The word says, eremos topos. That's the Greek,
a place of nothingness. Jesus went there to speak
to his Father. Some folks think ordinary time
is the part of the church here where nothing
happens. No magi, no manger, no thunderclap miracles.
But today's story says otherwise. Jesus walks
us into the quiet places, the closed door, the
hidden prayer, the unseen mercy, the steady faith
that doesn't need a spotlight. In Matthew chapter
6, he warns us about religion performed for applause,
and he invites us back to that secret place where
the Father sees love becomes real again. So pull
up close. Imagine the candles flickering in the
sanctuary. The coffee brewed a little bit too
strong today, and a handful of saints who know
your name, even if they've never met you, are
here with you. It may not be Sunday morning where
you are, but in your earbuds right now, it's
Sunday morning, and you've just joined us for
church. So settle in now, let grace speak, and
I'll see you on the other side. I want to begin
this morning, first and foremost, just by way
of explanation that we here, because we have
several newer folks that have been joining us
more regularly. So we here at the First Christian
Church, the Disciples of Christ, I call us, we
are liturgically adjacent. And just to kind of
explain that. The liturgy, the liturgical years
divided up into sections of specific focus during
the Christian year. And the changing of those
times are indicated by, you see on the sides
here, those are called banners. These here, these
are called paramounts, right? And then I wear
this stole and you see right now we're in green.
That indicates a liturgical time called ordinary
time. That's the time between times of preparation
or waiting or celebration periods. We've just
come out of that. That's when we were wearing
the blue and then the white, and now we're in
green because we've come out of that season.
And it's cool because if you pay attention, and
I hope to show you as we go around the sun, you'll
see the rhythms of the church from its very beginning
happening. right around you. It's not just something
that's ancient history. It's something that we
could live. Now, I say liturgically adjacent
because I don't preach from the lectionary every
Sunday. And if you don't know what the lectionary
is, you are in the right place. But we do pay
attention to the liturgical calendar of the year.
And we, if you notice, the greenery is gone,
the chrismon tree is gone, and we're now in what
we call ordinary time. Here we are. We have survived
Advent, the candles, the longing, the slow burn
of waiting for something we couldn't name yet,
but we knew we needed. And we made it through
Christmastide or Christmastime. Angels in the
rafters, a baby in a feed trough, and that strange,
stubborn feeling that God keeps showing up in
places that don't have a stage or a spotlight
or even indoor plumbing. We walked epiphany,
wise men following a star that didn't care about
borders, weird gifts that smelled like a funeral,
and political danger breathing down the neck
of every single mother in Bethlehem. And now,
Ordinary Time. Which sounds like the church finally
just threw up its hands and said, all right,
folks, show's over. Everybody go back to work.
Ordinary time is what happens when the nativity
scene gets put back in the attic and the wise
men finally arrive three weeks late because that's
how Amazon Prime works in rural Oklahoma. Ordinary
time is when the Christmas music stops and you
can hear yourself begin to think again. And when
you hear the dryer buzzing, your inbox screaming,
the ache of your knees from the January cold,
and the same old argument you've been having
with your same old anxiety since 2009. And here's
the funny part. We think the holy stuff is the
candlelight and the star and the gold. We think
normal is the interruption, the thing that we
have to endure before the good stuff. But scripture
keeps insisting the opposite. Normal is where
God does most of his work. It's in ordinary time.
Jesus learns to be steady. 30 years of sawdust
and splinters before one single miracle happens.
It's an ordinary time. The disciples learn how
to be faithful, not when the nets are full, but
when they're mending them empty -handed at dawn.
It's an ordinary time that love stops being a
feeling, starts being a habit. Because anybody
can feel religious when the choir is swinging
and the lights are low. But Monday morning? Monday
morning is when our theology gets audited. So,
tomorrow when you wake up and the world is back
to normal, I want you to hear this. You're not
going back to normal. You're going back to the
place where Christ actually meets you most. Ordinary
time is not the absence of God. Ordinary time
is the workshop. Some of us are relieved to be
done with the big season. You're like, thank
you, Lord. I am tired. Some of us are sad. Because
Advent and Christmas and Epiphany carry this
emotional electricity like the world could change,
like something holy might crack through the ceiling
and pour through. You can feel it. It's in the
music, in the candlelight, in the way the sanctuary
holds you different. And then it fades. And the
fading scares us. Because it feels like God has
left. But God didn't leave. The lights just changed.
Ordinary time is the light over the sink at 6
.40 in the morning. Coffee gone lukewarm, one
sock missing, your phone already mad at you.
And right there, right in that fluorescent honesty,
Jesus is just as present as he was under a star.
We live in a world that seems to think loud is
real. But ordinary time... is where we stop chasing
the fireworks and start tending the coals. Fireworks
are for crowds. Coals, they're for kitchens.
And Jesus spent a whole lot more time in kitchens
than he ever did in temples. So friends, Attune
your ears this morning to the reading of the
gospel word. This morning's word comes to us
from the gospel account according to Levi, later
Matthew. Chapter 6 of his gospel account, beginning
verse 1. Beware of practicing your righteousness
before others in order to be seen by them. For
then you have no reward from your Father in heaven.
So, whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet
before you do, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues
and in the streets, so that they may be praised
by others. Truly, I tell you, they have received
their reward. But when you give alms, do not
let your left hand know what your right hand
is doing. so that your alms may be done in secret,
and your Father who sees in secret will reward
you. And whenever you pray, do not be like the
hypocrites, for they love to stand and pray in
the synagogues and at the street corners, so
that they may be seen by others. Truly, I tell
you, they've received their reward, but... Whenever
you pray, go into your room and shut the door
and pray to your father who is in secret and
your father who sees in secret will reward you.
When you're praying, do not heap empty phrases
as the Gentiles do, for they think that they
will be heard because of their many words. Do
not be like them, for your father knows what
you need before you even ask him. Pray then in
this way. Our Father in heaven, may your name
be revered as holy. May your kingdom come. May
your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread and forgive
us our debts as we have also forgiven our debtors.
Do not bring us to this time of trial, but rescue
us from the evil one. If you forgive their trespasses,
your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But
if you do not forgive others, neither will your
Father forgive your trespasses. And whenever
you fast, do not look somber like the hypocrites,
for they mark their faces to show others that
they are fasting. Truly, I tell you, they have
received their reward. But when you fast, Put
oil on your head, sorry, and wash your face so
that your fasting may be seen not by others,
but by your father who is in secret. And your
father who sees in secret will reward you. Thus
ends the reading of God's word this morning.
Here is the lie that normal tells us. Nothing
is happening. But normal is just the place where
the happening is slow. Normal is where resentment
grows. One small bitterness at a time. Like mold
in the walls you can't see until it's everywhere.
Normal is also where healing grows. One forgiven
morning at a time. One breath that doesn't catch
in your throat like it used to. Normal is where
marriages either get tender again or become brittle.
Normal is faith, where it becomes a root system
or becomes a costume instead you wear to family
functions. Normal isn't neutral. Normal does
have a direction. Every ordinary day, you're
walking somewhere. You're becoming someone. The
question isn't whether you're being formed. You
are. The question is, what kind of person am
I becoming when nothing dramatic is happening?
Let's talk about what back to normal actually
means for most of us. It means the bills are
still there. It means that your body still hurts
in the same old places it's hurt in December.
It means your kid is still your kid, still carrying
whatever they were carrying before the Christmas
tree went up. It means your boss is still your
boss. It means those old habits are still waiting
for you like a dog at the door. It means your
phone still has opinions about how you should
be spending your attention. And normal comes
with a kind of strange grief, doesn't it? Because
big seasons give us... An excuse to feel hopeful.
Big seasons give us a script. There's somewhere
to stand, something to sing, a reason to expect
that maybe, just maybe, this time it'll be different.
But ordinary time doesn't come with background
music. Ordinary time is mostly just you, your
thoughts, and your patterns. So if you've been
feeling this low -grade spiritual blah lately,
like you're hungry but nothing sounds good, like
you want to pray but you can't find the words,
like you love God but you can't feel him, it
doesn't mean you're failing. It might mean...
You're being invited into a kind of life that
doesn't need a spotlight all of the time to be
fateful. And that's scarier than most people
want to admit. Because if we're honest, we rarely
are. We love the God we can schedule. We love
a God who shows up on the big days, Christmas
Eve, Easter morning, funerals when we need comfort,
hospital rooms when we need a miracle. But ordinary
time is where God says, I'll be here Tuesday
too. I'll be here when the laundry's piling up
and your patience is thin and nobody's clapping
for you. Tuesday is where most of us have trust
issues. Here's the exposure. Here's the thing
I don't think we like to admit. We confuse intensity
with intimacy. We think because we felt something
holy, we must be close to God. We think those
tears mean depth. We think the goosebumps mean
Connection. But feelings are weather. Faith is
a house. Matthew chapter 6 is telling us the
truth about this. Three times he says the same
thing. Your father sees in secret. Not because
God enjoys being mysterious, but because secrecy
It's where love stops being performance. In the
first century, public religion was social currency.
They weren't hypocrites because they were monsters.
They were hypocrites because they were visibly
piety, piously paid. What I mean to say is, People
noticed them. When they did it, people praised
them. And slowly the audience shifted from God
to the crowd. And Jesus is saying, if your faith
requires an audience, it will collapse the moment
that nobody claps for you. So he pushes us into
these ordinary places. Prayer with the door shut.
Generosity without the press release. Fasting
without the sad face. Because it's in ordinary
time where you learn whether you love God or
just love being inspired by God. And here's the
harder truth. Normal is also when we return to
our old coping mechanisms. Some of us return
to control. Some return to distraction. Some
return to numbing. Some return to resentment.
Some return to hustling. Because if you stay
busy enough, you don't have to actually feel
what's broken. Some of us aren't losing faith.
