Dirty Water
White's Beach, New Zealand
Greatness is a tantalising thing. It almost seems we are born craving greatness. Well, some of us anyway.
How hungry we are for that affirmation, first from parents, then teachers, friends, and colleagues. I remember as a 7-year-old, sitting in a classroom, eagerly working hard and hoping to catch the teacher’s eye. I was eager for that comment that sometimes seemed to so easily land on others. I wanted someone to notice how my work exceeded their lofty expectations, that I was somehow a literary genius. Later on, I would also hope to catch the eye of whichever guest speaker was attending our church, hoping he would hear something from God about me specifically. Sometimes, I wanted to hear something from a friend's parent about what a good kid I was and how my future looked bright. Every time, it was that hunger for that same affirmation: I am seen, I am special, I have greatness ahead.
Sometimes, yes, I was noticed. But alas, I have a slightly different sort of greatness. Something I am coming to learn, albeit very slowly, is that greatness sometimes does show up in great big collections, all strung together in a package that is hard to ignore. But most of the time, greatness comes in everyday work, in small obediences, in consistency and faithfulness with what we’ve been given. Raw talent and natural skill are definitely the high-impact stars of the show, but over time, hard work and consistency turn out to be the hidden heroes of the story—a longer form of greatness.
When I was 18, I attended a Performing Arts College, where I majored in dance. I’m not the most graceful of dancers—my background was hip-hop, and I also don’t have a fast-acting memory, so learning the choreography took me longer than most others. I often had to ask friends for one-on-one input after each class just to keep up. I was clearly sitting in the middle to low part of the year for ‘natural talent,’ but what I did have was a lot of energy and a lot of desire to be a memorable dancer.
For the midyear solos, I chose to dance a contemporary style to a track that had no rhythm or defined beat. It was just a collection of noises that I had to memorise. I spent two months, day and night, choreographing a performance worthy of a solo exam. On the day of the exam, one of the best dancers got up and freestyled his final…and it was incredible. His natural talent was hard to ignore, and he scored in the mid-nineties. It was insane to watch, and it was even more impressive because he was freestyling—making it up as he went. When it was my turn, I took my spot and did what I had spent months practising. The sounds were right where they were meant to be, and I proudly completed the dance. I scored half a mark ahead of the talented freestyler and finished first place in the year.
I’ve always wanted to share that story for obvious reasons. But there’s also a point: natural talent is dynamic and breathtaking, but hard work and discipline can also hold their own. However, we usually dismiss that because it’s so, well, ordinary.
This lesson about the power of the ordinary was further underscored for me through a story in the Bible that I’ve always found fascinating: the story of Naaman. He’s a guy who commands armies, is well-respected, and very powerful—but he contracts leprosy. Leprosy was both indiscriminate and incurable in that time, a disease that could destroy your body and social standing.
“Don’t despise the day of small things.”
Naaman hears about a prophet in Israel who can heal people, so he caravans out to meet this mighty man of God. When he arrives, however, he meets Elisha—a scruffy, balding prophet whose unimpressive demeanour likely didn’t match Naaman’s expectations. Elisha prescribes seven washes in the muddy Jordan River, then retreats back into his house. Naaman is probably not used to being treated with so much ‘normality,’ and he’s not keen to dip in the swamp. I get it. I’m from New Zealand, where the beaches and rivers are mostly immaculate, beautiful, and clear. So when I stumble upon a less picturesque European lake or river, it’s not super attractive to wade into the muddy sludge.
That’s exactly how Naaman felt. He compared the muddy Jordan to the clean rivers of his homeland and took offence at the prophet’s instructions. He may have been expecting some big magic show, worthy of his greatness—but a lot of the time, that’s not how God works.
Naaman nearly turned around and went home, but a servant convinced him to give it a go. He did—and he was healed.
How often do we despise ordinary things? Yet, healing can sometimes be disguised in dirty water. Greatness sometimes comes in ordinary packages such as consistent discipline, hard work, and practice.
The ordinary challenges: “I said something dumb again, and I should probably just apologise.” The ordinary obedience: “I should forgive that offence because Jesus tells us not to be offended.” The ordinary disciplines: “I should get up 30 minutes earlier and spend time with God.” They’re not super juicy realisations. They’re offensively banal sometimes.
But God is often in the dirty water. His Spirit is found in the ordinary. Let’s not look down on things because of how ordinary they appear. Instead, let’s find that deep greatness locked away in repetitive, good work. Dig it out! Allow God to use those small, everyday moments to shape a greatness that will stand the test of time.
And as we do, may our understanding of what is truly great begin to widen. Isn’t that typical of a God story anyway?
