Alongside
the Community Church of Durham
October
20, 2019 + The 19th Sunday after Pentecost
Dave
Grishaw-Jones
Luke
12:22-34
1.
Visiting
with my wife and daughters in California this week, I had a chance to walk a favorite
cliffside path along the Pacific coast.
It was early in the morning, and the fog had settled in overnight. The earth was still, the great ocean itself
seemed to be resting. The thick fog on
the bay brought to mind those first verses of Genesis: how the spirit of God
broods over the face of the deep seas, bringing forth life.
And
then, out of that dense stillness, a formation of pelicans—maybe ten, twelve,
fourteen of them—soaring along the cliff’s face, heading south, angled in a
great V. One pelican out in front, the
others right there behind. High above
the two or three brave human souls paddling out on surfboards. I turned to watch them go. The pelicans.
So much grace and power and beauty in the world.
Consider
the pelicans, Jesus says, to me at least.
Consider the pelicans.
Then,
just five, maybe six minutes later, a similar flock (or maybe the same one)
glided by going north. But this time,
they were right down there, on the water, or just a wing’s tip above the water. Like it was a game for them. How close they could get. Ten of them, twelve of them, in V formation,
dancing up the coast, enjoying the promise of morning, maybe contemplating a
meal. Probably contemplating a
meal.
Everything
about these great birds dazzles me: their long, perfectly prepared beaks; their
magnificent wingspans; this ability to glide just this much above the surface
of the bay. Together. As a flock.
In formation. Sometimes I watch
these great birds, these dawn dancers, and I imagine dinosaurs, pterodactyls,
ancient winged beasts. And sometimes I
watch these pelicans, and I think I see the beginning of beginnings, the dawn
of time, the light that first danced on the face of the deep. The spirit of God brooding over the
waters. It’s like worship for me, in a
way. To see them out there. In the morning.
Consider
the pelicans, Jesus says, maybe to you too.
Consider the pelicans.
This
morning I want to commend to you the kind of prayerfulness that keeps watch in
ordinary time, the kind of prayerfulness that notices the beauty and wonder and
care stitched into the pattern of pelicans in flight or maple trees in full
fall color or even an old dog’s tail wagging in joy as you step in from the
cold after a long day at work. Let’s
call this kind of prayer contemplation.
Contemplation. “Consider the
ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and
yet God feeds them.” And then: “Consider
the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even
Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.”
Contemplation
is keeping watch. Contemplation is
saying YES to what is. Contemplation is
quietly, consistently, gratefully praising the God whose imagination—whose
evolving imagination—provides for pelicans on the bay and maple trees in the
forest and your old dog’s sloppy tongue and wagging tail at the end of the
day. You see: there’s a kind of
prayerfulness that acknowledges God’s providence, God’s blessing, God’s simple
but oh-so-extravagant kindness in the oh-so-ordinary worlds we live in. Contemplation. To notice is to pray. God is good.
I’m
thinking now about our children, all of them: about our children here at
church, my three daughters at home in California. I’m thinking about the tiny infant we
baptized—Otto Rose was his name, Otto Rose!—a month ago, right here in this
sanctuary. Don’t you want our children
to grow up keeping watch? Don’t you want
them to grow up saying YES to what is?
It’s so easy to get ourselves—and our children—all tangled up in worry,
all tangled up in what might go wrong.
But don’t you want them to see God’s providence in pelicans and ravens
and puffins and hawks? Don’t you want
our children to see God’s blessing in the cycling of seasons, God’s kindness in
the wagging tails of dogs, God’s grace in the lilies of the field? I want us to think about raising a generation
of believers—right here at the Community Church of Durham—a generation of
believers who keep watch and praise God and appreciate the oh-so-extravagant
kindness of God in the oh-so-ordinary worlds we live in.
Contemplation,
right?
So
Jesus says, “Consider the ravens in the desert, and the pelicans on the bay,
the tiny rowdy puffins off the coast.”
How each one is beautiful, how each one is perfect in its own way, how
each one is holy and whole and cared for in the great economy of God’s
grace! “Consider the ravens, and the
pelicans, and the tiny rowdy puffins.”
