On Incarnational Ministry in the Five-Minute Conversations of Daily Life
There’s a small store near my parish — one of those places where the coffee is perpetually just on the edge of lukewarm, the lottery machine is always chirping like a happy cricket, and the owner knows every customer by name, shoe size, and preferred brand of bread. It’s the kind of place where the real work of theology often sneaks up on you while you’re debating whether to buy the good butter or the one that’s on sale.
Somewhere between “How’s your day going?” and “Can you believe this weather?”, the Kingdom of God tends to show up unannounced — right there beside the gum rack.
Now, we clergy are trained to think of ministry as something that happens in well-defined spaces: the pulpit, the altar, the pastoral visit — perhaps even over a coffee that involves actual fair-trade beans and not powdered creamer. But the older I get (and the more corner stores I frequent), the more convinced I am that ministry lives just as vibrantly in the aisles of the everyday.
Take, for instance, the brief conversation at the cash register. It’s easy to dismiss it as mere chatter—“small talk.” But I suspect that in those few moments, something deeply sacramental happens. When you ask someone how they are, and actually mean it, you are—if I may put it in lofty theological terms — participating in the ministry of Christ, who made a career out of stopping for people in the middle of their ordinary lives.
Jesus, after all, did not confine His ministry to the synagogue or temple. He taught beside wells, along dusty roads, on fishing boats, and in living rooms cluttered with bread crumbs and sibling rivalry. He didn’t wait for people to come to Him in reverent silence; He met them where they were — in the middle of errands, complaints, and ordinary conversations that turned out to be sacred.
So when you greet the cashier with warmth, or commiserate with the regulars over the rising price of milk, or share a laugh about the weather that everyone pretends to be surprised by, you are doing incarnational ministry. You are saying, in effect, “God is here, in this moment, among these people, with this discount on tomatoes.”
It’s not grand, but neither was the manger.
We sometimes think evangelism requires eloquence, courage, or a well-organized committee. But in truth, it begins with kindness. With presence. With taking the time to be human with another human being. The good news of God’s love rarely begins with a sermon — it usually begins with a smile.
So the next time you find yourself making small talk at the corner store, don’t rush it. Don’t think of it as wasted time. Think of it as liturgy in plain clothes. A five-minute Eucharist of community, laughter, and shared humanity.
Because if the Incarnation means anything, it means that God delights in showing up in the checkout line — where saints and sinners alike pause for a moment to chat about the weather and remember, perhaps without even knowing it, that they are not alone.