There is a longing that lives in many of us—especially those called to ministry—to encounter Christ in unmistakable ways.
In powerful worship.
In thin places.
In sacramental moments.
And yes, Christ is there.
But over time, and especially through seasons of weariness, I’ve come to realize something deeper:
Christ is also in the ordinary.
In chipped coffee mugs and messy kitchens.
In slow walks with someone who needs to talk.
In the ache of intercession that never makes it into the Sunday prayers.
In the quiet tenacity of someone who shows up, even when no one thanks them.
In the tired hands of those who clean the sanctuary long after the candles burn out.
These are not lesser places.
These are holy ground.
When we imagine the face of Christ only on mountaintops or behind stained glass,
we miss him in the cracked sidewalk.
In the grocery line.
In the grieving stranger.
In the child who asks, “Can I help?” and means it.
Incarnation didn’t happen once. It happens every day.
It happens when we meet someone’s gaze with kindness instead of judgment.
When we stop to listen, even if it’s inconvenient.
When we carry out ordinary tasks with extraordinary love.
This is not a lesser faith.
It is the faith.
Because it’s what Jesus himself modeled.
Born not in a palace but in a barn.
Teaching not from thrones but from hillsides.
Walking dusty roads.
Eating with outcasts.
Touching the overlooked.
Showing up—not in power, but in presence.
And that’s what we’re called to do, too.
To stop waiting for the big sign,
and instead notice the small sacrament of now.
To open our eyes and say:
“Surely Christ is in this place—and I did not know it.”
Every day is an altar.
Every interaction is an invitation.
And every moment holds the possibility of encountering the Holy.
All we need is a heart willing to look again.