, of course. But also, not a lie.
Who is your master?
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