Back in our children’s hometown of Princeton, New Jersey, our son Soren and his girlfriend, Viki, walked hand in hand down streets he had not visited in a decade. When they first started dating, he promised her he would take her there one day. On this rainy afternoon, that promise was fulfilled.
We sipped local coffee (Small World is a vibe) as we wandered through familiar streets greeted by linen-white dogwood blossoms. We shared memories as we passed childhood homes, old landmarks, and favorite gelato shops (Bent Spoon is still the best). We pulled over at the Princeton Battlefield and let Soren and Viki walk ahead as we hung back.
We slipped our phones from our pockets and brought her family in on FaceTime. Then, just out of earshot, Soren dropped to one knee. He told Viki of his desire to spend a lifetime keeping promises with her. He pulled out a ring and asked her if she would join him on that journey.
Her yes was followed by a long embrace, then by squeals of joy from both families. Angel and I squeezed each other, glowing as the spotlight shone on them.
A week later, Angel and I sat in the senior awards ceremony at Concordia University Irvine, where our daughter Camille received multiple awards. Her professors spoke with deep admiration about her character, diligence, and impact on the department. Her friends applauded loudly for her. Once again, Angel and I squeezed each other, glowing as the spotlight shone on her.
After recording Jesus’ lineage and birth, the gospel of Matthew begins with a spotlight on the preacher of the moment: John the Baptist. Although he preached in the barren wilderness of Judea near the remote Essene villages, Israelites flooded out from Jerusalem and all of southern Israel to hear his fiery preaching and this new rite of baptism he was performing (likely his own twist on the Mikvah baths the group of his Essenes were fond of). Jesus himself admired John’s ministry saying, “Truly, I say to you, among those born of women there has arisen no one greater than John the Baptist” (Matt. 11:11). John’s message was clear: repent, prepare, and make ready for the One to come who “is mightier than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to carry. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire” (Matt. 3:11).
John ushered in the public ministry of Jesus, and then the spotlight quickly moved away from him. As Jesus’ ministry grew, John’s disciples became troubled and jealous for him. “Rabbi,” they reported to John, that man you baptized, that Jesus, “he is baptizing, and all are going to him” (Jn. 3:26).
Their concern is understandable. The crowds were shifting. Attention was moving. Influence was changing hands. Perhaps John had something he could say to reclaim the moment. Perhaps he had a strategy to draw the crowds back. Perhaps he could remind everyone that he had been there first.
But John was not threatened. He was not defensive. He was not grasping for a platform that heaven had never promised him. He answers with holy clarity:
A person can receive only what is given them from heaven. You yourselves can testify that I said, ‘I am not the Messiah but am sent ahead of him.’ The bride belongs to the bridegroom. The friend who attends the bridegroom waits and listens for him, and is full of joy when he hears the bridegroom’s voice. That joy is mine, and it is now complete. He must become greater; I must become less. (Jn 3:27-30).
There is no happy ending to John’s story in an earthly sense. Soon afterward, John is imprisoned by the petty and insecure King Herod Antipas and the attention of the crowds continued to shift toward Jesus. John, who had once lived in the open wilderness with crowds flocking to him daily, was hidden away in Herod’s remote palace at Machaerus, east of the Dead Sea, likely in a cave that had been repurposed as a cell (which you can visit today). Then one day, at the cruel whim of Herodias, John was beheaded by the king’s guards (Matt. 14:6-12). He never returned to public prominence. He never saw the full fruit of his ministry. He never saw the cross, the resurrection, Pentecost, or the worldwide spread of the gospel.
And yet, he was content. He knew his calling. He knew his place. He knew that the spotlight was never meant to remain on him. His joy was complete because the Bridegroom had come.
Our age is obsessed with fame, perhaps more than any age in history. In 1968, American artist Andy Warhol predicted, “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes,”. Whether or not his prediction has fully come true, it certainly speaks something true about our cultural appetite for attention. Fortune magazine recently reported that 30% of young people ages 12-15 want to be YouTubers when they grow up while 21% want to become TikTok creators. Fame, visibility, and personal branding have become powerful cultural ambitions.
Gen Z and Gen Alpha praise those who have “main character energy,” and celebrate moments that feel “cinematic” (like a movie). Some might declare, “I’m entering my ____ era” or refer to the “lore” of their life (the backstory that makes their personal narrative feel larger than life). Those perceived as boring or unoriginal may be dismissed as having “NPC (non-playable character) energy” or being “washed” (done for, passé). Those whose lives seem to sparkle are praised for their “aura,” while mundane lives are disdained.
In other words, we are being discipled by a culture that tells us the spotlight is the prize.
It is likely not an accident that the rise of celebrity longing has coincided with a decrease in childbirths by 35% since 1968 (from 2.46 births per woman to 1.6). Unsurprisingly, the number of young adults who want to have children continues to drop to historic lows: dipping from 87% to 76% over just the last decade. While there are many factors behind this shift, one spiritual reality is worth naming: to welcome a child is to be de-centered.
To have a child is to shift the spotlight onto someone else. Any parent of a newborn knows this immediately. Your schedule, sleep, preferences, body, budget, and attention are suddenly rearranged around the needs of another. You cannot simply rest because you want to rest. You cannot simply go because you want to go. Love requires you to notice, respond, sacrifice, and serve. As painful and exhausting as that de-centering can be, it is also a profound gift.
John was right: our purpose is to become lesser so that Christ might become greater. That truth does not only shape our relationship with Jesus; it also shapes how we love others. Paul writes, “In humility, count others more significant than yourselves” (Phil. 2:3). He reiterates in his letter to the church at Rome, “Outdo one another in showing honor” (Rom.12:10). And Jesus, the true Lord of glory, reveals the heart of greatness in his kingdom: “For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve” (Mk.10:45)
We are not the main character. Christ is. And praise God for that! The more our hearts learn to turn the spotlight toward him, the freer we become. Our souls were not made to carry the weight of being central. We were not created to be worshiped, admired, curated, and endlessly seen. We were created to know Christ, love Christ, reflect Christ, and point others to Christ.
Paul reminds us of who Jesus truly is:
He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross. (Col. 1:15-20)
Everything exists through him and for him. Every calling, every gift, every child, every accomplishment, every relationship, every platform, every hidden act of faithfulness: all of it belongs to Christ.
This is why parenting, when received with humility, becomes one of God’s great instruments of sanctification. It teaches us that love is not self-display. Love is not control. Love is not building a life where everyone else orbits around us. Love is learning to rejoice when the spotlight shines on another.
We felt that gift as we watched Soren and Viki step into a new promise together. We felt it as we watched Camille be honored for years of faithful work. In both moments, Angel and I stood just outside the center, full of joy.
And perhaps that is one of the quiet blessings of parenting: God gives us living, breathing reminders that we are not the main characters in this story. We must become lesser. He must become greater.
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Photo by Михаил Секацкий on Unsplash