As I write these words in mid-April, I’m struck by how ordinary the past two Sundays have been. Let me explain.
They followed what used to be a very predictable rhythm:
For decades of my life, that’s been our Sunday rhythm. I bet it’s the same for many of you too.
I really don’t need to explain how this ordinary rhythm has been broken for more than a year now. It’s been unsafe to gather indoors at church. We’ve gotten most of our food to-go.
Even now things are not “normal.” Our worship was outdoors, and we still sat at distance from others, with masks. At lunch, we sat on a Bishop Arts patio. But even with those qualifications, it was the rhythm that suddenly seemed “normal” again.
I thought about how —Sunday after Sunday of my life— there would have been absolutely nothing unusual about that rhythm. In fact, it would have been so ordinary that I am quite confident I took it for granted. On hundreds of Sundays I haven’t given that predictable pattern a second thought.
But these past two, I’ve soaked in every small detail, noticing the beauty in ordinary things.
The collective cadence of member’s voices, as they recite the Lord’s Prayer. Their laughter at bad dad jokes. The sparkle in their eyes above their masks. The clatter of lunch plates on a restaurant patio table. Every morsel of tacos melting on my tongue. The sun on the faces of other diners as they enjoyed the budding normalcy.
These average moments took on special depth and feeling. These past two Sundays, these little moments have felt holy.
In the Gospel of Luke, the story is told of two disciples walking along the “Road to Emmaus.” It’s after Jesus’ resurrection, and he comes to walk alongside of them. Except — for reasons that are never explained — they don’t recognize that it’s him.
They are depressed and melancholy. But they walk with him anyway, talking about the scriptures. When they get to where they are going, they invite him to stay for a meal.
Luke says that in the moment bread is broken — a normal moment around a normal dinner table — they realize who he is. But the moment this happens, he vanishes from sight.
“Weren’t our hearts on fire when he spoke to us along the road?” they asked.
They look back, and they see things that, from one perspective, were completely ordinary and normal, were in fact, “holy moments” from another.
This is so for us as well. Even in life’s most ordinary moments, God is there. In the clatter of lunch plates. The murmur of friend’s voices. The breaking of bread.
We have suffered so much this past year, and we have lost so many experiences, and so much time that can never be recovered. But we can at least resolve to pay attention to the beauty, grace and hope of “ordinary rhythm” as we move forward.
As your world opens back up, keep your eyes open for these kinds of holy moments, when they happen to you too. Don’t miss them.
ERIC FOLKERTH is senior pastor of Kessler Park United Methodist Church. The Worship section is underwritten by Advocate Publishing and the neighborhood businesses and churches listed here. For information about helping support the Worship section, call 214.560.4202.
