season of creation: fauna
psalm 104:14-23
the gospel of luke 12:22-31
for chapel at the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago, September 16, 2019
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“Don’t worry, it’ll all work out”
“Stop worrying”
“It’ll be okay in the end”
“You’ll be fine – don’t worry”
“Worrying doesn’t make a difference, so why are you doing it?”
Where do Jesus’ words end and unhelpful platitudes begin? I have to admit y’all, as someone who lives with anxiety, who has a long history with worry, whenever I first encounter Jesus telling us not to worry in the Gospels, my stomach clenches a little.
Because in my experience, when people tell me “don’t worry” it’s followed with an unspoken “because you can trust the world as-is.” Don’t worry, follow the expectations that have been set for you, don’t question the conditions that are causing you to worry in the first place, and you’ll be fine. Ignore the ways that worry can be a tool for survival – the ways it allows us to identify what is not going right, to name the needs that aren’t being met, and ideally, will then allow us to think creatively about alternative possibilities.
Telling us not to worry can be a tactic by those in power, and those who benefit from the systems in place, to keep us compliant. Because it minimizes the real safety and survival concerns that we hold. I hold worry about using gendered bathrooms in public. I worry about my friends getting home safe at night. I worry about the ways I am unintentionally complicit in the oppression of others and the destruction of our home. It’s hard to dismiss worry outright, since we live in broken systems.
And Jesus knows about this kind of worry. He is not saying: “don’t worry, and put trust in your human systems”, because the disciples are living under harmful systems of Empire too. Jesus is saying: “don’t worry, and put your trust in the Kin-dom of God, because there is another way.”
This passage from Luke comes as Jesus is in a crowd of thousands, so many that they were crushing into each other, and directly after the parable of the farmer and his storehouses. I find that parable useful in understanding Jesus’ command not to worry, since worry can come from an underlying fear of scarcity. And one reaction to that is to shore up resources. To cling to what we have, like the farmer did. He had an abundant harvest, and decides to build additional storehouses to insure his future. He didn’t have anything to worry about anymore. And then he dies. His illusion of control over the future, borne of worry, is shattered. The text implies that now no one will get the harvest, because he shored up for himself – not for his community, or for God. I feel the regret in this passage, since the farmer was unable to realize that we don’t have to live in scarcity, that we are allowed to say no to the patterns that harm us and do something different. It’s similar to the regret I feel in my bones around climate change, that we might be too late to turn from the bulk of the devastation, which is first impacting not the countries and communities who have driven Creation to this point, but those who were also colonized by Empire and exploited.
Worry can overwhelm us. It can cause us to make choices out of scarcity and fear. It can allow us to notice how we are being harmed, and how we are impacting others. Worry transformed can be shifted to awareness, compassion, discernment, or action. But too often, I know I get frozen in my worry. And that doesn’t mend anything, and it’s not what God wants for us. Which is why Jesus is not actually offering unhelpful platitudes in our passage, but a challenge to transform worry in a way that can be liberation.
Jesus does this by asking us to consider other ways of knowing and existing. He tells us stories of Creation. And he knows these ways can be counter-intuitive to our patterns of worry. In this text, Jesus is inviting us to de-center ourselves and pay attention to our non-human kin, learning from their relationship with God, integrating their wisdom into our own lives. It gives us a way to frame our trust in God, an alternative possibility our hearts are longing for. A possibility of desiring God, and desiring the Kin-dom, letting go and taking refuge in God. These ways of knowing, that center the wisdom of Creation, are not new. I would be remiss if I didn’t name here that Empire, white supremacy, and capitalism have intentionally devalued Creation-centered ways of knowing in the name of ‘progress’. Have deliberately and violently assimilated and decimated ways of knowing that don’t fit into a ‘rational’ mold, and have colonized countries and communities who value this knowledge. But we can make reparations, and make another choice, integrating the wisdom that God has woven into every fiber of Creation.
Consider the sparrows (earlier in Luke 12): they are sold cheaply and commonly, but each are counted and beloved by God.
Consider the ravens: scavenging; singing; praising; migrating; and fed abundantly by God.
Consider the lilies: resting in winter; breaking through soil; buffeted by wind and rain; and clothed in majesty by God.
Consider the grasses: constantly, rapidly, growing; knitting together the ground; temporary; and loved by God.
Each of these beings are created from the delight of God, and they sing their trust in God through their very existence. They aren’t creatures of worry, because they rest in God. God knows their needs, and God knows our needs. God made our bodies, and the dirt, and the plants, and our non-human kin. God knows that we need rest, water, shelter, clothing, family, and food, and God has Created abundance to meet those needs.
Abundance that we have choked with our worry, with our shoring up of resources, with our drive for productivity. With our false pretenses of control, and systems of oppression we use to harm neighbors and ourselves. We do these things instead of being authentically who we are + are becoming. Which is the wisdom Jesus is calling us to – an existence grounded in God’s design.
When people come over to my apartment for the first time, I give a brief run-down of my pets that are in the space, especially my two cats. One of my cats is fluffy, and aloof, but if she decides she likes you enough to come up to you, she loves attention. When I got my second cat, as he was still scared and adjusting, he got overstimulated really easily, so I asked guests to only pet him once or twice at a time, and never on his belly. He’s gotten a lot cuddlier as he’s a few years older, but his belly is still off-limits. I often get similar run-downs when I visit friends who have cats. There’s one cat you have to ignore because he doesn’t like strangers in the apartment. There’s another who is really shy but loves playing with string toys. There’s another who you will never see except for a lump under the bed covers.
I tell you these stories because I’ve noticed that we let cats be exactly who they are. We haven’t truly domesticated them, and we don’t pretend that we can dictate their personality and behaviors. They didn’t co-evolve with us like dogs and horses did, and to a large extent, cats choose to be with us. They are exactly who God made them to be, and we accommodate and integrate those variations. That’s a grace that we don’t often extend to each other.
In the world as-is, I exist in spaces that I can’t bring my full self to, sometimes even here. Spaces that, due to classism, transphobia, and stigma around mental illness, I need to adjust and assimilate to. They are spaces of worry, and scarcity, and fear. And they don’t feel like the Kin-dom Jesus is urging us towards. We contort and put ourselves into these systems, believing the lie that we were sold that the systems will save us, that they will alleviate our worry. The lie that we are superior and meant to dominate Creation. The lengths we go to in order to justify these systems is a refusal of grace. And Jesus calls us again here to turn to God, to let go of our worry and embrace the wisdom of Creation.
Ravens, as they are scavenging and playing and communicating, are taken care of by God and God takes delight in them.
Lilies, as they root into the soil, are hardened by wind and rain, and bloom in the sun, are taken care of by God and God takes delight in them.
We are not any different. Vulnerable, interdependent, creatures of dirt, being exactly who we are + are becoming, who are taken care of by God as God takes delight in us. An antidote to worry and scarcity and fear is to cultivate spaces of vulnerability. Spaces that are sparks of the Kin-dom. And we have the lived experience of the grace needed for these spaces already.
We can extend that grace to each other. Haltingly, messing up, having off days, but ultimately returning to the desire for God. Letting go of worry, carving out spaces of resistance, where we are exactly who we are to God – beloved. Where we refuse to assimilate to harmful structures. Where the abundance of God sings out, as God keeps radiating grace. Where we learn from Creation and our non-human kin, learning patterns of rest, patterns of joy, patterns of growth, and integrating that wisdom into our lives. Delighting in it.
Jesus tells us to let go of our worry, to return our attention and trust to God, and to desire the Kin-dom. What if we trusted him, and lived alongside Creation?
Reed Fowler 