Chiseled deep into my memory – along with the chorus to “Fifty Nifty United States” and the first couple of stanzas from The Night Before Christmas –  is the definition of “sacrament” that I learned early in my catholic education: an outward and visible sign of an inward and invisible grace. 

We have St. Augustine of Hippo, the 5th century bishop, theologian and doctor of the church, to thank for this way of conceptualizing sacraments, and I can’t help but think that part of the definition’s staying power is its simplicity. We remember what’s memorable, after all. Fifty Nifty, The Night Before Christmas, and Augustine’s understanding of sacraments may have nothing else in common, but they share their rhetorical power: rhyme, cadence, lilt and rhythm.

Outward and visible; inward and invisible. There’s a simultaneous playfulness and beauty to these words strung together, and they make it easy to categorize and therefore grasp the initial complexity of the sacraments.

Holy water, chrism, a white garment, a candle: these are the outward signs of the invisible graces of forgiveness and rebirth, brought to us through Baptism. Bread, wine, a table, a shared meal: these are the outward signs of the invisible grace of Christ’s real presence and the nourishment of our souls in the Eucharist. Vows, rings, a kiss, two hands joined: these are the outward signs of the invisible graces of a love made covenant, faithful, and fruitful in the sacrament of Holy Matrimony. 

The inward becomes outward.
The invisible becomes visible.

Not to one-up Augustine, but considering the objects and graces of the sacraments, I’d add something else: through the sacraments, the ordinary becomes extraordinary. 

Water, candles, bread, wine, a ring, hands joined: these are not innately special objects, but they become special in the moment of sacramental practice. They become exceptional when we invite God’s presence into them. They become endowed with meaning when we open ourselves to the meaning in sacred words and deeds. 

As Catholics, we believe that the seven sacraments instituted by Jesus Christ are outward and visible signs of inward and invisible grace, but we also believe in the concept of sacramentality more broadly: that ordinary physical matter, human experiences, and daily actions can act as visible signs of God’s invisible, loving presence.  

Or, echoing Ignatian Spirituality: we can find God in all things. We can find God in nature, in human relationships, in art, in movement, in music, in laughter. While the seven official sacraments are specific, efficacious channels of divine life, sacramentality extends that same participatory awareness into every mundane corner of existence.

At the heart of sacramentality is the belief that the created world is inherently capable of revealing God because God made it—and the Incarnation affirms this in the most profound way possible. In Jesus Christ, God entered the physical world and took on a human body. The ordinary, material world is therefore not something we have to transcend in order to encounter the divine; it is one of the very places where God chooses to meet us.

Humans don’t make things holy. God makes things holy. And yet… I do believe that we can be participants in the holy-making process. Is this a heresy?! I don’t think so. Hear me out.

We are participants in bringing about the Kingdom of God when we practice the spiritual and corporal works of mercy. We participate in God’s work of salvation when we proclaim the Gospel in both word and deed. And, in a smaller but no less meaningful way, we can participate in making the holy inward and invisible outward and visible when we elevate the everyday.

Not because we can make something holy by our own power, but because we can choose to notice, honor, and reveal the holiness that is already there. We can imbue reverence into otherwise casual moments. We can light the candles at dinner, put on a record instead of letting the music play from our phones, pray from the family prayer book instead of an app, or reach across the table and hold hands in a moment of peace and connection after a perhaps otherwise chaotic family meal. We can wear the delicate necklace with everyday athleisure wear. We can set the table beautifully even when it’s just Tuesday. We can send our sister or friend a pair or earrings or pretty notebook for no special reason at all. We can linger over a meal, mark a feast day, bless our children before they leave the house, or pause for a moment of gratitude before rushing on to the next thing.

These small acts don't change the ordinary into something God wasn't already present within. They change our attention. They make the invisible a little more visible. They teach us—and our children—to look at the stuff of everyday life and wonder if, perhaps, there is more here than meets the eye.

This is the Catholic argument for making ordinary things special. It’s not frivolous; it’s sacramental.