February 27, 2011
Matthew 6.24-34
+ When I was about eight years old, I had a major problem. I was a chronic worrier. I worried about absolutely everything. I worried about my parents and my grand-parents and even my dog dying. I worried that my friends were going to be in accidents. I worried about nuclear war. I worried about homework and school and I even worried, for some bizzare and irrational reason, about going swimming at the local swimming pool. For the most part I kept my worrying to myself. It was a secret. No one else knew that I worried like I did. And I didn’t want anyone to know about it because, let’s face it, it was embarrassing.
I probably would have gone on worrying about everything in such an irrational way had I not started getting sick. I started having intense stomach problems around this time. At first the doctors suspected I might have appendicitis. But then, they finally started talking about an ulcer. Now imagine—an eight or nine year old kid having an ulcer. One very wise doctor saw through it all and point blank asked me if I was worried about anything. I wasn’t completely honest about the level of worrying I did, but I did admit to the fact that, yes, I worried. From that time on, with some help, I eventually overcame this chronic worrying I was doing. I still worried. I worried abnormally at least through the earlier part of junior high. And then, I just learned, at some point, to let go. I learned at some point that I really was worrying over things I didn’t need to worry about.
And our Gospel reading for today from Matthew was helpful at that time in my life as well.
“…can any of you by worrying add a single day to your span of life?” Jesus asks.
Which is a true level of wisdom that I don’t think we have fully fathomed in our lives. But the real message from our Gospel reading this morning is not just that wise maxim of Jesus. Rather, it is the command he makes, not once, but twice. Jesus commands us twice today, “Do not worry.”
“Do not worry!” Jesus says firmly to us.
What we find Jesus saying to us today is not some sweet, gentle suggestion to not worry. It is a point-blank command not worry. And it is a command that is placed within the context of his explanation that we cannot serve two masters. There is a connection here between the two masters and his command not to worry. In telling us that we cannot serve two masters, Jesus is making clear to us that service to any other master hinders our relationship to God. It muddies the waters, so to speak. It complicates our relationship with God. We cannot serve God and money. We cannot serve God and still have as a master something other than God.
In this case, God is being quite demanding God expects full service from us. God expects our full attention. Because, let’s face it, we can be easily distracted. Worrying works the same way in our lives. When we worry, the waters again become muddied. Worrying distracts us. It distracts us from God and from each other. Worrying becomes a barrier in our service to God.
But worrying is a hindrance in another way. Why do we worry? We worry because cannot control a situation. We worry because a situation is out of our control. And control is the key here. As someone who works in the church every day, I know a few things about this issue of control. I experience this issue of control constantly. I deal all the time with people—both clergy and lay—who constantly try to control situations, whether it be a parish, a diocese or the myriad situations that arise in this human organization called the Church. Controlling something can be all-consuming. It can be frustrating for a controlling person when things are not going your way. And when things are completely uncontrollably, a person who wants to control is at their wit’s end.
Yesterday I attended the funeral for my father’s former boss and good friend. My father bought the business he worked in for many years from this man and they remained good friends for many years after that. This man’s wife died after a long struggle with cancer in September, just a week before my father died. This friend of my dad’s was so distraught over her diagnosis, illness and death that he just couldn’t go on anymore and last week he committed suicide. At the funeral yesterday, the pastor spoke of this man’s hands.
The pastor said, “He had such big hands—hands that fixed everything—engines and all kinds of mechanical things. But when his wife was diagnosed with cancer, he would just look at his hands helplessly. In this situation, those hands could not fix her cancer and could not fix the outcome of that cancer.”
For those of us who like to control situations, things like cancer and illness and death—especially sudden death—strike us very, very hard. And when those things happen, we find ourselves worrying as though worrying somehow can control the situation. More often than not worrying is simply something to DO in the face of uncontrollable situations. But worrying doesn’t DO anything. Except make us sick and create added stress in our lives. And it muddies the clear, pure waters of our relationship with God. Worrying gets in the way of our relationship with God.
Last week you heard me say that holding grudges against others is not an option for Christians. This week I can say in all honesty that worrying also is not an option for Christians. Worrying is simply something we do to show that we have little or no faith in God. If God is in control and we have complete faith in God, then we really have no right to worry. By worrying we are showing that our allegiance is not with God. By worrying, we are following another master—ourselves. By worrying, we are trying to control situations that are not in our power to control. And all of it only leads to despair and depression and frustration, not to mention physical illness.
One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned as a priest is just let it all go sometimes and not worry. I remember hearing once when I was studying to be a priest, that anyone who works in a parish should be prepared that 25% of your congregation is just not going to like you or anything you do. I was shocked by that comment and almost ready to despair ever actually finishing the process to be ordained. But I have learned since then that that’s sometimes just the way it is. Now, I hope that’s not true of me here at St. Stephen’s. I hope there are not 25% of you who dislike me. But there are moments when I do hear grumblings and complaints about things I do or say here.
