Luke 12:6-7
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
July 10, 2022
I was underwhelmed. Once again, my experience of Cape Cod was being shaped by contrast to where I had just been—the high desert of New Mexico. In New Mexico, everything is big. Sandstone cliffs with dramatic variations in their coloring. Pedernal Mountain in the background. An expansive blue sky, marred only by occasional clouds that turned out to be smoke from wildfires. Brilliant sunshine; abundant stars at night.
In between New Mexico and Cape Cod, I was home for a few days, reveling in the green of Central Massachusetts in early May, when the leaves at long last unfurl and the flowers break out in glorious bloom. When I made plans to go to Cape for two weeks in May, I hadn’t realized that spring comes later there.
All those contrasts shaped my first impression of the cape. It still looked like winter. The first few days were overcast and chilly; when we tried to take Jeannie for a walk on the beach, she refused to go. It was too windy for her floppy ears. When we woke up in the morning, there was so much fog we couldn’t even see the Eastham Town Cove that was barely 100 feet in front of us.
I made a point of not complaining out loud; I knew it was a privilege and a gift to have time away in a peaceful place. Secretly, though, I wished I’d stayed in New Mexico, or maybe in Framingham.
It took a few days of morning meditations using my vacation mantra, “Absorb beauty,” before my perspective began to shift. Fran, Jeannie and I found the spot on our deck that was protected from the wind. I sat there one morning with my tea and watched in awe as the fog slowly lifted. The tree in front of our deck came into view, then the cove, then the houses across the cove. Stunning in a completely different way than the cliffs of New Mexico. Fran discovered First Encounter Beach, on the bayside. Every time we went it was a different place. One day you could walk out a half mile wading through tidal pools; the next day there was hardly enough beach to take a walk. In spite of my initially grumpy attitude, I began to absorb the subtle beauty of the cape.
I had a new pair of binoculars, and I started taking them out with me when I sat on the deck. I noticed flashes of red and yellow around the tree that emerged in the morning from the fog. I smiled at the springtime brilliance of a goldfinch, the familiar red of a cardinal. As I enjoyed their bright colors, I began to pay attention to the bird I had been ignoring: its gray blended in so well with the gray skies. With my birthday binoculars I focused in for a closer view. I pulled out our new Birds of Massachusetts field guide. “Oh,” I thought dismissively, “that’s just a catbird.”
But the catbird refused to be dismissed. I took another look. I noticed the little dark gray cap on its head and the rust color under its tail. And then I began to appreciate its particular shade of gray. It is such a beautiful bird.
Ironically, this summer a catbird has discovered our home feeder. Every time I see it, I smile, with gratitude for my belated discovery of its beauty.
One of the places Fran and I found in our windy-weather exploring was an overlook called Fort Hill with a view of salt marshes and ocean in the background. On my last day on the cape, I decided to take an evening stroll down the path. No binoculars, no camera, I told myself, just enjoy the view. Five minutes into the walk, I changed my plans. On either side of the path, the wild rose bushes were filled with songbirds. I wanted to share it with Fran, but she was home in Framingham. I decided at least I could channel Fran, so I ran back to get my camera. I took dozens and dozens of photos—okay, if I was really channeling Fran it would have been hundreds and hundreds. Most of the photos, I knew, would come out blurry. Songbirds don’t wait around to get their pictures taken.
That evening, I downloaded my photos and pulled out the bird book. When I got a possible ID, I emailed the photo to Fran. Common yellowthroat, question mark. Female rose-breasted grosbeak, question mark. Lots of the birds, it seemed, were sparrows. Do you know how many kinds of sparrows we have in Massachusetts? There’s the chipping sparrow, with a rust-colored cap. The song sparrow has dark streaks on its breast that come together in a central spot. The male house sparrow has a bigger dark spot on its chin. The female house sparrow is less colorful, unless you look carefully at all the shades of brown on her wings.
I’m sure many of my identification guesses were wrong. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I was taking the time to notice the rust-colored cap and the dark streaks and the rich variety of browns.
As I studied the sparrows, I thought of our gospel reading. Does God take the time to notice the nuanced beauty of the female house sparrow? Yes, Jesus says. God is not vulnerable to our human temptation to focus on the big and dramatic and ignore the small and subtle. God sees beauty and value that we so readily overlook.
Jesus challenges his disciples—challenges us—to see the world in a new way, as though through the eyes of God. Jesus challenges us to notice the sparrow—not just as a generic pretty bird but with the particularities of its streaks and spots and caps and shades of brown. When we do, something changes. The world becomes an even more wondrous place. When we add the subtle colors of a Cape Cod song sparrow to the magnificent cliffs of the high desert, there is so much more beauty for us to absorb. And the more we absorb beauty, the more our lives reflect that beauty back.
Jesus wasn’t preaching a light summer sermon about recognizing beauty on sabbatical. He was warning his disciples about the dangers they would face, and he was promising them that God would not forget them. You are not too small for God to care for you, he said. In fact, even the hairs on your head are not too small for God to notice and treasure. Try to see yourself, he challenged them, the way God sees you—small, perhaps, and of infinite value. Let God’s vision shape your vision—of yourself and of the world.
Jesus’ challenge has far-reaching consequences. When we see the sparrow with eyes shaped by God’s vision, we absorb its beauty. And we are called to care for the bugs and seeds and berries and the complex web of life on which the sparrow depends.
When we see the human community through eyes shaped by God’s vision, we pay attention to the people society has relegated to the background. We recognize the distinctiveness and beauty of individuals; we are called to care for those in need and work for a more just world.
When we see ourselves through eyes shaped by God’s vision, we awaken to our own worth. We dare to trust that our smallest acts of compassion and courage are of infinite value.
Take a moment and look around. Let your vision be shaped by God’s vision. Notice something small—a leaf, a blade of grass, a tiny marking on a rock. Look around and notice someone whose beauty you have never before taken the time to appreciate. Look within and trust that, in God’s eyes, you are not too small to matter. You are of infinite worth. You are treasured. You are beloved. Your smallest act of compassion and courage matters.
Thanks be to God. Amen.