“Summer Blessings: Trust”
Matthew 6:25-34
“I Worried,” by Mary Oliver
Excerpt from “Un Thy Wondrous Works I Will Meditate (Psalm 145),” Oliver
In my experience, telling someone not to worry is about as effective as telling someone to calm down, which is to say: not at all.
In my experience, telling someone that everything will be just fine is about as true as telling them that everything happens for a reason, which is to say: not at all.
In my experience, such statements usually have more to do with the person making them than the person who is worried or panicked or grieving or otherwise upset. One person’s anxiety, grief, or upset makes us feel uncomfortable—and we don’t like to feel uncomfortable. We want the upset person to feel better not only because we care about them but also because we want to feel better.
And, also in my experience, preachers and teachers will sometimes say things to groups of people that they would never say in a one-on-one conversation. We like to think that whatever provocative thing we say in a sermon or a lesson will serve as an invitation to less talking and more listening on our part.
And while I would hope that it goes without saying, I’m going to say this anyway: If you would like to talk about your worries or troubles, I would be honored to listen to you and pray with you.
Because what’s most important is giving the worried or otherwise upset person the opportunity to explain why they’re feeling that way—which they may not even realize until someone asks them and then listens. What’s also really important is that we honor those feelings, whatever their origin, whatever they’re about.
Jesus often spoke to large groups of people, where lots of back and forth just wouldn’t have been practical. And I want to believe that in more intimate settings, Jesus did a lot of listening. That he asked questions like “Why do you worry about clothing?” or fill in the blank, and then listened to the answer. Because while I don’t believe everything happens for a reason, I do believe there is a reason behind most feelings and actions, even if it’s something as superficial as being tired or hungry.
An when it comes to worry, as I’ve already said this morning, I believe a common reason for that is fear. Once we’ve named and acknowledged the fear behind our worry, we can begin to explore where that fear comes from, what it’s based on, and whether we should be afraid of such a thing. And that involves a lot more listening—listening with love and care.
But we have few accounts of Jesus’s one-on-one listening sessions or teaching moments. The gospel writers seemed more interested with the what Jesus did and the things he said than what was said to him and how he listened.
Given that, I think it’s important to notice that in telling us not to worry, Jesus does not say there’s nothing to worry about; he is not preaching denial. Instead, he acknowledges that there is more than enough worry and trouble to go around and suggests we should not get ahead of ourselves in worrying.
Do not worry about tomorrow, he says, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.
But if we’re not supposed to worry about the troubles that do, in fact, exist, what are we supposed to do with our feelings about them? How do we avoid both worry and denial? How do we acknowledge the substantial troubles of the day without letting them eat us up inside? How do we deal with both the everyday troubles and the occasional catastrophe and still find hope and joy?
The answer Jesus offers seems to be to trust God.
The problem is that telling someone to trust is usually about as effective as telling them to calm down. Telling someone they can relax because God is in control can sound a little like toxic positivity and a lot like an unwillingness to feel another’s pain.
What we need is to find a consistent way to notice how good God is and to rest in that goodness. What we need is some way to open ourselves to being gobsmacked on the regular, some way to delight in the world we’ve been given and how it always “turn[s] as it was taught,” with no involvement or worry from us.
And so it is that, somewhere between the “do not worries” and “there will be trouble,” Jesus proposes what is known these days as a spiritual practice. And he wraps it in poetry.
Look at the birds of the air, he says. Consider the lilies of the field.
Some, including the poet Mary Oliver, would call that paying attention, also known as our life’s work. Others, including the poet Rainier Maria Rilke, would call it life-giving praise. The mystics call it contemplation. The psalmist and the poet would call it meditating on God’s wondrous works. And neuroscientists would call it rewiring our brains away from stress and anxiety and toward resilience by noticing and imprinting at least one tiny little joy every day.
Whatever we call it, it all seems to boil down to trust—to choosing to savor the beauty of the world; choosing to believe that the good outweighs the bad; choosing to remember all the hard times we’ve come through and all the sweet times we’ve been surprised by joy; choosing to believe that no matter how bad things are or how alone we feel, God is with us; choosing to keep seeking the way of Love; living as if nothing can separate us from the love of God; choosing to name our fear, feel our pain, acknowledge all that can’t be known and all we can’t control—and sing hallelujah anyhow.
That’s what “belief” is, really: a willingness to trust in the power of love.
It takes practice, of course. When things are going well for us, we might think we don’t need to practice; but when times get rough, when the worries begin to overwhelm us, we remember how important practice is. That we must always be paying attention, looking for beauty, opening ourselves to wonder, delighting in the little things, praying about everything, and sharing our joy.
In another poem, Mary Oliver asks,
Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches
of other lives—
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey,
hanging
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early summer
feel like?Do you think this world is only an entertainment for you?
Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
with perfect courtesy, to let you in!
Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass!
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over
the dark acorn of your heart!No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint
that something is missing from your life!Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
Continually?
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?Well, there is time left—
fields everywhere invite you into them.And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!
To put one’s foot into the door of the grass, which is
the mystery, which is death as well as life, and
not be afraid!To set one’s foot in the door of death, and be overcome
with amazement!To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine
god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw,nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the
present hour,to the song falling out of the mockingbird’s pink mouth,
to the tiplets of the honeysuckle, that have opened
in the nightTo sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind!
Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?