Just this last week, for example, it came to my attention from one of our vestry members that one of or two people here at St. Stephen’s don’t like that I use the word “Mass” to the describe the Eucharist (which IS a perfectly Episcopalian term to use, by the way). Rather than letting things like that bring me down, rather than worrying about things like that or being frustrated by it—and I know many clergy who do, which is why we call nitpicky comments “clergy killers,”—I have learned to just let it go and not worry about it. I can’t control whether people are going to like me or not. All I can do is be myself and do what I have been called to do here at St. Stephen’s and hope that even in my imperfection as a priest and pastor, somehow God will use me in just the right to accomplish the work I have to do. That’s all any of us can do in our service to God and one another.
So, let us center our attention on the one master we have committed ourselves to follow. Let us heeds that master’s command of “do not worry.” Let us shake off all those attempts to control situations in which we do not need to control or are simple unable to control. Let us release those situations to God and allow ourselves, instead, to simply put our trust in that God. And in doing so, let us heed the other command Jesus makes to us in this morning’s Gospel. Freed of the murkiness and distraction worry causes in allegiance to God, let us truly “strive first for the kingdom of God” in our midst. Let us be the conduits of God’s righteousness to those in need around us. Being a conduit is a great remedy for this control issue. As a conduit all we have to do is simply be ourselves and let God work through us as we are.
Today, February 27, is usually celebrated as the feast of Blessed George Herbert, the great Anglican priest and poet. As most of you know, Herbert has been a very important influence in my professional and personal life. In the last twenty years or so, I don’t think I’ve ever traveled anywhere without a copy of Herbert’s poems accompanying me. Last Wednesday I commemorated George Herbert at our Wednesday night Mass. I shared that great image of Herbert’s from his poem, “Windows” in which he describes human beings as that “crazy, brittle glass.” The image in the poem is that essentially we are glass. We are glass window panes to God’s light. To reflect that light we don’t have to be perfect. We don’t have to be pristine. God’s light shines even through crazy, brittle glass. It will shine through a dirty window, or a cracked window or a warped window. The window doesn’t have to do anything. It doesn’t even have to be perfect. It simply has to be. It simply has to reflect that light in any way it can. Certainly it doesn’t have to, nor can it, control that light. It certainly doesn’t have to worry about that light or about whether it is good enough to reflect that light. The window pane simply is.
We are the window panes through which God’s light shines. And all we have to do is be that conduit of God’s light. So let us shine with that light. Let us strive first and foremost for the Kingdom of God in our midst. And when we do, we will realize that any imperfection on our part—anything that may cause us to worry or fret—is simply lost in the flood of God’s light that shines through us.
Matthew 6.24-34
+ When I was about eight years old, I had a major problem. I was a chronic worrier. I worried about absolutely everything. I worried about my parents and my grand-parents and even my dog dying. I worried that my friends were going to be in accidents. I worried about nuclear war. I worried about homework and school and I even worried, for some bizzare and irrational reason, about going swimming at the local swimming pool. For the most part I kept my worrying to myself. It was a secret. No one else knew that I worried like I did. And I didn’t want anyone to know about it because, let’s face it, it was embarrassing.
I probably would have gone on worrying about everything in such an irrational way had I not started getting sick. I started having intense stomach problems around this time. At first the doctors suspected I might have appendicitis. But then, they finally started talking about an ulcer. Now imagine—an eight or nine year old kid having an ulcer. One very wise doctor saw through it all and point blank asked me if I was worried about anything. I wasn’t completely honest about the level of worrying I did, but I did admit to the fact that, yes, I worried. From that time on, with some help, I eventually overcame this chronic worrying I was doing. I still worried. I worried abnormally at least through the earlier part of junior high. And then, I just learned, at some point, to let go. I learned at some point that I really was worrying over things I didn’t need to worry about.
And our Gospel reading for today from Matthew was helpful at that time in my life as well.
“…can any of you by worrying add a single day to your span of life?” Jesus asks.
Which is a true level of wisdom that I don’t think we have fully fathomed in our lives. But the real message from our Gospel reading this morning is not just that wise maxim of Jesus. Rather, it is the command he makes, not once, but twice. Jesus commands us twice today, “Do not worry.”
“Do not worry!” Jesus says firmly to us.
What we find Jesus saying to us today is not some sweet, gentle suggestion to not worry. It is a point-blank command not worry. And it is a command that is placed within the context of his explanation that we cannot serve two masters. There is a connection here between the two masters and his command not to worry. In telling us that we cannot serve two masters, Jesus is making clear to us that service to any other master hinders our relationship to God. It muddies the waters, so to speak. It complicates our relationship with God. We cannot serve God and money. We cannot serve God and still have as a master something other than God.
In this case, God is being quite demanding God expects full service from us. God expects our full attention. Because, let’s face it, we can be easily distracted. Worrying works the same way in our lives. When we worry, the waters again become muddied. Worrying distracts us. It distracts us from God and from each other. Worrying becomes a barrier in our service to God.
