Chapter Eight — The Hidden Ministry

There is a work beneath the work—an unseen duty braided into every sweep and spray, every key turned and light switched off. Call it a priesthood of the ordinary. Call it a ministry without microphone or stage. I have come to believe that janitorial labor, done in secret unto the Lord, becomes intercession with a mop in its hands. It is the old story of hidden seed—buried, watered, forgotten, and then, in God’s time, revealed. “Thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly” (Matthew 6:6, KJV). That promise does not need to be loud to be true. It only needs to be lived.

Most nights, when the building is honest—when the corridors stop pretending and the rooms breathe out the day—I take off my shoes at the end. The act is simple, but it is not small. I remember how the Lord spoke to Moses: “Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground” (Exodus 3:5, KJV). Yes, it was holy ground because God was there; but I have come to know another kindness in the command. Bare feet are reverent, and they are also comfortable. The Lord was not only sanctifying that moment; He was making room for conversation. Sandals off, stone cool beneath the skin, no need to pretend strength. Just presence. Just God and a man who would be sent.

So after work, off-the-clock, I walk the hallway in socked feet, not to make a spectacle, but to make a sanctuary. At each door I pause, and I pray—quietly, deliberately, like placing a hand upon the lintel and tracing a blessing over unseen people. I pray for their families, their clients, their patients, their peace. I ask for wisdom for the decisions they’ll make tomorrow, and for strength to carry the burdens I will never see. And I add, as often as I remember, a request that tastes like childlike faith: “O God, may You grant such-and-such office a delightful miracle that wouldn’t have otherwise happened had I not asked right now.” I do not sign my name to what follows. I do not look for evidence. I will find out in eternity, and that will be enough.

There is a way to sweep that says, “I was here.” There is another way to sweep that says, “He is here.” The second is the aim. “And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men” (Colossians 3:23, KJV). Floors cleaned for the Lord are not merely clean; they are consecrated. Trash removed in love becomes an offering—one part service, one part silence. Even the bag cinched and carried down the quiet stair is a kind of prayer: Lord, take what is no longer needed; make room for what gives life. This is not metaphor to me; it is method. The broom can preach if the hand that holds it is humble.

Humility is the key that opens every lock in this calling. The building does not need my name; it needs my knees. “Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves” (Philippians 2:3, KJV). Lowliness does not mean timidity. It means love takes the lowest place and finds the Lord already seated there. It means the first work of every night is the hidden one—checking my heart for resentment, annoyance, hurry, pride. If I am to ask God for miracles at each threshold, I must not drag a spirit of complaint from one room to the next. The bucket does not sanctify the water; the heart does.

Time is a strange companion in this line of work. Some nights it seems to race ahead, mocking you with ticking hands and hurried minutes; other nights it waits quietly, like a faithful friend holding the door open until you’re done. I’ve learned that the clock is not my enemy—it only becomes one when I let impatience drive me. When I feel rushed, I pause. I slow my breathing, move with intention, and in that stillness the seconds begin to stretch, like the world is giving me room to finish well. It’s a small miracle that the slower I go, the faster the work seems to end. There’s peace hidden inside patience; and when you find it, even the ticking clock begins to sound like praise.

My “secret priesthood” is not a title; it is obedience in small things. It is wiping a fingerprint from glass as if I’m touching a soul. It is noticing the faint scent of a waiting room and deciding it should whisper welcome, not fatigue. It is choosing to believe that the Lord walks where I walk and listens where I listen, so I listen more. It is the courage to do the last pass after the last pass, not because someone will see, but because Someone always does. Night by night, this becomes a rule of life: to bless without being observed; to intercede without being thanked; to serve without conclusion.

I have learned to bless the rooms not only in words, but in atmospheres. Open blinds just a little so the morning knows the way in. Align the chairs so conversations can begin without friction. Leave a note when a note helps, and leave silence when silence heals. Pray for prosperity without embarrassment, because prosperity in honest hands employs families and funds good work. Pray for satisfaction in the building, because contentment nourishes peace. Pray for favor, because favor opens doors I cannot. Then wipe the counter as if the prayer is settling into the grain.

Some will ask, “But what comes of all these prayers?” I will not know here, and that is part of the holiness. Faith tends the roots and lets God decide the harvest. I have my assignment: to pray; to labor; to leave the corridors better than I found them—cleaner, yes, but also kinder. The outcome is covenant territory, where the Lord reserves His sovereign right to surprise the faithful. If there is a ledger, it is in His hand, and His hand is generous.

The ritual remains steady and unremarkable to anyone watching—which is to say, it is perfect. Shoes off. Hall light softened. The building exhales. Door by door, the litany:

Bless this office, Lord—its work, its workers, its weary. Visit them with a mercy they did not know to request. Give breakthroughs where there have been blockages. Give laughter where there has been strain. Give a “delightful miracle,” a gift with Your fingerprints on it, that would not have been given had I not stood here and asked.

I move on, not to collect proof but to keep faith. I do not measure the sacred by what I feel; I measure it by Who was invited. The most ordinary rooms become sanctuaries when the Holy Spirit is welcomed to pass through before the day begins.

And then, the benediction that is also a craft: the final walk-through. Check the corners. Listen for the faint hum that shouldn’t be humming. Test the doors—once, then again—because stewardship is a prayer in the language of diligence. Return the cart to its closet as if returning the Ark to its place, not because it is holy in itself, but because order honors the God of order. “God is not the author of confusion, but of peace” (1 Corinthians 14:33, KJV). Peace looks, at midnight, like a lobby that breathes serenity and a hallway that keeps its promises.

To my fellow janitors, custodians, caretakers of places and people: may you discover the joy of the hidden ministry. May you learn the weight of quiet authority—the kind that does not command, yet changes rooms. May your nightly routes become liturgies; your tools, instruments; your faithfulness, a door through which the Lord passes to visit those you serve. The world will not notice what heaven remembers. But heaven remembers.

I end as I began: with shoes in hand, heart at rest, and a small prayer on my lips for every soul who will cross this threshold tomorrow. Let the miracle be delightful, Lord. Let the work be blessed. Let the building shine.

Now the last light. The hush returns. I turn the key and tug to feel the certain catch. I test each handle down the line—locked, locked, locked. The alarm arms with its familiar, faithful tone. I step into the night air, and it greets me like a psalm. The work is finished for today; the ministry is not. I go home satisfied, quietly triumphant, hopeful enough to do it all again, and—God willing—better.