A sermon, based on Luke 2:22-32 and Psalm 95. Inspired by Paula Gooder's Everyday God: The Spirit of the Ordinary, Ruper Shortt's The Eclipse of Christianity: And Why It Matters, Rachel Starr Thomson's An Introvert’s Guide to Church, and Lilly Fowler's For Shy Worshippers, Church Can Be Overwhelming.
May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.
Earlier this year, as we were emerging from winter, it was just an ordinary Tuesday evening. Nothing remarkable. I was driving my son Tom home from his swimming lesson, the kind of weekly routine many of us know well. I was feeling a bit tired, a bit meh. You know that kind of weariness: not dramatic, just the quiet hum of life wearing on. And then, from the back seat, Tom suddenly said, “Mummy, look at that. It’s beautiful.” I glanced over, and there it was: a bare, leafless tree, its silhouette framed against a glowing orange sky. Stark and simple. But yes, beautiful.
In that moment, I was reminded how easy it is to miss the wonder that’s right in front of us. Especially in the ordinary. Especially when we’re not looking for it.
Tom’s joy woke me up, not just to the beauty outside the window, framed by a gap between two unremarkable buildings that I drive past most days, but to the presence of God in the here and now. In the tiredness. In the routine. In the leafless trees and the quiet drives home.
And that’s what today’s readings invite us into: a joy that meets us in the ordinary. A call not to wait for life to become extraordinary before we open our hearts. Because God speaks, even on Tuesdays, and if we’re listening, we might just see something beautiful.
So often we wait for the extraordinary, those bright moments that seem charged with spiritual meaning: Christmas, Easter, baptisms, weddings, powerful worship services. And yes, those moments are precious and holy.
But most of our life, and most of our faith, is lived in the in-between. The Tuesday mornings, the quiet chores, the Sunday services without fireworks. And here’s the good news: God is in the ordinary, and in that ordinary, there is joy.
Not just quiet contentment, but real, soul-deep joy.
Joy like a cup of tea or coffee and a slice of cake, shared in the church garden.
Joy like nodding off for a peaceful snooze while listening to the radio.
Joy like music sung not for performance, but with contentedness while you’re doing the washing up.
God delights to show up in our everyday, and today’s readings remind us that when we stay present, awake, and open-hearted, we will see His salvation.
In Luke 2, Mary and Joseph bring their baby to the temple, not for a grand coronation, but to fulfil a simple, ordinary tradition. They come as poor people, unable to afford a lamb, so they offer two birds instead. Nothing flashy. Just humble obedience. And yet, this moment, this quiet act of faith, becomes the revelation of joy to the world. Simeon, waiting his whole life, takes the child in his arms and bursts into song:
“My eyes have seen your salvation… a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel.”
This is the joy of God arriving, not in palaces, but in simplicity. Not in power, but in vulnerability. The joy that is quiet, but full.
Psalm 95 begins with a celebration:
“Come, let us sing for joy to the Lord; let us shout aloud to the Rock of our salvation. Let us come before him with thanksgiving and extol him with music and song.”
Joy, music, thanksgiving, that isn’t reserved for special occasions. This is everyday joy, the kind we practice week by week in church, and day by day in prayer. When we sing together, even quietly, even imperfectly, we take part in something holy. Then comes the second half of Psalm 95, and it shifts in tone. It says:
“Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your hearts.”
It asks something of us. When we sing and praise and pray, we aren’t just performing a ritual or expressing emotion; we’re opening ourselves, allowing the Spirit to challenge us when we need correcting, comfort us when we are hurting, and send us out when the world needs loving. The Psalm warns against a hardened heart, a heart that resists change. A heart that keeps God at a distance. But here’s the grace in it: the invitation is always for today. Not once upon a time. Not one day, when you’ve sorted yourself out. Today, this moment, this ordinary day, this ordinary worship service, is where God speaks. And if we keep our hearts soft, if we stay open, if we keep listening even through the familiar songs and prayers, then worship doesn’t just express joy. It becomes the place where we are slowly, steadily, joyfully transformed.
In our culture, we’re told to chase more, to keep busy, to strive. This is something that I, as much as the next person, have experienced throughout my personal and professional life. But Christianity offers a slower, deeper rhythm. Like learning an instrument, it doesn’t dazzle overnight, but with time, we build up practices, worship, prayer, service, kindness, and the joy grows like roots under the surface.
As Paula Gooder reminds us:
“We need the ordinary in order to experience and recognise the extraordinary.”
She writes that the light in a painting only shines because of the shadows.
And so too, the joy of Christ shines brightest in the steady rhythm of ordinary life:
Laughing over biscuits and tea after church.
Sharing a lift with a friend.
Singing familiar hymns that have carried us through decades.
This is real joy. A joy born of presence, not performance.
Let’s also remember: joy isn’t always loud! In her article, brilliantly entitled, “An Introvert’s Guide to the Church,” Rachel Starr Thomson writes:
“Friendship Focus is a time in my church’s Sunday morning services when we extend the traditional “good morning” and a handshake to 15 full minutes of getting tea or coffee, saying hello to the people around us, and, ideally, introducing ourselves to new people and getting to know them. I am great at the getting tea or coffee part. The chatting it up with the entire congregation, not so much. Sometimes I try. Sometimes I just take a really long time at the tea table so it will all be over and I can go sit down. The above confession might lead you to believe that I’m shy. I’m not… I perform poetry and I don’t even get butterflies in my stomach when it comes to standing in front of a room full of people and speaking. What I am is introverted. And sometimes in church, that can be a problem! In the modern church, the expectation is that if the Holy Spirit were working in your life … you would be an extrovert.”
In reality, for some of us, joy comes quietly. We might not love a 15-minute "Friendship Focus." And that’s okay. Because God doesn’t require extroversion, although He loves that too! He requires honesty and openness. Scripture lifts up the practices that come naturally to many introverts:
Praying quietly.
Thinking before speaking.
Waiting patiently for God's whisper.
Joy takes many forms. Sometimes it’s a deep belly laugh. Other times, it’s the joy of knowing you’re not alone, even in silence.
So, what do we take from all this?
We don’t need fireworks to see Jesus.
We need only to bring what we have, like Mary and Joseph, in quiet faith. We need only to wait like Simeon, trusting that God will speak.
And when we do, we will see Him.
Today, if you hear His voice, in music, in Scripture, in the kindness of a friend, in the quiet joy of the moment, let us not harden our hearts.
Instead, let us rejoice and open our eyes to the effortless joy that’s already all around us.
Amen.
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