But worrying is a hindrance in another way. Why do we worry? We worry because cannot control a situation. We worry because a situation is out of our control. And control is the key here. As someone who works in the church every day, I know a few things about this issue of control. I experience this issue of control constantly. I deal all the time with people—both clergy and lay—who constantly try to control situations, whether it be a parish, a diocese or the myriad situations that arise in this human organization called the Church. Controlling something can be all-consuming. It can be frustrating for a controlling person when things are not going your way. And when things are completely uncontrollably, a person who wants to control is at their wit’s end.
Yesterday I attended the funeral for my father’s former boss and good friend. My father bought the business he worked in for many years from this man and they remained good friends for many years after that. This man’s wife died after a long struggle with cancer in September, just a week before my father died. This friend of my dad’s was so distraught over her diagnosis, illness and death that he just couldn’t go on anymore and last week he committed suicide. At the funeral yesterday, the pastor spoke of this man’s hands.
The pastor said, “He had such big hands—hands that fixed everything—engines and all kinds of mechanical things. But when his wife was diagnosed with cancer, he would just look at his hands helplessly. In this situation, those hands could not fix her cancer and could not fix the outcome of that cancer.”
For those of us who like to control situations, things like cancer and illness and death—especially sudden death—strike us very, very hard. And when those things happen, we find ourselves worrying as though worrying somehow can control the situation. More often than not worrying is simply something to DO in the face of uncontrollable situations. But worrying doesn’t DO anything. Except make us sick and create added stress in our lives. And it muddies the clear, pure waters of our relationship with God. Worrying gets in the way of our relationship with God.
Last week you heard me say that holding grudges against others is not an option for Christians. This week I can say in all honesty that worrying also is not an option for Christians. Worrying is simply something we do to show that we have little or no faith in God. If God is in control and we have complete faith in God, then we really have no right to worry. By worrying we are showing that our allegiance is not with God. By worrying, we are following another master—ourselves. By worrying, we are trying to control situations that are not in our power to control. And all of it only leads to despair and depression and frustration, not to mention physical illness.
One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned as a priest is just let it all go sometimes and not worry. I remember hearing once when I was studying to be a priest, that anyone who works in a parish should be prepared that 25% of your congregation is just not going to like you or anything you do. I was shocked by that comment and almost ready to despair ever actually finishing the process to be ordained. But I have learned since then that that’s sometimes just the way it is. Now, I hope that’s not true of me here at St. Stephen’s. I hope there are not 25% of you who dislike me. But there are moments when I do hear grumblings and complaints about things I do or say here.
Just this last week, for example, it came to my attention from one of our vestry members that one of or two people here at St. Stephen’s don’t like that I use the word “Mass” to the describe the Eucharist (which IS a perfectly Episcopalian term to use, by the way). Rather than letting things like that bring me down, rather than worrying about things like that or being frustrated by it—and I know many clergy who do, which is why we call nitpicky comments “clergy killers,”—I have learned to just let it go and not worry about it. I can’t control whether people are going to like me or not. All I can do is be myself and do what I have been called to do here at St. Stephen’s and hope that even in my imperfection as a priest and pastor, somehow God will use me in just the right to accomplish the work I have to do. That’s all any of us can do in our service to God and one another.
So, let us center our attention on the one master we have committed ourselves to follow. Let us heeds that master’s command of “do not worry.” Let us shake off all those attempts to control situations in which we do not need to control or are simple unable to control. Let us release those situations to God and allow ourselves, instead, to simply put our trust in that God. And in doing so, let us heed the other command Jesus makes to us in this morning’s Gospel. Freed of the murkiness and distraction worry causes in allegiance to God, let us truly “strive first for the kingdom of God” in our midst. Let us be the conduits of God’s righteousness to those in need around us. Being a conduit is a great remedy for this control issue. As a conduit all we have to do is simply be ourselves and let God work through us as we are.
Today, February 27, is usually celebrated as the feast of Blessed George Herbert, the great Anglican priest and poet. As most of you know, Herbert has been a very important influence in my professional and personal life. In the last twenty years or so, I don’t think I’ve ever traveled anywhere without a copy of Herbert’s poems accompanying me. Last Wednesday I commemorated George Herbert at our Wednesday night Mass. I shared that great image of Herbert’s from his poem, “Windows” in which he describes human beings as that “crazy, brittle glass.” The image in the poem is that essentially we are glass. We are glass window panes to God’s light. To reflect that light we don’t have to be perfect. We don’t have to be pristine. God’s light shines even through crazy, brittle glass. It will shine through a dirty window, or a cracked window or a warped window. The window doesn’t have to do anything. It doesn’t even have to be perfect. It simply has to be. It simply has to reflect that light in any way it can. Certainly it doesn’t have to, nor can it, control that light. It certainly doesn’t have to worry about that light or about whether it is good enough to reflect that light. The window pane simply is.
We are the window panes through which God’s light shines. And all we have to do is be that conduit of God’s light. So let us shine with that light. Let us strive first and foremost for the Kingdom of God in our midst. And when we do, we will realize that any imperfection on our part—anything that may cause us to worry or fret—is simply lost in the flood of God’s light that shines through us.
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