What if the eternal broke into our routine?

There are days that look too much alike. We wake up, respond to messages, fulfill responsibilities, serve, pray, teach, organize, accompany, sleep… and start all over again. Not everything repetitive is bad. In fact, many routines sustain us, give us structure, and help us remain faithful in the small things. But an honest question arises: what happens when the sacred stops surprising us?

Recently, I was reflecting on the story of Zechariah in Luke 1:8–23. He was not far from God, nor was he living in sin, nor going through a spiritual crisis. He was simply fulfilling his duty. He was in the temple, on his assigned turn, doing what he had done many times before. And it was precisely there—in the ordinary—that the eternal broke in. Zechariah was a faithful, constant, and responsible priest. However, being a priest did not necessarily represent for him an emotionally stirring spiritual experience; it was his work, his schedule, part of his identity and, also, part of his routine.

There are things that can become routine without ceasing to be good: praying, serving, gathering with the church, walking alongside others in their processes, teaching the Word, raising children in faith, being available for others, among many more. They are not negative practices; on the contrary, they are necessary. But when they stop surprising us, they can also stop transforming us. Perhaps the problem is not what we do, but from where we do it.

For many of us—especially those who grew up close to ministry—faith did not begin as a personal discovery, but as a constant environment. From a young age, we learned to pray out loud, to answer “correctly,” to explain God to others. When this happens, the risk is not always losing faith; the risk can be becoming accustomed to the sacred. We can live so close to the eternal that it no longer amazes us.

When the angel appears to Zechariah, the text says that he was troubled (Luke 1:12–13), which indicates that he was still capable of being amazed. However, shortly after, he doubts (Luke 1:18). His doubt does not necessarily arise from unbelief, but it could be marked by accumulated weariness. There are prayers we stop praying not because we have stopped believing in God, but because we no longer want to experience disappointment again. There are seasons when faith remains, but expectation grows smaller. This does not happen because God has stopped speaking, but because our lives become so full that we stop expecting divine interruptions.

Zechariah was not in a season of beginnings; he was in an advanced stage of life. He had prayed, he had waited, and he had learned to live with silence. When God spoke, it was not that he had stopped believing in Him; he simply was no longer expecting something new. Recovering wonder does not begin by expecting great miracles; sometimes it begins by daring to expect something small again.

When Zechariah doubts, he remains silent (Luke 1:20). However, that silence should not be understood as punishment, but as space. When we grow up surrounded by faith, we learn very early to put words to God. The problem is not having words, but not leaving space for God to say something new. Sometimes our faith has spoken a lot, but listened little. Perhaps to marvel again does not require more messages, more content, or more correct answers; perhaps it requires less noise. Zechariah was not excluded from the process. God kept him within the story, but in silence. At times we do not need to produce more; we need to remain quiet long enough to notice whether God is breaking in in a different way. When Zechariah speaks again (Luke 1:64), his first word is not an explanation, but worship. One who learns to marvel again does not speak the same way.

God is not exhausted. He has not finished speaking, surprising, or lovingly interrupting our agendas. Perhaps it is we who have filled our days so much that we no longer leave space to notice His presence.

This week, choose any routine—something normal that you already do automatically—and decide to inhabit it differently. Not to produce results or prove something, but simply to pay attention. Do it as a small act of expectation. As a quiet way of saying: “Lord, I am still here. And I still want to hear You.” It could be a prayer without asking for anything, an extended time of silence, a coffee without your phone in your hand, a day without social media, or a moment of full attention.

Perhaps nothing extraordinary will happen. Perhaps there will be no intense experience or evident emotion. But maybe something deeper will begin: a renewed sensitivity, a more humble waiting, a heart a little more attentive.

Because the eternal does not always break in with noise. Sometimes it does so in a whisper, in a detail, in a pause we choose not to fill. And if the eternal were to break into your routine, it would not be to disrupt your life, but to remind you that He is still present in it.

Perhaps the true miracle is not that our routines change, but that our hearts learn to marvel again.

What if this week you did not look for something new to do, but a new way of being? What if the eternal decided to break in right there?

Because when we begin to expect again, even the ordinary can become sacred ground.

Photo: From the airplane (December 2025)