All the Small Things —And the God Who Doesn’t Suffer from Main Character Energy

Jeff was introduced to me as a bassoon player. Apart from my own instrument, the French horn, the bassoon is my favourite orchestral instrument. I was interested in talking with Jeff and learning more about where and with whom he has played. Jeff told me that he has mostly been a Toronto musician, and he named some of the gigs he has had over the years. “But my favourite thing,” he said to me, “is busking.” Of all the musical performances that he does, it is playing on the street corners of Toronto that brings him the most joy. “You just never know how that is going to be meaningful for exactly the right person.”

Jeff then proceeded to tell me a story. He was on the subway one night after a gig, the bassoon in his case beside him, when a man across the aisle said, “I know you!” He remembered Jeff playing on a street corner twenty years prior. “Your music was so beautiful, and it meant so much to me.” He wasn’t able just to remember on what street corner he had heard Jeff playing, he was able to list six of the songs that he had heard all of those years ago.

What a series of extraordinary happenings: that someone could offer into the world exactly the thing that another person needs to hear; that the memory of that music could imprint itself onto a person’s brain so indelibly that they would remember it all of those years later; that in a city of millions, Jeff and this passerby would meet again and there would be this moment of gratitude and recognition; that Jeff would receive a window into the gift that his music might be. That I would get to hear this story. I count myself as part of the extraordinary ripple effect of Jeff’s music. It was such a quiet and small thing Jeff was describing. Nothing about the world was changed by any of this, and it is hard to argue that even Jeff or the passerby’s lives were changed in any quantifiable way, and yet what I was hearing described was a pocket of excess grace, a gift given and received and multiplied.

I am becoming more and more convinced that this story is exactly representative of how God most likes to work and what God’s desire for us is. I do believe in big miracles, and the longer that I’m in parish ministry, the more that I believe in the great big things that God does. But it seems to me, across the pages of Scripture and in our lived experience, that God’s specialty is in flying under the radar. Jesus is already there in the crowd even as the people are wondering about when God’s Messiah is going to show up. Water is turned into wine, and most of the guests don’t even know something has happened, they just enjoy the delicious wine. Someone says the thing that someone else needs to hear, and people meet Jesus, receive forgiveness and share meals, and eyes are opened. Ten people receive healing, but only one of them turns back with recognition of what has happened and where it came from.

God, surprisingly, doesn’t suffer from main character energy. God acts to bring delight and joy and flavour and wonder and beauty to our lives without it then having to be about God. God of the small, under-the-radar, things bears witness to what this is actually about, which is love. God really does love us, fiercely and unconditionally, and what better sign of that than inviting us to have a share in God’s own delight for the wild, untamed colour and flavour and surprise of life, just for the sake of making our hearts glad.

Also, there is an added blessing in being able to recognize the presence of God and to give thanks. Love received is one thing, but being able to love in return is what our hearts are made for.

My mantra these days goes like this: pray for the big things, look for the small stuff. I have so many big prayers consuming me these days: for peace in war-torn places, ceasefires to hold, protection from Trump and his threats against Canada, and health for the people and church I love. I know that these prayers matter because I know that God wants peace, wholeness, and health for this whole complicated world.

But then I try to notice the small stuff. I look for happenings that are extraordinary and quiet, where noticing that something has happened is a bonus. I seek to pay attention to those minute soul stirrings, for the catch in the back of my throat moments, for gratuitous ‘just because’ beauty, for connections that might be momentary, but they validate something core about how our lives really do matter.

It’s in those big prayers that I remember what God wants, and to which end God is always working. But it’s in the small things that I remember this is first and finally about love.