Just as these dear friends, just as these sweet neighbors, just as their
hearts are blessed and honored and cherished by God—so it is with you. You too are holy and whole and perfect in your own way! So try not to worry so much about sowing and
reaping. So try not to worry so much
about amassing and accumulating. So try
not to worry so much about expanding profit margins and the hippest, smartest
investment strategies. Because God knows
what you need, what you truly need, what you really need to live and serve and
thrive. It’s not so complicated as you
think. God knows what you truly
need.
And
here’s the thing, at least according to Jesus: All that worry keeps you from
wagging your tail and loving your life and dancing as only you can dance. All that worry keeps you from letting go,
like the maples and oaks and birches this October. And all that worry keeps you from flying
where your spirit longs to fly. “So
consider the ravens in the desert, and the pelicans on the bay, the tiny rowdy
puffins off the coast.” And let God be
God. Because, frankly, it’s a whole lot
easier that way. And there’s a lot of life
to be lived. So let God be God. And live your life.
3.
Of
course, Jesus is primarily interested in discipleship, in our capacity for
courage, in our commitment to compassion.
Jesus is encouraging you and me, inviting you and me, to go where he
goes, to love as he loves, to take up his cross and his heart and his
mission. And there are mountains to
climb on that journey, and burdens to bear, and unknowns to live with. So contemplation—at least, in Jesus’ mind, in
his own spiritual practice—contemplation is a source of human liberation and
freedom. To let God be God. To trust in the kindness of things. To celebrate and embrace your own essential
beauty, your own essential goodness, your own essential wholeness. Especially when the mountains are steep, and
the storms rolling in. Especially when
the burdens are heavy, and it’s unclear how much farther you have to go. Especially when the unknowns are agonizing
and mind-bending and just plain hard.
“Consider the ravens in the desert, and the pelicans on the bay, the
tiny rowdy puffins off the coast.” And
let God be God. And live your life. “Consider the ravens,” Jesus says. And follow me.
In a
sense, the rubber hits the road here: Luke 12. “Do not keep striving,” Jesus says in the
text, “for what you are to eat and what you are to drink, and do not keep
worrying. For it is the nations of the
world that strive after all these things, and God knows that you need
them.” Striving seems to indicate our
prioritizing of certain behaviors, our focusing on certain worries. And Jesus intends to change the calculus
completely. “Instead,” he says, “strive
for God’s kingdom. Prioritize God’s
kingdom. Focus on God’s kingdom. And all this other stuff will sort itself
out. And all these other things will be
given to you as well.” In God's time. In God's care. In God's world.
For
Jesus, God’s kingdom is at hand, it’s a daily reality, it’s the nearness of
grace, the promise of abundance, the radicality of love. God’s kingdom isn’t a political agenda, or a
utopia in the great by and by. It’s a
movement in the here and now, a gathering of spirits devoted to mercy and joy,
breaking bread and bearing pain together.
God’s kingdom is something like the beloved community—at least that was
how Martin Luther King, Jr. described it—the beloved community of all races and
backgrounds, of all genders and sexual orientations, of all abilities and
theological bents: The beloved community
dedicated to the cause of love and respect, freedom and justice, simplicity and
restraint. Like that great V formation of pelicans, dancing across the bay.
What
Jesus is saying, then, is kind of wild.
Prioritize that kind of beloved community. Strive for that kind of kingdom. And trust that life and work and food and
clothing, all of it, will work itself out in the great economy of grace. Prioritize that kind of beloved
community. Strive for that kind of
kingdom. And rest in the confidence that
God knows what you need most, what you need to live and serve and thrive in the
world.
Now,
let’s be clear: The TV ads during this afternoon’s games will say
otherwise. They’ll tell us that we need
faster cars and that happiness is a jeep that can conquer mountains. And they’ll tell us that we need Carnival
cruises and little blue pills and skinnier jeans. There’ll be ads for Charles Schwab and Edward
Jones and Fidelity, and who knows who else reminding us that we don’t have
enough to retire on or to sleep on or to pass on to our kids.
But
Jesus says, mark my words, Jesus says: Step outside. That’s all.
Just that. Turn off the ads. Mute all that noise. And step outside. “Consider the ravens and the pelicans,” he
says. “Check out the tiny puffins and
the soaring hawks. Revel in the maple’s
reds and the yellows of the birch and the oranges of autumn’s decline.” And take a deep breath. Take a very deep breath. And know that you are every bit as perfect,
every bit as beautiful, every bit as loved as these. Let God be God. Reach only for the kingdom of love. And all the rest will be OK. Amen.