We're just meeting the part of faith that doesn't
entertain us. Ordinary time reveals what's in
your hands. And sometimes, sometimes, when the
lights come up, we don't actually like seeing
what we're holding. Now, let me show you our
scripture verse from this morning, Mark 35, 135.
It says, Jesus got up very early in the morning
while it was still dark and went to a deserted
place, ermos topos in Greek, a wilderness place
or an empty place to pray. That verse there is
not to shame us because we didn't wake up at
4 .30 in the morning and start journaling in
Hebrew. It's there to show us that Jesus lived
a life of rhythm. Because some of us don't need
a new season. We need a new rhythm. Even Jesus,
the Son of God, the Word made flesh, did not
live on constant spiritual fireworks. He walked.
He ate. He got tired. He needed solitude. He
needed prayer. He needed the ordinary discipline
of withdrawing and returning. And we actually
see a pattern often in Jesus' actions. Withdraw.
Pray, return. And the return matters. In verse
38, the disciples find him and say, everyone's
looking for you. And Jesus says, let us go on
to the neighboring towns so that I may proclaim
the message there also. For that is what I came
out to do. Prayer doesn't make Jesus float away
from real life. Prayer makes him re -enter it
with purpose. That's ordinary time spirituality.
Not escape the world, not get hyped once a year,
but become steady. Paul does the same kind of
thing when he writes his first letter to the
Thessalonian church. In chapter 5 of that letter
comes these small, almost annoying commands.
Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. Give thanks
in all circumstances. Do not quench the spirit.
Paul wrote to this church in Thessalonica and
it was tired. It was confused. It was grieving
their dead and wondering if Jesus was going to
return. And instead of giving them fireworks,
he gave them a slow recipe. And then, here's
the mercy part, verse 23, 24. May the God of
peace himself sanctify you entirely. The one
who calls you is faithful and he will do this.
You, me, friend, we are not held together by
our spiritual intensity. We're held together
by God's faithfulness. Ordinary time is not proving
we're strong. Ordinary time is God proving he
stays. This is the workshop. This is that coal
bed. So here's the exhortation. It's simple and
it's annoying. And it's absolutely where the
gold is buried. Stop waiting for your life to
feel holy before you live holy. Stop waiting
for the right mood, the right moment, the right
worship set to move you. Stop waiting to feel
spiritual before you act spiritual. Ordinary
times, holiness looks like five honest sentences
instead of 50 pretty ones. It looks like 10 minutes
with the phone off, letting your soul catch up
with your body. One quiet act of mercy that you
didn't announce to others. Forgiveness you don't
advertise. And refusing to let cynicism disciple
you. Coming back. Not coming forward necessarily.
Coming back. Because ordinary time is where most
people quit. They don't quit because they hate
God. They quit because nothing dramatic is happening.
They quit because the spiritual high wears off
and nobody told them there was a normal. They
quit because they confused quiet with absence.
But quiet isn't absence. Quiet is where the roots
grow. Trees don't grow loudly. They grow slow
and silent and deep. And the ones that last around
here through that Oklahoma wind are the ones
nobody noticed while they were becoming strong.
If you'll let God train you in ordinary times,
something changes in you. You'll start noticing
Jesus in the small places. You'll start to see
the king wearing need. You start to recognize
grace in unglamorous forms. You start to become
the kind of person who doesn't need a crisis
to pray. That's readiness. Not readiness as panic.
Readiness as formation. Who you're becoming as
a follower of Christ. So tomorrow, when you wake
up and life feels ordinary again, here's a prayer
you can pray without any spiritual fireworks.
Lord, make... Today, holy. And then live like
he answered it. May the God who met you in candlelight
meet you in the fluorescent light. May the Christ
who was revealed by a star reveal himself in
your kitchen, your commute, your waiting room.
May the spirit who moved in the big season move
in your small moments, not as fireworks, but
as coals. Not as spectacle, but as steadfastness.
Not as performance, but as presence. And when
normal tries to tell you nothing is happening,
may you remember the kingdom grows slow and it
grows sure. So come back next week, same you,
same God, same Tuesday waiting on you. Because
ordinary time is the workshop and the Lord who
sees in secret. is still there. Amen? Amen. If
you're walking back into the ordinary this week,
back into the calendar, the commute, the dishes,
the same old conversations, hear me. The ordinary
is not God's absence. It's often God's classroom.
Jesus doesn't just meet us in mountaintop moments.
He meets us in the secret place, in the quiet
decisions no one claps for, in the mercy that
costs you something, in the prayer whispered
with the door shut. And if today stung a little,
that's not shame. That's the Spirit doing honest
work. Conviction isn't God rejecting you. It's
God refusing to leave you stuck in a smaller
life than grace intends. Now listen, if something
today made sense, maybe for the first time in
a long time, If it put language to what you've
been feeling or gave you something to carry into
the next week, go on. Throw that like in the
offering plate, not as a payment, just as a little
witness saying, I'm still here and I'm still
listening. And if you want to keep walking with
us through the workshop of ordinary time, then
tie your subscribe. That way you'll know when
we're meeting for church again. And until then,
friend, be blessed.