Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
Matthew 6:25-33
September 19, 2021
“Jesus goes outdoors.” It’s an obvious theme for our early fall worship series, since here we are—outdoors. Of course, Jesus is already out here; most of his ministry took place outdoors. Outdoors is where Jesus’ disciples listened and learned and tried to follow. Outdoors is where people were healed and comforted and challenged. May our outdoor worship heal, comfort, and challenge us; may it inspire us to follow Jesus.
There are practical reasons why so much of Jesus’ ministry happened outside. It’s where most of the people already were—fishing and farming and shepherding. Beyond that, I wonder if Jesus taught outdoors because he hoped the beauty of God’s creation might open people to the power of God’s love. I also wonder whether he liked the freedom the outdoors gave people to murmur to each other as he taught.
Over the years in Bible Study, we have learned that murmurings and whisperings were an essential part of Jesus’ teaching style. He purposely made provocative statements. He wanted people to whisper to each other, “What could he mean by that?” He wanted them to puzzle it out together, to keep talking on the way home. His words were not the whole lesson; they were the catalyst for conversations that led to deeper understanding.
This morning I invite you to imagine that you are there, sitting in a field on the slope of a hill near the Sea of Galilee. By the time Jesus gets to this part of the Sermon on the Mount, he has already sent you on a roller coaster of emotions. You wept when he promised that those who mourn will be comforted. You were inspired by his challenge to let your light shine. You felt defensive when he compared anger to murder. You were taken aback by his command to love your enemy.
Now his tone shifts, and he invites you to notice what’s around you. The birds are singing; the wildflowers are in glorious bloom. You relax. For just a moment, the crowd is silent—awed by God’s creation. The murmuring begins again as you realize what Jesus is doing. In this moment of awe, he’s slipping in the most impossible challenge of all: “Do not worry.”
As he talks about the birds, you overhear a conversation on your left. “Wouldn’t it be great if we could be as carefree as the birds?” a child whispers. A teenager replies. “Don’t you see the hawk circling above us? And how the sparrows hide? Carefree? I don’t think so.” The mom joins in. “Do you remember watching those finches building a nest outside our front door? They worked day and night. Nothing carefree about that.” The child asks the question of the hour: “So if Jesus isn’t telling us we should be carefree, what is he saying about how we are supposed to live?”
On your right, there’s a group of women. When Jesus starts talking about the lilies, you can hear them react. “Consider the lilies of the fields…they neither toil nor spin…” One woman gives voice to what they are all thinking. “So, who does Jesus think spun the wool that he’s wearing right now? God? You know it was his mother. Without her spinning and toiling, he’d be standing here naked—and we’d be laughing him off the hill.”
The murmurings grow, “How can he tell us not to worry? Life is hard. There is a lot to worry about.” Then you hear Jesus ask this question: “And can any of you, by worrying, add a single hour to your span of life?” Silence. Not even the most enthusiastic worrier can answer in the affirmative. Jesus has successfully provoked the crowd to move deeper than their defensiveness.
He makes his point: “Strive first for the kingdom—the kin-dom—of God, and God’s righteousness.” Jesus isn’t just telling us to stop worrying; he’s challenging us to replace our worry with something more important.
The murmurings begin again, this time without the defensive edge. “What is this kin-dom of God? What does it mean to strive for it?” You don’t have the answers, but you’re starting to feel grateful for new questions to ask.
***
I invite you to allow that picture of a wildflower-covered Galilean hill to fade. Look around at where you are right now. Perhaps in your home, surrounded by reminders of what matters to you, reminders of all the things you could worry about. Or maybe you’re here on the lawn, grateful for beautiful trees, worrying what we will do when the weather changes. Wherever you are, I invite you to think about what Jesus’ exhortation stirs in you. Is there a snarky comment you’d like to whisper to your neighbor? An argument you’d like to make in defense of worry? Do you feel a deep longing to be freed from the downward spiral of your worries? Listen to your own responses; they are part of Jesus’ lesson plan for you.
On Monday, I invited our noontime prayer group to reflect on this passage. Rich wisdom emerged. We noted that sometimes we inherit worry from our families; sometimes we absorb it from the evening news. We acknowledged how hard it is to change those patterns. One person shared that being among trees loosens worry’s grip on her life. One talked about letting go of trying to change other people’s behavior, focusing instead on how she responds. I shared my observation that worry is one way I avoid facing the limits of my control. There might be nothing I can do to fix a situation, but at least I can worry about it. We talked about faith—or trust—as an antidote to worry, recognizing that faith doesn’t mean expecting God will make things turn out the way we want them. Faith calls us to a deeper level of trust in the power of God’s love: trust that God will give us strength to face whatever lies ahead, trust in the promise of new life even in the face of loss.
Since that Monday conversation, I have had a typical week—with plenty of worries that sucked me into their swirl. This week, I have intentionally tried to use them as an opportunity to reflect on Jesus’ words. What can I learn about how my worries hook me? What can I learn that can free me from those hooks, free me to live more faithfully and joyfully?
I didn’t come up with any answers. I did surface some more questions to ponder, questions to lift up in prayer. I share them in the hope that they will prompt your own questions.
My worries this week confirmed the truth of what I shared at our Monday prayer group: often I worry in order to avoid facing my powerlessness. What might happen if I choose to accept that I am not in control of a situation? How can I deepen my trust in the power of God’s love to heal and bring new life, even if that new life doesn’t take the form I think it should?
I was surprised this week to discover that, while I frequently choose worry to avoid facing powerlessness, I also I choose worry to avoid claiming my power. Sometimes there is action I could take, but I’m not courageous enough to do it. So I worry instead. Perhaps my worry can become a prompt for me to ask a new question. “What do I need in order to find the courage to take action?” Or maybe, “Who can I ask to help me, so I can find courage in knowing I am not alone?”
As I noticed myself getting hooked by worry, I was tempted to judge myself—how far I am from Jesus’ vision of worry-free faithfulness. I made a conscious choice to skip the judgment and instead ask myself what’s behind my worrying. Often fear. If I look deeper than the fear, I find caring. I worry because I care. I care about the planet. I care about the people of Afghanistan. I care about Framingham, about our church, about my family. When I can name that my worry is a natural—if perhaps unhelpful—expression of my caring, I feel its grip on me loosen. I am freed up to wonder, “Can I find a more life-affirming way to express my caring?”
That question leads me back to Jesus’ words: strive first for the kingdom—the kin-dom—of God. I actually know how to do that. When we help each other, when we share our needs and our gifts, when we speak the truth in love, when we seek healing, when we listen to a friend, when we reach out to a stranger, when we speak out against injustice, God’s kin-dom breaks in. Perhaps I can turn my worry into an invitation—to go deeper and claim what I care about—and an opportunity—to express my caring in a way that allows God’s love to break in.
This week of reflecting on worry leads me to questions I can ask myself, questions I can ask Jesus to help me ponder:
–Can I acknowledge my powerlessness and trust in the power of God’s love?
–Who can help me find courage to act when I do have power?
–How can I express my caring in a way that allows God’s kin-dom to break in?
Those are the questions Jesus’ hillside teaching prompts me to whisper. What are your questions? Dare to whisper them–to yourself or to your neighbor. Dare to lift them up in prayer. Pray for the freedom to seek the kin-dom of God. Pray for the grace to rejoice in the lilies and the birds. Amen.