When the Ordinary Becomes EXTRAordinary
First Congregational Church – Wauwatosa, Wisconsin
Sunday After Pentecost/World Communion Sunday – October 3, 2004
Rev. Steven A. Peay, Ph.D.
[texts: 2 Timothy 1:1-14/Luke 17:5-10]

“The apostles said to the Lord, ‘Increase our faith!’” What the apostles asked Jesus to do for them is, really, what every Christian should desire – to increase in faith, to grow in the life in God. Jesus tells them that faith that is the size of a grain of mustard seed can do great things. A mustard seed is tiny. What is his point?

This, faith, like the mustard seed, grows from the ordinariness of life. It doesn’t have to be huge to make a difference. Augustine preached to his congregation in Hippo Regius, “A mustard seed looks small. Nothing is less noteworthy to the sight, but nothing is stronger to the taste. What does that signify but the very great fervor and inner strength of faith in the church?” A little mustard seed goes a long way. For that matter, thinking of small but mighty, a habanero pepper is tiny, but will take your head off so great is its spiciness.

Our faith, then, is – or should be – looking for, expecting, and longing for God’s presence within us and with one another. The ordinariness of faith tells us that it is not in blinding flashes of light or wondrous happenings that God is found. Rather, it is when we look to the simple, the beautiful, and the good that we see God. I am convinced that we see, experience and know God best in relationships, which make up the ordinary stuff of what it means to be human. And I’m also convinced that our faith is increased because of our relationships.

Perhaps that is why the writer to Timothy reminds him of his wonderful history of faith? He encourages Timothy to “rekindle the gift of God” that is within him – the mustard seed – there because of his relationship to family and to other models of faith. I came across an illustration by Ralph Milton that brought this home to me. He said that his family had visited the giant redwoods on vacation one year. They marveled at their size and age, wondering how they had survived that long. Why hadn’t the strong winds blowing off the Pacific Ocean knocked down the trees? Milton saw a sign in the park that game him his answer. “Giant redwoods seldom grow alone. Their shallow root systems spread out and intertwine with the roots of other giant redwoods, and in that way they support one another. That’s why giant redwoods always grow in clusters. They need each other for mutual support.” [Angels in Red Suspenders 1997] Our faith doesn’t grow in isolation either. To increase our faith we need to live toward God and toward each other. As we grow together our faith deepens, encouraging others to grow and supporting them – just as they support us.

For me, the ordinary becomes extraordinary when I open my eyes – especially the eyes of my heart – to see God at work there. It is a measure of God’s care for us that God wants to reach to us through things we know and with which we are familiar. Human words, ideas, and the stuff of everyday nourishment – bread and cup – become the means through which God draws us into deeper oneness, communion, relationship. It’s so simple, a table, bread, a cup, but it is one of the central symbols and metaphors for our life together as Christians. We are people who are fed and who feed one another, nourishment and relationship and faith all go together, simple acts and objects that carry far deeper meaning.

I was reminded of this when I read an article quoting Donald Baillie, the Scottish theologian who wrote a book, The Theology of the Sacraments, some fifty years ago. Baillie wrote:

Let us imagine the case of a small child, a little boy, entrusted to the care of a nursery governess. When she arrives, the little fellow is taken into the room where she is, and left in her care. But she is strange to him, he does not trust her, but looks distantly as this strange woman from the opposite corner of the room. She knows that she cannot do anything with him until she has won his confidence. She knows she has to win it. The little boy cannot manufacture it, cannot make himself trust the governess. His faith in her is something which he cannot create – only she can create it.

And she knows that she cannot create it by forcing it; she has to respect the personality of the child; and to try to take the citadel by storm would be worse than useless and would produce fear and distrust instead of confidence. . . . She sets about her task gently, using various means – words, gestures, and smiles, and perhaps gifts, all of which convey something of the kindness of her heart. Until at last the little fellow’s mistrust is melted away, she has won his confidence, and of his own free will he responds to her advances and crosses the floor to sit on her knee. Now that her graciousness, using all these means, has created his faith, she can carry on the good work she has begun.

This is a powerful reminder that faith isn’t a matter of our understanding, but of God’s creative gift. I think now I also understand why Edward Taylor, the 17th century New England preacher who wrote glorious mystical poetry to prepare himself for communion said, “Delight in this, o my soul. It is the Lord’s sugar cake!”

Every time we look at the book of nature, or that we open the book of scripture, or we take the simple gifts of bread and cup we’re experiencing God’s creation of our faith and receiving the answer to the request – “Increase our faith!” What is required of us is to move beyond the focus on self and our limited understanding and to open ourselves to the unlimited power of God. Realize that life and faith are gifts to be received and for which we are to be grateful and we’ll come to them – and to this table – in new ways, with new eyes, and the gift of God rekindled within us. Delight in what God offers and then delight in life itself – the ordinary becomes extraordinary.

Last week I had an encounter of the ordinary extraordinary kind. A group of people – fellow pilgrims from here visiting England – joined Julie and me for a walk to Julian’s Alley and a visit to the church of Saint Julian in Norwich. We walked through the rain to this tiny medieval church, which gave its name to the anchoress – the female hermit – who took up residence in a room attached to it. It’s a simple, beautiful place and it was there Julian (we don’t know if that was actually her name, but that is what she was called) lived, prayed and touched those who came to the little window of her cell that looked out into the churchyard garden. Julian speaks to me because she sees God’s incredible love for us – a love that not only holds the world and that is in being, but that wants, hungers, longs for us to be joined to that love. I stood there in that place and marveled at God’s goodness in simple, ordinary things. I do so now – so should we all.

God comes to us in the ordinary and makes it EXTRAordinary. God reaches to us to increase our faith, seed-like though it may be. It’s all grace, it’s all love, and it’s all ours. So come to this table with eyes wide open and see more than a cube of bread and a little glass of juice – there’s so much more here on this table. See yourself, see this community of faith, see the wonder of how we can live and move and love in God’s presence. Come with joy, rekindle the gift, and leave this place to find God and point others to God in the ordinary become extraordinary. Come to this table and increase your faith.